#gonna ask about more hours on tuesday when i work and then go drop a resume at the other store thursday next week probably

[loverboybitch]

think i am finally going to quit the job that i hate.//.

[luveline]

Hi!!

Could a please request Peter Parker x reader where they’ve been together for a while and discuss family planning? Like they want to start a family together but both have anxieties for different reasons with Peter being Spider-Man and just general nerves at this being a big step and they comfort one another?

If you get round to this then thank you!!!

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k

“But you’re Spider-Man.” 

Peter doesn’t know how you ended up like this, his face at your feet, his feet past your head in his pillows. Your toes wiggle in your socks unthinkingly. 

“I’m Spider-Man.” 

“How are we s’posed to have a baby if you’re a superhero?” 

You ask it without malice; you aren’t telling him to do one thing or another, you’re just posing a simple question. Or, not so simple. Thinking about it provokes a hundred different questions, and he gets your point. How can he be a father if he’s a superhero, half the time? How can he expect you to sign on to motherhood while he risks his life? 

He has to prove that he can do it without getting hurt. Without getting anyone hurt. 

“I’ve been Spider-Man for a long time,” he says softly. 

You pretend to drop your foot on his face. He laughs and curls into you, an arm around your leg like a wonky cuddle. “And it gets more dangerous every year.” 

“I would… being Spider-Man is…” Peter noses at your leg. Your pyjama pants are hiked up near your knee, leaving a calf open for his mouth to brush against. “I’m Spider-Man,” he says again. That’s the simplest explanation. He just is Spider-Man. “But I would change things. I already have, I mean, I have you to think about now.” 

“I just don’t know if I’d be okay with having a baby, if you might die.” 

Peter sits up. He frowns. “I’m not going to die.” 

You just nibble your lip. 

“Is that something you worry about?” 

You sit up to meet him. “Of course I do.” 

He’s thankful you’re close. He takes your hand, turning your wedding ring to see the stone laid at the apex. You used to worry so much it would make you sick, and he changed to make that easier on you, because he loves you. What was the point in getting married if he was gonna leave you in agony every time he left the house? Newspapers scorned a more careful Spider-Man, and Peter has had to make some hard calls. He can’t be selfless anymore —he thinks about you every time he throws a new web. 

He didn’t realise you were still worried. “When was the last time I got hurt?” 

“Last night.” 

He winces. “Alright, when was the last time I got hurt enough to need medical attention?”

“Last Tuesday.” 

“Bub, that was one finger, it healed in two hours.” 

“But if you were a normal guy, it would’ve been weeks.” You aren’t out to torture him, or argue, your lips puckered for a quick kiss as he pulls you toward him. “I’m just saying,” you murmur, tapping his nose, your eyebrow pressed against his, “if you want a baby with me? You’re gonna have to give up even more. Okay?” 

“Okay,” he says immediately. 

Okay. Because he’s Spider-Man, and it means everything to him, but he’s your husband. This is your life together. 

“I want a baby with you,” he says, a murmur to match your own as his hands wrap around your waist. He drags you forward, your faces still smushed together. “I want kids, and you want them too, and I want you to have everything. So if you need me to change, I can change. I can’t stop, but I can make it work.” 

“You’d have to stop sometimes–”

He leans away and cups your shoulder. “I know. I’m not gonna get you pregnant and go out every night.” 

“Just every other.” 

“No, no,” he insists softly. “Bub, listen to me. If you’re ready, then I’m ready. No messing around. I’m your partner, right? I’m your husband before I’m Spider-Man.” 

“Are you sure?” you ask. 

Peter’s not mad, but he’s a little upset you’d think so. He’s not trying to make you feel this way. He wants you to have total confidence in him, and your potential future family.

“You need me to tell you that? I’ve never been more sure about anything.” 

He doesn’t need you to agree to a baby tonight or anything, he just wants you to be happy with him. So he tells you emphatically that you’re his world. You already know why he’s Spider-Man, the responsibility that drives him, but there’s responsibility in being with you and making you happy. At the end of the day, you come first. He wishes you knew that, but he doesn’t mind telling you. 

It’s a little later with his arms around you, right side up this time, that he confesses, “I don’t even know if I’d be a good dad.” 

You aren’t worried. “That’s silly. As long as you don’t get killed by a giant radioactive reptile, you’ll be amazing.”

“How do you know?” 

“Same way you know I’ll be a good mom.” 

“You will be.”

You kiss his neck. “I knew you’d say that. I don’t know if I’ll be a good mom, I just know you believe in me.” 

“I do.”

“You’ll be a good dad,” you further, pressed as far into his neck as you can be, lavished by his hands running up and down your back. “I know parenting is a lot of things, but I really think it’s the same as being a good boyfriend. You’re kind. You’re so patient. You’re funny. I can’t wait to have a little baby that looks like you n…” You sigh. He loves that touch of wistfulness behind it. “I can’t wait to be a family with you.” 

“Are you tired?” he asks. 

You mumble. “Mm. Just a bit.” 

He strokes your neck. “I can’t wait to be a family, either… maybe it can wait until tomorrow, though.” 

You smile into his jaw, dragging yourself up to kiss his cheek. “Love you, Peter Parker.” 

[nfr-girly]

Baking with Hasan // 🧁 🍰

Summary: Hasan invites you over for a baking stream

————————————————————————

-Hasan had the idea for a while to do a baking stream with one of his friends, he had already done one with QT so he wanted to do it with someone who chat wasn’t familiar with

-that’s when you came into mind, chat knew a little about you from seeing you in the background of some vlogs, but you’d never actually done a stream with Hasan before

-you and him met through Austin and have been really good friends since. Hasan was a little hesitant as he knows you’ve never actually been on stream before, so he wanted to ask you first before confirming anything

-he called you up and asked if you’d want to do a baking stream with him, which of course you said yes to

-Hasan didn’t know it but you had grown to like him as more than just a friend, on occasion you would think for a second that he might like you back, but every time you saw him with these gorgeous models you always give your hopes up

-LITTLE DID U KNOWWW… Hasan kinda likes you back <3 anyway 😋

-you guys call a few days before the stream to confirm times and everything, making sure you both have ingredients ready, you tell him you’re a little nervous about the stream and he reassures you that if you don’t want to do it, please tell him, but he makes sure you know he won’t let anyone be mean to you for even a second

-Hasan is so so serious about this too, he absolutely adores you and if he sees ANYONE be even the tiniest bit disrespectful to you trust he’ll be ready to throw hands

-a few days later you go over to his house and ring the bell, fidgeting with your hands and sorting out your hair

-Hasan hears the bell and all confidence drops. Kayas already at the door before he even comes out the kitchen. He sorts out his hair before opening the door.

-you look up and smile “hey! How are you”

-Hasan smiles back “I’m really good thanks. How are you? Was the journey okay?” Hasan lets you in and hangs up your coat for you, you kneel and pet Kaya as she hops into your lap

-one of Hasans favourite things is seeing you bond so well with Kaya, it’s partly why he likes you so much, you’re the only person who Kaya didn’t bark at when she first met you, it was like she had known you for years

-you two went into the kitchen and set up all your ingredients, talking a little about how you’ve both been

-“you know I’m actually gonna stomp all over you today; my cakes are superior” Hasan boasts

-“shut the fuck up you don’t know shit about baking”

-“yes I do!!” Hasan defends back

-the stream starts and for the next few hours the entirety of the stream consists of you and him blatantly flirting (trust there’s gonna be compilations on yt of you two)

-the whole chat can see through both of you and are so baffled at how blind you are to the other ones feelings

-eventually, you end the stream and start cleaning the kitchen, it takes you two about an hour due to the mess

-Hasan occasionally puts his hands on your waist as he moves past you

“thank you for coming over to do this, I mean really I appreciate it” Hasan tells you

“Of course no worries, it was fun we should do it again sometime”

Hasan pauses and thinks. Just ask her out already what are you doing?

“Hey listen I was just wondering- i don’t know, if maybe you wanted to go out sometime?”

You look at him as your breath catches in your throat

“Uh- yeah sure, is it just us or with some friends?” Please say just us

“Well I mean I was thinking just us. Unless you think that would be weird-“

“No- Hasan id love that” you smile at him as he nods, smiling himself

“Okay great, would Tuesday work for you?”

“I can check but it should be yeah!”

You two talk as he walks you to the door

“Okay then, well I’ll text you later about places we could go” Hasan says

“Okay then. It’s a date”

Hasan smiles quickly before you can see

He gives you a hug as you head to your car.

As soon as you drive away he smiles to himself and goes to find Kaya, who jumps up at him

“Hey pretty ladyy, she said yes didn’t she? Oh yes she did”

A ping can be heard from Hasans phone, he takes it out and reads it

You

Sooo where should we go? 💗

hasan types out a reply

Hasan

Anywhere you want princess.

————————————————————————

UGH THIS IS SO SHIT but I hope you liked it anyway 😘

🏷️ @mavericksice @thatsactuallyinzane @kaya-p @fullofgutsndopamine @inhibitionfreewriting @the-phantom-author @makeandshift @hot-insurrectionist @hasblair

[avis-writeshq]

01 — better than revenge

summary: “she’s not a saint, no, she’s not what you think. she’s an actress.”  pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn warnings: fluff, angst with a happy ending, Lila is a real piece of work here, VERY CANON COMPLIANT, Spencer’s a bit of an ass :( wc: 10.4k a/n: special mention to @astrophileous for beta reading MWAH SPARKS FLY MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

“Hey kid, wheels up in thirty.” Derek nods towards you, dropping a case file on your desk. 

You raise an eyebrow, flicking open the case file to the first page. A small laugh of disbelief leaves your lips. “Ooh, Los Angeles, media capital of the world. What’s the occasion?”

“Three murders, all shot in the head executional style.” 

Your face falls into a grimace as you grab your go-bag and tuck the file under your arm, following the rest of the team to the jet. “Spence and Gideon are there already, right? Talk about timing.”

Elle can’t help but grin at your words, slinking an arm over your shoulder. “Looks like you’ll see loverboy a lot sooner than you think.”

A shriek of betrayal leaves your lips as you throw her arm off of you. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Sure you don’t,” JJ all but cackles as she boards the plane, grinning the entire way. 

“I’m gonna kill you,” you grumble, dropping your things on one of the seats in the jet. “Seriously, I mean it. I know how to get away with murder.”

Hotch raises an eyebrow at you, his gaze that of a disappointed yet amused father. “Not the brightest thing to say while you’re in a room full of FBI agents.”

Elle lets out a ‘hah!’ as she sits across from you, crossing one leg over the other as she grins. “Get comfortable, buttercup, six hour flight and you’re not going anywhere.”

“Assholes.” You roll your eyes teasingly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as you turn to your case files. “And it’s not like that.”

“Oh, of course not,” Elle snickers, “you’re just friends.”

You throw a pen at her and it bounces off her leg harmlessly. “I can smell the sarcasm.”

“You’ll be smelling more of it,” Derek laughs, ruffling your hair. “Sit tight, kid, we’re in for a long flight.”

Once everyone was settled and the jet was high in the air, the team began to look through the files with Garcia on speaker as usual. 

“First two victims, Wally Melman and Chloe Harris,” You recite dutifully, glancing over the grotesque crime scene images. “Seems like they were both killed in public places.”

“Chloe was killed while walking her dog on the beach in Santa Monica which she did every morning, and Wally was killed outside of a massage parlour,” JJ reiterates, sitting down with a cup of tea in her hand. 

“In Culver City,” Derek adds. 

“Which he went to every Tuesday,” Elle continues.

Derek looks to the rest of the team, a thoughtful look on his face. “Well, if he knows their schedules, maybe that means he follows his victims for a while.”

“And not a single witness. So we know this UnSub can blend in,” Hotch mutters. “Regardless of the location, he has the ability to hide in plain sight.”

“So, he’s meticulous.” Elle nods, her eyes drifting from Hotch to the case file. 

“The media is calling Natalie Ryan’s murder the biggest celebrity homicide since Sharon Tate,” JJ adds, looking through the images of the newspaper clippings that were sent to her laptop.

“Great,” You muse, although frustration is clear in your voice. “What does that mean for us?”

Hotch lets out a sigh. “That everybody will be watching.”

***

“This guy is an assassin?” Detective Kim asks with disbelief as the rest of the team reiterates their thoughts once they were in the police department. 

“When you look at the victimology, there’s no obvious links,” Morgan points out. “All the kills were clean except in the instance of the last victim, Jeremy Collins.”

You nod, tucking a strand of hair as you reference the case files. “There’s absolutely no evidence left at the crime scene. Labs have found zero DNA, no manifestation of psychosexual release, and from what we can tell there’s no detectable signature of any kind. These kills are straight forward, almost like he’s on a mission.”

“Remember, our profiles are formulated not just by what’s present at the scene but also what’s absent,” Gideon says to Detective Kim.

“From all the evidence that we’ve gathered, we believe you’re looking for a Type Four Assassin,” Elle explains.

“Type Four?” 

Spencer immediately jumps in to explain, gesticulating throughout his explanation. “Type One’s are political assassins like John Wilkes Booth. Type Two’s are egocentrics looking for simple recognition.”

“Type Three’s are psychopaths,” Hotch continues, “cold-blooded killers who leave far messier scenes. Type Four, our UnSub, suffers from a major mental disorder and is frequently delusional.”

“The closer we come to figuring out that delusion, the closer we’ll get to finding the UnSub,” Reid points out. 

Everyone is left to their own thoughts and you look over to Spencer, a soft grin on your face. “How was your father-son bonding time?”

Spencer gives you a pointed look, but a soft laugh leaves his lips. “It was… fine.”

“Fine? Out of everyone on the team, Gideon chose you to present a talk about behavioural analysis and profiling to the LAPD. You love conferences. C’mon, give me something!” You nudge his shoulder gently. 

“We uh.. we went to an art gallery the other day. We met a movie star, so that was cool…” his cheeks are dusted with a soft pink as he talks and your curiosity only increases. 

“A movie star, huh? Look at you, mingling with the high and mighty.” You poke his cheek with a laugh. “Tell me about them.”

He flushes at the contact, clearing his throat. “Um… her name is Lila Archer. Have you heard of her? She’s–”

“Reid, (L/N), we’re meeting with someone,” Derek cuts in, nodding towards the both of you.

You blink in confusion as you follow him to another room. “Suspect?”

“Someone received a note,” Derek says quickly, glancing over at the note in Elle’s hands. “On a newspaper clipping of the latest murder.”

“Lila?”

A blonde woman was sitting in the next room over, her legs crossed over as she waits. Her eyes light up in recognition and she stands up. You can’t help but be impressed as you give her a quick once over. She’s gorgeous, exactly what you expect from a famous movie star. 

“I’m Agent (L/N),” You say gently, moving from your spot next to Spencer and holding your hand out. “This is Agent Morgan and I’m assuming you already know Doctor Reid. I understand that you received a note this morning?”

She wearily shakes your hand, her blue eyes flitting between you and Reid. “Yeah.”

“We just have a few questions to ask. We know that these things are sensitive, but we promise we’ll try to make the situation as easy as possible for you.” You shoot her a kind smile, excusing her weariness for fear or anxiety. “Is that alright?”

“Sure.” She respond curtly, shooting a smile towards Spencer before walking past you.

“Uh… okay?” You let out a little laugh in confusion and Derek raises an eyebrow at you.

“What was that about?” He asks, frowning.

You shrug your shoulders, watching as Spencer leads her to an empty desk. “Trust me, I have no idea. Maybe she’s just nervous and wants to talk to a familiar face.”

Derek hums in thought. “Maybe. But usually victims like this are more willing to speak to someone of the same gender. It’s strange that she was so direct to you.”

“She’s been through a traumatic experience. If I got a newspaper clipping with a message written in blood, I probably wouldn’t be too thrilled meeting new people either,” You defend, pursing your lips. “She’s probably just… scared, right?”

He doesn’t respond, moving to follow Spencer and Lila further into the police department. A few questions were asks about her relationship with the other victims, only to find that she was in fact the connection between the other victims. Wally Melman was a producer who Lila met with a few times to discuss a role, only for him to cast Natalie Ryan instead. Chloe Harris looked an awful lot like Lila, so it was likely that the UnSub got rid of her in order to ‘ice-out’ the competition. 

“(L/N), may I talk to you for a moment?” Hotch asks quickly, waving you over. 

You blink in confusion but nod, walking over to where he stands by the desk. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“I want you to try and get as much information from Lila as possible.” He gestures to where Lila sits in one of the victim waiting rooms. “This is your area of expertise. Try and find out if there’s any distinct information that she’s given to anyone so that we can track the UnSub.”

“Got it.” You offer a smile, fixing your shirt as you agree. “I’ll update you if I get any new information.”

You make your way over to where Lila was sitting, trying to look as friendly as possible. “Hey, Lila. Are you alright? Can I get you anything?”

She glances over you for a second, looking you up and down before shaking her head. “I’m fine. Where’s Spencer?”

Your brows furrow at his words. “Doctor Reid…? He’s currently going through the timeline of events with our colleagues. In the meantime, I was hoping to ask a few questions, maybe shed some light on the entire situation.”

She raises an eyebrow before nodding. “Okay.”

“Alright…” you clear your throat, taking a seat across from her. “You mentioned that you receive a bowl of red anemones on the seventh of every month. Do you mind… telling me why you like those flowers so much?”

She shrugs dismissively, running a hand through her blonde hair. “They’re pretty. I like the colour.”

You nod slowly, writing that down in your notes. “Well that’s understandable; they’re very beautiful flowers. But they’re a little uncommon as a favourite flower, don’t you think? If you like the colour, a more common favourite flower would be poppies or roses… are you sure there isn’t another reason? The meaning behind red anemones is forsaken love and death… does that intrigue you at all?”

She scoffs, “are you trying to accuse me of something?”

“Not at all,” you say quickly, “I apologise if it comes off that way. I’m just trying to find out as much as possible about the entire situation. For all we know, those flowers could have been sent by the UnSub.”

A short silence lulls in the room as well as an awkward tension. So, you try to take things from another angle. 

“I love hydrangeas,” you say gently, a small smile on your lips. “I like the way they’re always bunched together and the colours are beautiful. Only a few people know that I like them though. My close friend and colleagues, my family… do you remember telling anyone about your favourite flower?”

She’s quiet for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know.”

Your face falls and you press a little more. “Are you sure you don’t remember? Maybe… maybe your manager, or a friend of yours?”

“I said ‘I don’t know’, okay?” She snaps, her hands balling into fists as she glares at you. “God, it’s not that hard to understand.”

You lean back in your chair, your gaze hardening. “I understand that this is difficult for you, but any information–”

“I don’t have any information!” Lila huffs, her hands placed in her lap. “Are you stupid or something?”

“The likelihood of these people being murdered because of you is incredibly high,” You say sharply, shutting your notebook. “If you’re withholding information from us it could prove detrimental to the investigation. I’m only trying to do my job. Asking you questions is part of my job.”

Her lips twitch at your words and she scowls. “I already told you I don’t remember.”

“Not remembering and not knowing are two different things, Ms Archer.” You place your card on the table. “If you remember anything, please give me a call.”

You get up from your seat, heading to the door, only to see that it was wide open with Derek and Spencer standing at the doorway. In seconds, Lila’s gaze softens and she runs out of the room, sniffling as she does. Your gaze follows her as she runs out of the police station, a look of disbelief on your features.

“What the…”

“Seriously (Y/N)?” Spencer demands, a frown on his face. 

You gape at his words. “What are you–”

He cuts you off, running after Lila. Derek raises an eyebrow in their direction before turning to you. 

“You okay, pretty girl?” Derek asks gently, patting your shoulder. 

“Honestly? I have no idea,” You confess quietly, biting your lip. “I’ve never seen him get so…”

“Upset? Angry?” he finishes, a small laugh leaving his lips. “You and me both. Look, kid, it’s not your fault. She was clearly being dismissive of your questions and she needed a reality check.”

“It’s not like I’ve never spoken that way when interrogating someone before,” You point out, brows furrowed in frustration. “Even then, Spencer has never had an issue with it. I just– I don’t understand what’s got him so worked up.”

Derek can’t help but laugh. “You’re a profiler. Isn’t it obvious?”

You pause for a moment, thinking through their interaction. “He has a crush on her, doesn’t he? He likes her. Of course he does. Brilliant, now he’s involved.”

Derek pats you on the back sympathetically. “Come on, pretty girl. We’ve got a job to do.”

***

Despite your original hesitancy, Hotch asked you personally to go with the others, meaning that you had no right to refuse. Well, you could, but that would mean throwing Elle under the bus and she would be much more helpful at the precinct than on set. So, before you could fake being sick and bail the investigation, you,  Derek, and Spencer went to check out the set of Lila’s movie, hoping to better observe her interactions with her costars and the staff. 

The inside of Lila’s small trailer is hot. Incredibly hot but relatively empty. As you look around, you gather that she’s either a minimalist or just didn’t have to spend a lot time in the trailer at all. Lila sits in front of the little group, wearing a robe to cover her costume: a cyan sequinned bikini set that she looked absolutely criminal in. Her hair has been styled in a classic blowout and you wonder how much time it took to get it to look so effortless.

“I’m not stopping my life,” she says, her voice almost stern as she steps out of the trailer and back onto the set.

You purse your lips as you glance at the paper in the plastic pocket, now labelled as ‘evidence’. Apparently it was taped up to the door of her trailer. Your eyes shift to Spencer who’s gaze doesn’t leave the door that Lila just walked out of for much longer than necessary. Neither of you have spoken since yesterday’s incident.

You hum thoughtfully, as you pull out your notebook, glancing at the notes you’ve been making. “Well, I guess the only thing we can do is talk to the people on set. Maybe they saw something. I’ll see if I can find out who has access to Lila’s trailer.”

Spencer nods in your direction. “Yeah, that’s… that’s a good idea.”

One of your eyebrows quirk up. “Okay…? Why do you sound so surprised?”

He flushes under your scrutiny, clearing his throat as the three of you begin to walk out of the trailer and towards the set. “I’m not! I– I’m not surprised. You’re good at your job.”

“You didn’t seem to think that yesterday,” You respond lightly, your tone petty and passive aggressive, gaze flickering between the cameras and lights on set. 

Derek coughs awkwardly before excusing himself and entering further into the set leaving you and Spencer alone outside by a vending machine. Spencer falters at your words and he runs a hand through his hair. The harsh Los Angeles sun beats down against your skin and you fiddle with the notebook in your hands. In turn, he fixes up his sleeves, rolling them up to his elbow, giving you a clear view of his forearms and large hands. 

“I’m sorry,” He says softly, chewing on his bottom lip. “I didn’t– I was out of line.”

“You were,” You agree, your gaze shifting between the chilled bottled drinks in the vending machine and him. “Buy me a drink and we’ll call it even.”

A boyish grin grows on his face and he nods, pulling out his wallet. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, awesome. Iced coffee?”

“You know me so well,” you respond with an equally large smile, poking his cheek. “Thank you!”

He presses a few buttons, grabbing a Cola for himself. You can’t help but laugh, giving him a pointed look. He quickly moves to defend himself, “It’s a hot day, okay? An exception.”

“An exception,” You repeat, trying to hide your smile as you crack open the lid of your drink and take a sip. “What happened to ‘Cola has 50 grams of sugar in it. That’s the equivalent of eating two full bars of milk chocolate’?”

He pouts at your words, opening his drink and you watch as a few bubbles rise to the top of the bottle. He takes a swig of his drink, sighing in content. “Shut up.”

You laugh again once you officially enter the set, nudging Spencer with your arm teasingly. He nudges you back, rolling his eyes and poking your cheek. You retaliate by doing the same, swinging your drink as you walk. 

Before you could do or say anything else, Derek taps your shoulder. “Hey, I need to talk to you about something.”

Spencer’s brows furrow. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just wanted to cross reference answers,” Derek dismisses. 

“Let me pull up my list,” You respond helpfully, grabbing your notebook. “Hey, Spence, do you mind canvassing the rest of the crew? See if anyone pays any special attention on Lila?”

He nods at your words, moving towards Lila, sipping on his drink. In the meantime, you turn towards Derek, a curious look on your face. 

“Little Miss Madonna has been glaring at you since the moment you entered the set,” Morgan says quietly, his gaze flitting to where Lila was making coffee. 

You practically snap your neck as you look up in her direction, watching as she quickly fumbles to make herself a cup of something. You turn away and you could practically feel her gaze burning against your scalp. A frown makes its way onto your face and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. You glance over to where she and Spencer were talking, blanching when you watch as she takes a swig of his Cola.

“You don’t mind, do you?” You hear her ask as she drinks and Spencer hurriedly shakes his head.

A quiet scoff leaves your lips and Derek nudges you with a look that reads ‘behave.’ You lift your hands in surrender and follow him over to where Spencer now stands by himself, Lila gone to talk to some other staff member.

“An exception, huh?” You ask Spencer, referring to his aversion to germs and sharing food. Your tone is mostly teasing despite the underlying bitterness beneath it. 

“Shut up.” He mutters quietly, cheeks hot from embarrassment of being caught.

Derek snorts, clapping his shoulder before moving on.

***

The next day, you were going over the evidence that was provided by the LAPD. Considering that it was a relatively young case, there weren’t copious amounts of evidence, meaning that there were still untied strings to go through. The entire situation proved more difficult than necessary; no one seemed to notice anything  amiss when it came to Lila and her relationships, and considering that the actress wasn’t very forthcoming with the information she knew, you were hitting dead-end after dead-end. 

Although geographical profiling was more of Spencer’s expertise than yours, you figured it wouldn’t do anyone harm by triangulating the previous three murders. He was standing beside you, his presence not unwelcome as he guides you step by step on how to plot an understandable and accurate profile. Hotch had asked him to coach you through the entire situation and explain his point of view, as well as his thought process when it came to geographical profiling. With a comfort zone now clearly expressed, you were discussing probable suspects on the phone with Garcia.

“Will Hunter… currently the town hermit, previous criminal record of armed battery and robbery,” Garcia recites, and you pull up his file.

“Mm… maybe? No, I don’t think so. His crimes don’t match the UnSub’s profile. He seems to be messier, uh, tending to use bats and knives than a clean shot to the head. And the profile suggests that the UnSub is able to blend in with the crowd.” You hum in thought, turning to Spencer.

“Hermits like Will Hunter wouldn’t be able to do that,” He explains to Garcia, putting his file into the ‘unlikely’ folder.

Garcia sighs in frustration and you can hear her furiously type away on her computer. “How about–”

“Hold that thought,” Elle says quickly, cutting Penelope off apologetically. “(Y/N), did you know Lila’s here?”

You blink in confusion, slowly shaking your head no. “She’s here? I didn’t get any calls from her.”

Elle shrugs at your words. “She looks like she’s going to burn a hole through your head.”

Your brows furrow and your gaze shifts to the blonde woman through the office window. She has her arms folded over her chest, a scowl on her face, before her cheeks burn in embarrassment of being caught. Spencer follows your gaze, his face lighting up at the sight of the actress. It’s almost as if he has selective hearing when it comes to his celebrity crush, clearly not hearing the part where Elle points out that Lila has been glaring at you the entire time.

“Can we talk outside?” You ask Elle quickly, getting up from your seat, not taking no for an answer.

Spencer opens his mouth to say something before he shuts it, watching as you drag your other co-worker out of the room. Your attention shifts between Lila and Elle, your brows furrowing. 

“What is it?” You ask, your back turned towards the actress. “Why is she here?”

“She gave me a list of people who know what her favourite flower is,” Elle says quietly.

Your ears go red at her words, your eyes practically bulging out of your head. “Excuse me?”

“She called me yesterday,” she explains, handing you the list of people. “She said that she remembers who they were and came in today to give me a list of people.”

You scoff in disbelief, throwing your hands up in the air in frustration. “I gave her my card.”

“She called and asked for me.” 

You scoff again, rolling your eyes. “Oh, so suddenly she can remember everything when she talks to you, but nothing when she talks to me? She’s not very slick.”

The door behind you opens, revealing Spencer who has been listening in the entire time. His jaw is clenched and a frown is etched upon his features as he looks at you accusingly. 

“Maybe she just didn’t remember,” he points out harshly as you and Elle re-enter the room.

An incredulous look makes its way into your face. “Excuse me?”

“She didn’t remember, and now she does,” Spencer says, and from the corner of your eye you watch Elle slowly leave the room once more. The door closes with a soft click.

“That doesn’t change the fact that she went to Elle and not to me,” you respond, trying to keep your voice even and your words clear. You take a deep breath in an effort to calm yourself down.

Spencer scowls at you. “Maybe she has every right to go to Elle after you snapped at her the first time you tried to talk to her.”

“Are you– are you being serious right now?” A humourless laugh leaves your lips as you glare up at him. “Look, Reid, I’m sorry that I’m not her biggest fan and that I don’t kiss the ground she walks on, but I was doing my job. A job that I believe I am quite good at. It’s not like speaking harshly is unheard of when it comes to the retrieval of information.”

He flinches when you call him by his last name but he stands his ground. “If you were so good at your job, you wouldn’t have to speak to her that way,” he argues, and you can see the vein in his forehead begin to protrude.

His words sting and bite you and suddenly you feel your resolve snapping. “You know what?” The words are slow and deliberate as they leave your lips, and you jab a finger against his chest. “I get that you have a crush on her and that you’re finally going through puberty but that does not mean that you can ignore the job you are currently on.”

He swallows thickly and he opens his mouth to retaliate but you push your finger against his chest once more.

“I am not finished.” Your voice is low with frustration and annoyance as you scowl, glaring up at him. “I don’t care who you’re attracted to or who you want to sleep with. I don’t give a damn if that someone is victim in the investigation because it’s not my problem. I do, however, have a problem when you undermine my ability to do my job and do nothing to fix it.

The worst part is the fact that you’re my friend. You’re supposed to be supportive and helpful and– and– and understanding.” Your mouth is moving quicker than your brain can register and you’re stumbling over your words as you snap at him. “I’m supposed to be able to go to you if I’m going through something. I should be able to talk to you if someone or something is bothering me, but now I’m just afraid that you’ll call me crazy and then criticise me all over again.”

His face falls and he looks at you like a kicked puppy as the words slowly sink in. He reaches out to you, his hazel eyes searching your face but the only emotion that you’re showing is anger. You push his hand away, the frown set on your eyebrows. It’s only then when you realise that Garcia has been listening into the conversation the entire time, your heart lurching to a stop when you hear her cough on the other side of the line.

“Um… is now a bad time to say that I didn’t get any other hits for the profile?” She asks tentatively through the speaker, and you feel your face burning.

“I need air,” you announce to no one in particular, before grabbing your files and storming out of the room.

Elle catches your arm on the way out, her eyebrows knitted together in concern. “(Y/N)-“

“Hey. Sorry.” You bite your lip, loosening the grip you have on your papers. “Where’s Hotch?”

“With Derek and Gideon,” she says gently. “Lila got another note and we’re going to check on her manager. Do you want to come with?”

You exhale before nodding. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

“Okay.” She squeezes your arm gently, her eyes flitting between you and Spencer who was inside the conference room, pacing back and forth. “Is… everything alright?”

“Honestly? No.” You offer her a wry smile, shoving your files into your bag. “But it’s fine.”

She chuckles a little in disbelief, leading you to the black SUVs outside. Derek and Gideon were already there, waiting patiently for the two of you while Hotch has already left in another SUV. Apparently the ‘no profiling each other’ rule was thrown out the window as soon as they saw the state you were in, and Derek quickly makes his way over to you.

“(Y/N), are you–”

“I’m fine,” you snap, before closing your eyes tightly and letting out a deep breath. “Sorry, Morgan. I’m okay, just had an argument with Reid.”

At that, his eyebrows shoot upwards. “Since when did you call him ‘Reid’? And what do you mean you had a fight with him? He literally can’t say no to you.”

“Yeah, that was before a Miss Archer walked into the room,” you mutter bitterly. “Shot a literal arrow through his heart. She put her name to good use. I never stood a chance.”

“Hey now, don’t say that,” Elle says, climbing into the SUV. You follow closely behind and she continues. “He’s just confused right now.”

You can’t help but scoff. “I really doubt that.”

Gideon starts the car, looking at you through the rear view mirror. “You’re a profiler. What do you really think?”

The words die at your tongue and you deflate into the seat of the car. You hate to admit it, but Gideon is right. You should be able to figure out exactly what Spencer is thinking. After all, he’s your best friend– you shouldn’t have to be worrying about guessing games when it comes to him.

Hotch is the first to arrive at the manager’s office, watching as your group pull up in front of the building. Once everyone clambours out of the car, they enter the building, a sigh of relief leaving them as they enjoy the air conditioned lobby. With a flash of a badge, the receptionist is quick to tell you which floor and room number Michael was in.

“Floor 11, Room 03,” you mumble to yourself as you scribble it down in your notes.

The elevator ride is silent and you rock back and forth on your feet as the lift begins to rise. Your head is spinning with thoughts and regrets as you consider the harsh words that you spat at Spencer’s face less than an hour ago. You must not have been hiding your frustration well because Hotch finally says something. 

“Is everything alright?” He asks, much like a father would when their child is having a tantrum. It’s fitting.

You shrug. “I will be.”

“Is it to do with Reid?” 

You cough awkwardly, glancing back at the notes in your hand. “That obvious?”

Derek snorts from behind you. “Yeah, a little.”

“Everyone knows you’re in love with him,” Elle adds, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“I am– I am not in love with him!” You all but shriek, shooting her a half hearted glare and you stutter out a response. “I mean, I– uh– I like him but–“

“You are a horrible liar,” Derek cackles and you groan. 

Hotch and Gideon watch amused at the interaction, and the latter finally pipes in.

“Profiling isn’t something you can just turn off,” he explains to you, his tone gentle. He reminds you of a grandfather giving advice to their youngest grandchild, and a small smile makes its way onto your face. He continues to speak, “it’s subconscious and it becomes a habit. The only time it stops is when you either need it most, or when you don’t want to see anything.”

The elevator comes to a stop on the eleventh floor and Michael’s office wasn’t far away. The writing on the frosted glass reads ‘1103, Michael Ryer & associates, talent management’ and Elle raps on the door.

“Hello?” 

“Mr Ryer?” Gideon calls.

She knocks a few times again before opening the door entirely. “Michael–”

You’re met with Michael Ryer, dead in his arm chair and shot to the head, just like all the other victims. Despite having faced these circumstances before, you still feel sick to the stomach as you stare at Michael’s lifeless body and soulless eyes. It’s unnerving.

“Up until now every victim was a person who could be perceived as a threat to Miss Archer,” Hotch comments as they enter the room, pulling out his phone.

“Yeah, but Michael was a friend,” Elle says with a frown.

You look up from your notes. “He was a threat to the stalker.”

In less than twenty minutes, the LAPD dispatched forensics and evidence teams to the office. Lila and Spencer were on their way back to her house, deciding that it was best to deny the stalker access to her. You rifle through Michael’s belongings: his schedules, his files… everything until you come to one particular manila envelope. 

“Morgan, Elle, look at this,” you murmur, pulling the photos out of the envelope. “Pictures of Lila… nude.”

A flash of a grimace passes along Elle’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. “He was probably paying someone to keep them out of the press.”

“The name on the file says Joe Martinez,” Derek mutters, turning the envelope over.

The name must have struck a chord, because Detective Kim’s head immediately snaps around to look at you. “Paparazzo?”

You blink. “You know this guy?”

“Yeah, I deal with him a lot,” Kim responds, his face stoic. 

“We should follow that lead,” You comment, tucking the photos back in the envelope and looking over at Detective Kim and Derek. “I’m ready to go when you are?”

After an okay from Hotch, you, Derek, and Detective Kim make your way over to the Joe Martinez’s place. After knocking on the door to his place multiple times, Derek decides to open it in the way he knows best: by kicking it down. You grip your gun, holding it out in front of you as you travel through the hallways. 

“Clear!” You yell out upon pushing another door open, seeing nobody inside.

“(Y/N), you need to check this out,” comes Morgan’s call, and you follow the direction of his voice

Pinned above a small desk are picture upon pictures of Lila Archer. When she has lunch, when she’s out with her friends… it’s almost as if this person has completely documented her life. It’s a little nerve wracking, knowing that someone could follow you and take photos without anyone even realising.

“Hey is that–” you pause, pulling a piece of paper off the wall. “This is Lila’s schedule.”

Derek blinks in surprise. “I’m guessing he’s not supposed to have that?”

“No,” Detective Kim responds, and your gaze shifts to the table.

“Hey, isn’t that–” you feel your heart practically stop as you see who’s in the photos. 

“That’s Reid,” Derek mutters.

Kim shifts through the photos. “There’s a whole bunch of them,” he says, pulling out at least five or six print outs. “Is he a target now?”

Derek scoffs, throwing the photos on the table and pulling out his phone, making a beeline for the exit. “Not if I can help it.”

You and Detective Kim follow him out, making your way to the SUV. 

“Reid? Hey, it’s Morgan. Listen, you gotta watch your back over there, we just found a bunch of close-up photos of you at this guy Joseph Martinez’s studio. It looks like he could be the UnSub.”

As he speaks you feel your heart pound in your ears. Your head is dizzy with fear and you’re following after Morgan who’s walking unbelievably quickly. 

“He has a ton of photos of Lila and Nathalie plus a call sheet for Lila’s show,” Derek continues, the speed of his walk not wavering. “(Y/N) and I are on our way right now but I need you to be real careful until we get there, all right?”

You look down to shove your notes back into your bag when you hear it. The distinct vrooming of a motorcycle engine. You don’t think too much of it, only turning your head to look over your shoulder, your hand finding the handle of the car door. That’s all it takes for the motorcyclist to drive straight toward you and the others, pointing an arm out.

“Gun!” You manage to scream, just before the UnSub open fires, hitting Detective Kim. 

You dive behind the car, grimacing when your knee collided roughly against the pavement. By the time you manage to recover and grab your gun out of its holster, the UnSub is long gone. You stare as Morgan fires a couple shots before watching the motorcyclist ride off into the LA traffic,  and you turn to Detective Kim.

“You got hit. Where?” You ask, shoving your gun back into its holster.

He grunts in pain, his entire weight on the car as he groans out, “yeah, it’s fine. Just my shoulder.”

“Derek, call for help,” you order, pressing firmly at the wound with your hand to lessen the bleeding. He lets out a cry of pain and you wince. “Sorry, it’s bleeding a lot. Gunshot wound to the shoulder, no exit wound. Seeing as you’re not already dead, I don’t think it hit any major arteries, but it might have busted your collarbone. You’re lucky if that’s the extent of the damage. The shoulder contains a bunch of important and major bloodlines, as well as nerve endings.”

Derek turns to you with a wry smile. “You’re starting to sound like Reid.”

“You spend four years with him, you’ll start to learn a few things,” you respond with a humourless laugh. You continue to press against Detective Kim’s wound, murmuring an apology. 

“You should talk to him,” Derek prompts.

You scoff, “we have a detective bleeding in front of us and the thing you’re worried about is my love life?”

“Isn’t the first rule of relieving pain through distraction?” He asks. You shoot him an unimpressed look and he quickly nods his head. “Okay, sorry.”

Ten minutes later, Detective Kim is hoisted into the ambulance. You cringe as you wash his blood off your hands, once, twice, then a third time to make sure everything is gone. Your shirt has a couple of blood spots and you can’t help but frown; you liked that shirt. At least the stain isn’t too big– just a few splotches here and there. 

“It’s a good thing you held the wound,” an EMT praises, working quickly to secure Kim’s shoulder. “He shattered his collarbone, but you seemed to have managed to control the bleeding.”

If it weren’t for the circumstances, you would have shouted a clear ‘I told you so’ to both Derek and Detective Kim, but you keep your mouth shut.

Hotch, Gideon, and Elle arrive moments later, speaking to Derek about the detective’s injuries. 

“You okay?” Elle asks gently, squeezing your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, wringing your hands together. “Just a little jumpy. I’ll be fine.”

“We need to get to her house,” Gideon mutters, glancing at the group. 

Without another moment to lose, you’re clambering into an SUV, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles turn white. Elle climbs into the passenger seat beside you, her brows knitted together in concern. She opens her mouth to say something but shuts it, watching as you start the car and speed off into the direction of Lila’s house. 

After slamming the door shut and gripping the gun firmly in the palm of your hand, you follow Derek through the back entry of the house. You weren’t even sure if it could even be counted as a ‘house’; the place looked like it had at least five bedrooms on both floors. Derek glances at you, signalling to be quiet, then another to keep your eyes on him. A quiet splashing in the pool alerts your attention, and despite his attempts of getting you to not look, you do. And as soon as you do, you really wish you hadn’t. 

You are met with the sight of Lila Archer in her bikini-clad glory, in the pool with Doctor Spencer Walter Reid. Doctor ‘pools are incredibly unhygienic, harbouring more than 50 million different types of bacteria’ Reid. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, you watch as their lips touch again and again, his hands cupping her face and her hands arms around his neck. 

Spencer pulls away from the kiss, his breath heavy and his head spinning. This is wrong. He’s not supposed to being do this. His brain is short circuiting and it’s even worse when he considers all the germs that could be in this pool. His head spins with the names of viruses and bacteria that could be festering in the waters he was currently in, and then he remembers he has more pressing matters to attend to. Namely the girl who was literally pressing her lips to his. 

He pulls away, stammering over responses. “We can’t– we shouldn’t. I’m a federal agent and you’re–”

Lila stares at him, amused, with her hands cupping his neck. “There’s no one here.”

“I’m supposed to be protecting you,” Spencer tries again, anxiety gnawing at his stomach. This is wrong. Unprofessional. Then his mind wanders to you and the nagging voice in the back of his mind urges him to do something. 

“There are police out front,” Lila says, kissing him again before continuing, “there are coyotes out back.”

“This is completely inappropriate,” Spencer stutters out, his hands reaching for her shoulders. Her skin is cold from the summer night’s breeze, even more so considering how they’re submerged in disgusting chlorine-filled pool water. 

“This?” She presses her lips to his once more. “What’s this?”

“This isn’t–” he swallows thickly, his cheeks flared. “No, there’s this thing called transference–”

Lila pulls away, her stare drifting from his eyes to his lips as she asks, “you don’t like me?”

Spencer blanches at the question. “What?”

“You don’t like me,” Lila repeats, more sure of herself now. “It’s because of her, right?”

He frowns at the insinuation. “‘Her’? Who’s ‘her’?”

“The other person on your team,” Lila says, her words bitter. “You like her don’t you?”

His mouth goes dry and he opens and closes it like a fish out of water. “What?”

“Let me change your mind,” she whispers, bringing her lips to his for the nth time. 

Spencer barely has time to react, his hands moving to the side of her face and he imagines that she’s you. But she’s not you and you would never kiss him in the middle of the pool. You would never pull him in by his tie and cut him off when he’s speaking. He pulls away. 

“Stop. Stop, Lila, I’m sorry, I have to– I have to tell you something.” His mind is blanking. Why is it that when he needs it, his brain shuts off?

“What?” Lila asks, her lips moving to his cheek and then to his jaw. 

“I didn’t want to tell you this before because I was a bit worried.” He’s screaming at himself in his head, kicking himself because ‘why the hell did he just say that?!’ Regardless of the way he wishes he could shut his mouth and run out of the pool, he continues, “I don’t know how to say it but I can’t not tell you.”

“What is it?” She finally pulls away and Spencer lets out a breath of relief.

The relief is short lived because he starts to blab, “Your manager, Michael–”

“What?”

“Gideon went to check on him but he got there too late.” Spencer thinks he’s going to hurl, his mind running a million times an hour and screaming, ‘No you idiot! No, no, no! Out of all the things you could say–’

Lila scrambles out of the pool, clearly distraught, and he reaches out to touch her arm… only to be swatted away with her sobbing and telling him not to touch her. He figures he deserves that and follows out of the pool after her. 

“How could you– how could you not tell me?” Lila demands, her tears mixing with the pool water already on her face. 

“I was afraid you’d be upset,” Spencer says lamely, water dripping from his trousers and he just wants a towel. 

“You– you knew what you knew and… how could you not…?” She’s on the verge of hyperventilating and she looks at him before looking away. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer says quietly, not knowing what else to say.

Lila retreats into her house, shutting the glass sliding door behind her and Spencer can only watch as she throws a pillow at the wall before going up the stairs to her room. He stands there, in the cold, dripping wet from the pool water and he wipes his face with his hand. His gun sits on the table, damp, and he has the urge to scream. Before he could do something exceedingly stupid, the sound of footsteps alert him and he spins around. 

“Elle?”

“We found him in the bushes,” she says to Spencer, nodding to the guy being cuffed by Derek. 

“I told her she should cut those.” He says dismissively, wiping his gun with a towel. He looks at her and then at you. He swallows thickly, noticing the way your eyes look him up and down, the disapproval oozing in your stare. “I– uh– I fell in.”

“Yeah,” you respond, holding the camera up and a sarcastic smile blossoms on your face. “I’m sure there are plenty of photos of it.”

He sighs, “(Y/N)–”

“Hey, stop shoving me, man!” Joe snaps as Derek pushes him to walk forward.

“You’re a suspect in the murder of Wally Melman, Natalie Ryan, and Jeremy Collins.”

You watch as Joe’s face comically contorts from annoyance to confusion as he jumps to defend himself. “Murder? What? Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa–”

“Just shut up with the ‘whoa’. We know for a fact that you have hundreds of photographs of Lila Archer and Natalie Ryan on the walls of your studio. You have Miss Archer’s daily schedule on your desk. You’ve been stalking her.”

“Look, guy, hold up. Every paparazzi’s a celebrity stalker,” Joe says and the rest of the group turn to look at him incredulously. He continues to speak undeterred. “If you don’t stalk them, you don’t get the shot, and if you don’t get the shot, you don’t sell no pictures.”

“Yeah, well this one’s gonna cost you,” you hum, holding the camera in your hands and ripping the film out despite his yells of defiance.

Derek steps forward, pushing Joe to keep him walking. “Tell it to your lawyer.”

“Wh– I’m still being locked up?”

“That’s right, at the very least you’re trespassing.”

Elle and Derek walk Joe out of the premises, and you push the pulverised film against Spencer’s chest. He grips it in his hands, a soft ‘oof’ leaving his lips at the contact. 

“You’re welcome,” you mutter, albeit a little bitterly, as you turn to follow the rest of your team out.

“(Y/N), listen, it didn’t mean anything,” he says softly, squeezing the film in his fist tightly while the other hand reaches out to you. 

You roll your eyes, opening up the sliding door. “I told you, Reid, I don’t care who you sleep with.”

He splutters a little, pushing his hair away from his face. “We didn’t– I didn’t– we didn’t sleep together, you know that.”

“Even more reason why I shouldn’t care.”

His hand grips onto your shoulder, turning you around so that you’re facing him. “But you do. ‘Shouldn’t’? You care. You clearly obviously care, (Y/N).”

“I don’t,” you deny, pushing his hand away. “Reid–”

“Stop calling me that.”

“–it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I’m leaving.”

He grabs onto your arm, stopping your retreat. “Why are you being like this?”

“I am not ‘being like’ anything!”

“(Y/N).”

“Doctor, this is highly unprofessional.”

He has to stop the frustrated groan that was moments away from leaving his lips as he stares at you. His eyes ghost over your frame, stopping directly at the dark red splotches on your shirt.

“What happened?” He demands, taking a step closer. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“Who’s blood is that?”

“Detective Kim’s.”

“What– were you shot at?” 

His hands fly to your face, trembling and cold, and you would have thought it was romantic if he didn’t do the exact same thing less than twenty minutes ago with another girl. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you dismiss quietly. 

“Don’t say that.”

“God, you act as if we’re dating or something!” You snap, pulling away from him. 

He stops short, his cheeks and ears reddening at your words. His mind goes blank and suddenly he feels very warm at the idea. Dating you? Every moment he had with Lila in that pool is nothing compared to the idea of dating you.

He watches as you roll your eyes before tugging your arm out of his grip. He wants to cry out again, to say something, but his head just seems to repeat the words ‘we’re dating’ over and over again. 

“Just forget it, Reid.” You look to the house and your gaze grows steely once more. “Your girlfriend is calling.”

*** 

“I want to try and talk to some of Lila’s close friends,” you say to the others after getting off the phone with Garcia. “According to Penelope, there’s a girl named Maggie Lowe on the list that Lila gave us and they’ve known each other since college. Apparently, they spent a lot of time together and Lila helped her get a job.”

“I’ll go with you,” Elle says instantly, climbing into the car. “Why Maggie?”

You start the ignition, backing out of the driveway and onto the main road, following the GPS directions. “They spend almost all of their time together. I mean, she must have noticed something off, you know?”

Elle nods slowly in understanding. “She knows about the red anemones, right?”

“Yeah. And she was the one who found the note taped to the door.” You pause, thinking through the evidence again. “Her apartment is right in the middle of the comfort zone.”

“You think she could be the UnSub?”

“It all seems too convenient. But then again, we didn’t profile the stalker as a woman. There have got to be some inaccuracies or things we overlooked because of the gender,” you murmur, stopping at a red light. “Call Garcia for me.”

The phone rings once before Penelope’s unmistakable voice chimes through. “Speak my pretties, and you shall be heard!”

“Hey, Pen, can you check what vehicle is registered under Maggie Lowe’s name?” You ask into the speaker, parking in front of the apartment.

“Checking, checking… aha! It’s a Honda Motorcycle, she just got it serviced six and a half months ago.”

“That’s the vehicle that the UnSub was driving when they shot at us,” you mumble in realisation. “Call the others, the UnSub might be Maggie Lowe. We’re checking the apartment now.”

“Gideon and Derek are at the art gallery to talk to Parker Dunley,” Elle points out. “I’ll let them know we’re at her apartment.”

There’s a typing on the other side of the line and Penelope chimes in once more. “Bad news, my loves. The cameras report Lowe’s motorcycle leaving the apartment complex half an hour ago.”

“Garcia, call Reid and tell him what we know. Elle and I are going into the apartment. We might find evidence or clues on who the next victim might be.” 

With that, you hang up, getting out of the car and running up the stairs with Elle hot on your heels. 

“Maggie Lowe?” You call through the door, knocking once then twice. 

You’re met with silence and you grimace, deciding to do Derek’s favourite move: kicking the door down. With a crash, the door slams open and you grip your gun a little tighter in your hand. Bathroom, clear. Kitchen and pantry, clear. Lounge, clear. Bedroom, clear– you stop short. Pictures– framed pictures– of Lila hung around the wall. A cork board with newspaper clipping and magazine cut outs were pinned meticulously to the cork backing, each one with Lila’s face and name circled with bold red marker. 

“Holy shit…” Elle whispers, holstering her gun and staring at the wall. “This is… this is beyond obsession.”

“You’re telling me,” you respond, putting on a blue glove and flipping through the cork board. “Call the others, Maggie is definitely the UnSub. Someone this obsessed must have…” you pause, filing through the desk on the other side of the room, “… a diary. Each murder was described to detail in each entry, as well as her feelings towards Lila.”

Elle grimaces as she looks over your shoulder to read the diary entries. “Grim.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah.”

Above her desk are images of Lila. Every single show she’s been in since Julliard, every time she was mentioned in an article, posters, newspaper clippings of the murders… the entire ordeal makes you feel sick. 

Elle sucks in a breath, staring at the desk. “She’s got Lila’s entire life documented.”

“And she’s probably already at Lila’s house,” you mutter, grabbing your phone. “We need to get over there, now.”

*** 

“The city of angels everything you thought it would be?” Derek asks amusedly, leaning against the wall of the jet as he watches you pour your third cup of coffee in the past three hours. 

It’s a couple days after Maggie Lowe was apprehended and the team were on the jet home getting some much needed rest. The aircon was put on full blast and you couldn’t be more grateful for it, enjoying the coolness on your skin in contrast to the hot Los Angeles weather. 

“I’m never coming back here,” you quip, your gaze shifting to where Spencer sits. He’s reading a book but he hasn’t turned a page for the past thirty seconds. “If I were to overthrow America, Los Angeles is the first place to go.”

Derek snorts, his eyebrows raising. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you huff, finally looking at him. “I’m serious!”

“Sure kid. Totally believe you.”

He’s teasing, a knowing smirk on his face as he watches you chug the coffee with a grimace. Your tongue burns and you fill the cup with water and chug that as well, ignoring the amused look Derek keeps sending you. From the corner of your eye you see Spencer reading his book. At least, it would appear that he was reading to someone who didn’t know him. But you know him. He’s been staring into the pages for the past minute now and that alone was enough to let you know that he was paying more attention to your and Derek’s conversation than to the words on the page. 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you sit beside Elle who is already fast asleep. You envy her for a moment as she leans against the plane window, blissfully unaware to your mental torment. Stupid Spencer and his stupidly pretty face. From where you’re sitting you can see the back of his head and you glare at that the ridiculous mop of brown on his head. 

The rest of the plane ride is uneventful and by the time you make it back to the office it’s already late. It’s nearing one in the morning and everyone begins to head home. Derek is yawning as he leaves the office and Elle has a look that screams ‘Don’t talk to me’. Gideon is long gone and Hotch was in his office, packing up the last of his papers and files. 

Spencer is sitting at his desk, combing through the paperwork and stashing a couple pages into his satchel. He bids farewell to Derek and the others before shoving his train pass into his pocket. 

“You’re taking the train?” You ask, finally speaking to him.

His eyebrows raise in surprise and he shifts on his feet, gripping the strap of his bag. “Um, yeah. I took the train here, so...”

“Oh.” You nod, glancing at the clock. “No you’re not.”

He huffs out a laugh. “What?”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you get onto a train at one in the morning,” you say, pointing with your chin to the elevator. “You might be a man and all, but it doesn’t change the statistics.”

You know his weakness. Statistics. Facts. Spencer hates the fact that you know him so well. 

He relents, getting into the elevator with you. “I thought you were mad at me.”

He hears you scoff, pressing B1 on the elevator. “Just because I’m mad at you, doesn’t mean that I’m going to let you do something potentially dangerous.”

He hates the way your words makes his heart flutter and he continues speak. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you did,” you respond curtly, watching as the elevator doors open. “Come on, my car is that way.”

Spencer flinches at your tone. “I’m sorry.”

You laugh. “You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”

“I–” the words die on his tongue as he wracks his brain. “I thought it was because you didn’t like Lila.”

“That’s true,” you murmur, unlocking the car. “Look, Reid–”

“Please,” he cuts you off, his voice cracking as he practically begs. “Please stop calling me that.”

He doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker to him as you tug the car door open. “You want me to stop calling you by your name?”

Spencer’s nostrils flare as he gets in the car. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

You laugh again as you start the engine, glancing at the mirrors. “Everyone calls you Reid. It shouldn’t be any different for me.”

He huffs. “But it is different. You’re… different.”

“How?” You challenge, backing out of the parking spot and getting onto the main road. You’ve memorised the route from Quantico to Spencer’s apartment in DC– an almost one hour drive and you understand why Spencer hates driving to and from work. 

He falters before shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just please don’t call me by my last name again.”

“Spencer,” You try again, missing the visible relief in his eyes, “I’m not mad at you because of something as miniscule as a girl. You’re entitled to your own relationships outside of work.”

“I don’t under– oh.” The realisation dawns on him when he recalls all the words you threw at him at the precinct. “I wasn’t a very good friend, was I?”

“No, Spencer, you weren’t.” You don’t hesitate to say it and Spencer winces at how quickly you agree with him. “You were unfair and let your emotions get in the way of the case. You criticised me and undermined my authority and then you had the absolute nerve to act as if nothing was wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, the lump in his throat getting bigger. 

“It hurt, Spencer,” you say, and your voice cracks as well. “It hurt because you’re my best friend and I would have supported you through everything. You know that. And I get that friends fight, but I thought that we wouldn’t fight about something as stupid as who you hook up with.”

“I didn’t hook up with her,” Spencer says quietly, and he thinks he might cry. “I’m serious, (Y/N), I didn’t hook up with her. She kissed me–”

“It doesn’t matter.” Your gaze shifts to him for barely a second before it’s back on the road. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter who you’re attracted to. I just didn’t think it would effect our friendship.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer says again, holding onto his bag. 

You’re quiet before continuing, “ I know you are. I know that. I’m sorry that you thought that you needed to justify your feelings to me.”

He swallows thickly, watching your face carefully. You didn’t do anything to make him feel like he had to justify himself. If anything, it was Spencer’s conscious that made him feel the need to explain himself. The guilt that he felt after kissing Lila was enough to get him to feel sick. The guilt that he felt after knowing how badly he hurt you was enough to make him want to grovel at your feet. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” He mumbles, wetting his bottom lip. “You had– have– every right to be upset.”

“I don’t want to be upset anymore,” You say as you continue to drive down the freeway. 

He’s quiet before he finally says, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

He swallows the lump in his throat and he presses the pads of his fingers into the corner of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

You finally park in front of his apartment, leaning against the chair. “I know. I know, I’m sorry too. I said… a lot of things.”

“I deserved it,” he says, a small laugh leaving his lips as he finally looks at you. “You’re right, I wasn’t being fair.”

You hum, leaning over the console to give him an awkward hug. He presses his nose into your shoulder, breathing in your vanilla perfume. His arms wrap around your middle and he realises how much he missed this. How he missed being close to you. 

“I won’t do it again,” he promises. 

“I know.”

“I really am sorry.”

“You need to stop apologising.” Your words come out like a laugh and he realises how much he misses that sound too.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says into your shoulder. “Coffees for a month. I’ll even get you those croissants you like, even though they’re really overpriced.”

You laugh again and he smiles. 

“You apologising is already good enough,” You say, squeezing his arms. “Now go get some rest, Spence.”

His smile widens at the nickname and he finally pulls away. “Good night. Thank you for driving me home.”

You smile back. “Good night. Don’t mention it.”

The next morning, you find a steaming coffee on your desk and a freshly baked croissant in a brown paper bag. Spencer waves at you and you can’t help the goofy grin on your face as you take a bite into the croissant. 

next part →

full work

reblogs are always appreciated!

[panerasbox]

i can’t believe it’s tomorrow. this truly went so fast!! here’s the last fic of 30 days of melissa schemmenti. thank you everyone for reading these, it’s been really fun (and challenging!) i’ve slept maybe four hours since tuesday night, im too excited (or nervous) to sleep!! expect the post all about it tomorrow night 🩷

—LITTLE BIT HEISTY; 1 Day To Go

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x fem!Reader. Heist AU | Ocean’s 8 Vibes

Genre: crime romance, slow burn, found family

Word count: 4,198.

summary: Five years after walking out of your life, Melissa Schemmenti shows up on your doorstep asking for help with a job. You’re not sure which is more dangerous: the heist… or falling for her all over again.

The last person you expect to see standing in the lobby of your cybersecurity firm on a rainy Tuesday morning is Melissa Schemmenti.

And yet, there she is leaning on the reception desk like it owes her money, red leather jacket still as worn-in and dangerous-looking as it was the last time she walked out of your life. Her hair’s pulled back, but you can still see the copper strands curling at the edges, defiant as ever. She hasn’t changed. Not in the ways that count.

You pause halfway through the glass doors, heartbeat kicking up before your mind even catches up. You think: She looks good. You think: She’s here for something. And then you think the thing you swore you were over: What if this is about us?

She sees you and smirks. That same cocky, tilted-lip thing she used to use when she’d beat you at pool or pin you against the wall of your old apartment. You hate that you remember the heat of it. You hate more that you miss it.

“Hey, kid,” she says, like five years haven’t passed and your heart didn’t get broken in the middle of a South Philly parking lot at midnight.

“Melissa.” You cross your arms. “Can’t say I was expecting you.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t think I’d be here either. But I need someone with your…skills.”

A beat. You raise an eyebrow. “This a social call or a job offer?”

Her smirk grows. “Both, maybe. But mostly a job.”

You glance at your receptionist, who’s now watching like it’s a soap opera. You jerk your head toward your office. “Five minutes.”

Once inside, you close the door and turn to face her. She’s already prowling the perimeter like she owns the place, eyes scanning the sleek décor, the awards on the wall. You can practically hear the judgment brewing.

“This yours?” she asks, tapping a frame. “Didn’t think you’d go legit.”

You snort. “You didn’t think I’d do a lot of things.”

Her eyes flick back to yours. A moment of silence. Tight, uncomfortable.

“So,” you say, settling behind your desk. “Why are you really here?”

Melissa leans forward, both palms flat on your desk. “You heard of Raymond Cranston?”

Your brain runs a quick scan. “District administrator. Embezzlement rumors, but nothing proven. Real piece of work.”

“He’s stealing money meant for Abbott and the other schools. Slashing budgets, padding his pockets. Barbara’s livid, Ava’s ready to stage a coup, and I’m…” She pauses. Her voice drops. “I’m done watching kids suffer while people like him walk away clean.”

You watch her carefully. Her voice is fierce. Controlled. But underneath, you hear something deeper, something almost desperate.

“You want to expose him?”

Melissa smiles, sharp as a switchblade. “No, hon. I want to rob him.”

A beat.

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“Dead.” She folds her arms. “Gala’s in three weeks. Cranston’s flaunting every dime he stole. I’ve got Ava for the distraction, Jacob for the groundwork, Barbara on logistics, don’t ask how, she’s pretending this is a ‘moral countermeasure’ or whatever, but I need someone who can get into the systems. Security, bank accounts, cameras. You.”

You stare. Then laugh, once, incredulous. “You want me to help you pull a heist on the Philadelphia School District?”

“I want you to help me get justice,” she corrects. “The fact that it’s gonna be a little illegal is just a bonus.”

You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled. “And why me? Why now?”

Melissa hesitates. For the first time, she looks less sure. “Because I trust you. And because you’re the best at what you do.”

Your throat tightens. You wish she didn’t still sound so sincere when she says things like that.

“This is insane,” you say.

“Yep.”

“It could land you in prison.”

“Only if we get caught.”

You stare at her for another long moment.

“Who else is in?”

Melissa smirks again. “Just wait ‘til you see Ava’s outfit. You’ll fold.”

And damn it, you already are.

You regret saying yes somewhere between Melissa telling you Ava Coleman is “handling distractions” and the moment Ava actually walks into your office.

She’s in a metallic rose gold pantsuit, matching stiletto boots, and oversized sunglasses that absolutely do not hide her smug grin. Her hair is pulled into a high, dramatic ponytail that somehow screams both spy thriller and host of a messy reality show. You glance at Melissa. She doesn’t even blink.

“This her?” Ava asks, looking you up and down like you’re the newest model on a showroom floor. “This is your hacker? Girl looks like she files taxes for fun.”

You stare. “I’m the reason your Amazon Alexa didn’t narc on you to the IRS last year.”

Ava gasps. “Oh, so you do know me.”

Melissa sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Ava.”

“What? I’m just saying. She’s hot in a nerdy, ‘I could ruin your credit score’ kind of way. I respect it.”

You deadpan, “And you’re the distraction?”

She flashes a smile. “Baby, I am the show.”

Melissa turns to you with a tight smile. “This is what I’ve been dealing with.”

“I see that.”

Ava flops onto your office couch like she owns it, propping her boots on your coffee table. “So, hacker girl. What’s your handle? Like, your criminal hacker name? You got something cool? HexKitten? ByteMe?”

Melissa snorts. You ignore her. “I don’t have a handle. I run a legitimate business now.”

Ava makes a face. “Boring. I’m calling you ByteMe anyway.”

Melissa gives you a look that says sorry, but she’s clearly not. There’s a flicker in her eyes that tells you she’s enjoying this. You’re not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed.

“Where’s the rest of the crew?” you ask.

“Ava’s the first one I brought in,” Melissa says. “Barbara’s in, but she’s… still pretending it’s a spiritual mission.”

“And Jacob?”

“He cried when I told him,” Ava says. “Like, actual tears. He was like, ‘I always dreamed I’d be recruited for a heist!’ I think he’s building a vision board.”

You blink. “So to be clear, we’re trusting a woman who runs a school like a TikTok account, a kindergarten teacher who considers this a divine quest, and a man who’s treating this like Ocean’s Eleven: Quaker Edition.”

Melissa leans against your desk, arms crossed. “That’s why I needed you.”

It’s quiet for a beat. You glance up and realize she’s looking at you, really looking at you the way she used to, back when things were simpler. When it was just pool halls and bar booths and the soft ache of wanting to be loved by someone who couldn’t quite say it out loud.

You swallow. “I haven’t done something like this in years.”

“I know.” Her voice is softer now. “But you never really stopped thinking about it, did you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ava makes a pshhht noise and pretends to spritz herself with imaginary perfume. “Damn, the sexual tension in here is like, fourth-wall-breaking.”

You both shoot her a glare. She only grins wider.

Melissa turns back to you. “The gala’s in less than three weeks. We need access to Cranston’s schedule, building blueprints, account info…anything you can get. I’ll handle the people. You handle the tech.”

You nod slowly. “And if this goes sideways?”

Melissa’s smile sharpens. “Then we improvise.”

You sigh. “Of course we do.”

Ava claps her hands. “Ooh, this is so exciting! Are we getting code names? I call Diamond Viper.”

“You’re not getting a code name,” you and Melissa say at the same time.

She grins like the cat who hacked the canary. “See? You’re already in sync. Y’all are so married.”

Melissa mutters something about regretting her choices.

You kind of regret nothing.

If your office conference table wasn’t currently covered in blueprints, surveillance photos, and sticky notes labeled “Ava DO NOT TOUCH,” you might mistake this for a teacher work session.

Except no teacher work session features this much crime.

Jacob stands at the front with a laser pointer like he’s leading a TED Talk. Barbara sits stiffly at the edge of the table with her arms crossed, lips pursed in a way that suggests she’s praying for all of your souls. Ava’s reclined in a chair spinning slowly in circles, nodding along to a beat only she can hear.

Melissa is next to you. Too close. She smells like smoke and gum, and every time her arm brushes yours, it short-circuits your brain.

You focus on the schematics spread across the table: a floor plan of the Franklin Institute’s ballroom, where the district gala will be held. You marked every camera, every entrance, every potential security checkpoint. You told yourself this job would be a nice distraction. Instead, it’s giving you whiplash.

Jacob points to a hallway on the printout. “This is where Cranston’s personal suite will be during the event. That room is our goldmine, rumor has it he keeps backups of his embezzlement files on an offline drive. Cash, too.”

“Backups,” you mutter. “That idiot probably thinks USBs are untraceable.”

“He’s not wrong,” Melissa murmurs, leaning in. “That’s where you come in.”

Your eyes flick to hers. “You always knew how to make crime sound like a compliment.”

She smirks. “I always knew how to make you say yes.”

Ava lets out a dramatic ooooh and spins faster.

Barbara shoots a look skyward.

You clear your throat and tap the screen of your tablet. “The room has a biometric lock, likely fingerprint or retina scan. I can spoof it, but I’ll need time on the inside. At least fifteen minutes.”

“I can stall,” Ava says, flipping her ponytail. “I’ve been practicing a fake faint. Someone just has to catch me dramatically and I’ll moan about the patriarchy until the paramedics come.”

Melissa looks at her like she’s considering it, which is concerning.

Barbara folds her arms tighter. “I am not condoning this.”

“Noted,” Melissa says without missing a beat. “And you’re still our contact for real-time radio comms?”

Barbara sighs, muttering something about “the Lord testing her” before nodding once.

Jacob glances around the table. “Wait. Who’s our backup if things go wrong?”

The room falls quiet.

Then Melissa says, “Gregory.”

You blink. “Gregory Eddie? The human clipboard?”

A voice from the door cuts in dryly, “I can hear you.”

Gregory steps in, dressed in black, holding a set of walkie-talkies. “I’m only here because Melissa said this was technically about helping the school.”

Melissa claps him on the shoulder. “You’re our runner. If things go sideways, you get the data and disappear.”

Gregory frowns. “What about the rest of you?”

“We improvise,” Ava says, winking.

Barbara mutters louder. “Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Later that night, you’re the last one in the office. The crew’s scattered, your tablet’s still glowing, and your coffee’s gone cold.

Melissa lingers in the doorway.

“You always stay late?” she asks.

You glance up. “Only when I’m helping a morally flexible elementary school teacher plan a heist.”

She smiles and walks in, slow, deliberate. “It’s good seeing you work again.”

You pause. “You mean ‘good seeing me be a criminal again.’”

“I mean,” she says, pulling out a chair across from you, “you’re the best at what you do. I never stopped thinking about that.”

There’s something heavy between you now. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s familiar. Like coming home and finding all the furniture the same, but knowing the locks were changed.

You say, quietly, “Why didn’t you call?”

Melissa doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. Her gaze drops for the first time all night.

“Because I thought I was doing you a favor,” she says. “Thought you were better off.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I know.”

“I never stopped thinking about you either,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

Melissa looks at you like you’ve just said something dangerous. “We’re gonna pull this off, you know.”

You nod. “I know.”

And for the first time since she walked back into your life, you let yourself believe it might not just be the job that changes everything, it might be her.

Melissa is yelling at Ava again.

Something about timing, choreography, and Ava nearly setting off a test alarm because she insisted on filming a TikTok mid-dry-run. Ava’s yelling back that “style is substance,” and that if she’s going to be the distraction, she’s gonna distract, preferably in five-inch heels.

Jacob’s somewhere in the corner hyperventilating into a reusable tote bag, while Barbara stands completely still, praying out loud like she’s Moses trying to part the idiocy in the room.

You, meanwhile, are about two seconds away from walking out.

“Enough!” you bark, and the room freezes. “If anyone touches the surveillance rig again before I finish calibrating it, I will throw this laptop out the window and call the FBI myself.”

Melissa turns to you. “Hey, breathe, alright? I’ve got it under control—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap, harsher than you mean to. “You don’t have it under control, and you keep acting like this is just some righteous crusade, but it’s not. It’s a damn heist, Melissa. This isn’t just about some corrupt administrator. You’re trying to fix something you think you broke years ago.”

Ava makes an impressed oooooh noise and then wisely shuts up when you shoot her a look.

Melissa doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at you.

And it’s not angry. It’s not even surprised. It’s hurt.

“Everyone out,” she says softly.

Jacob scurries. Ava tries to sass but Barbara grabs her by the arm like a mom who’s had enough. The room clears. The door closes behind them.

You’re left in the silence, with Melissa standing across from you and five years of unsaid things vibrating between you like an electric current.

“You think I don’t know that?” she says, voice low. “You think I don’t wake up every morning thinking about how I screwed it all up?”

You don’t answer.

“I told myself it was about the school. About the kids. But I knew bringing you back into this…” She trails off. “I knew it’d hurt. And I did it anyway.”

You sit down, the adrenaline fading just enough to leave you feeling hollow. “Why, Melissa? Why not just leave it alone?”

“Because I never stopped loving you,” she says, like it costs her something to admit it. “And because this is the only thing I know how to do…fix what I broke. Even if it’s too late.”

You blink hard. “You left. You walked away. You didn’t give me a chance.”

“I was scared,” she says, and there’s no pride in it. “You wanted a future. Stability. Something clean. And I was still fighting ghosts. Still picking fights with shadows. I didn’t know how to let myself have something good.”

You look down at your hands. They’re shaking, just a little.

“You think this heist is going to erase that?” you ask, softer now.

“No,” she says. “But maybe it can be the start of making things right.”

A long beat of silence stretches between you.

And finally, finally, you whisper, “You still have a habit of making everything complicated.”

Her lips twitch. “Yeah, but you liked that about me.”

You don’t smile, but you don’t walk away either. You stand, take a step closer.

Her breath hitches.

“Just… don’t break my heart twice,” you say, quietly.

Melissa nods once. “I won’t. Not this time.”

And for the first time since this whole mess started, you both stop pretending the job is the only thing at stake.

You’ve never worn a dress this expensive.

Or this revealing.

Or this dangerous.

The silk clings like it knows all your secrets. One wrong step and your thigh holster will flash like a neon sign, and then it’s all over. But that’s not what has your hands shaking.

It’s her.

Melissa Schemmenti walks into the Franklin Institute gala like she owns the building, like it was built around her. She’s in a deep emerald suit that should be illegal, the jacket tailored so close it might as well be stitched to her spine. The red lipstick is new—braver than she used to be. But it’s the smirk that hits hardest.

She sees you. And for a moment, the whole room falls away.

“Jesus,” she mutters when she gets closer. “You look like sin in that dress.”

“Fitting,” you say with a faint smile. “We’re about to rob a man blind.”

She offers her arm. “Shall we?”

You take it. God help you, you take it.

Inside, the gala is a mess of bad lighting and expensive perfume. The kind of place where people say “philanthropy” but mean “money laundering.” Ava’s already working the crowd in a sparkling red jumpsuit, dragging attention like a magnet with legs. She’s halfway through a champagne flute and mid-laugh with the mayor.

Barbara is tucked into a quiet corner near the AV booth, earpiece in, muttering coordinates like a CIA agent moonlighting as a Sunday school teacher. Gregory’s posing as security, face like granite, hands on a clipboard. Jacob is, god bless him, crying in a supply closet out of sheer joy and nerves.

You’re all exactly where you need to be.

“Target approaching,” Barbara says over comms. “Cranston incoming. Three o’clock.”

Melissa squeezes your hand.

You shift.

And just like that, it begins.

You slip away while Ava starts her scene. You don’t even know what it is… there’s screaming, a fake proposal, possibly a flash mob. You’ll ask later. Right now you’re moving fast down a hallway, Melissa shadowing you in practiced silence.

The door to Cranston’s private suite clicks open with a code Jacob swiped from a security badge two weeks ago. Inside, it’s absurd marble, liquor, leather chairs no one’s meant to sit in.

The safe is real. And locked.

You’re halfway through cracking it when Melissa speaks.

“You were always the smartest person in the room.”

You blink at her. “Now’s not the time.”

“I know,” she says. “But if I wait until it is, I’ll never say it.”

Click. The safe opens.

Inside was hard drives. Envelopes thick with cash. A folder labeled Trust Fund Allocation – Revised.

You bag everything. Fast. Efficient.

But Melissa doesn’t move.

“You’re stalling,” you say, quiet.

She steps closer. “I want to kiss you.”

You freeze.

“Not because I’m trying to distract you,” she adds. “And not because it’s convenient. I want to kiss you because five years ago I was too much of a coward to do it when it mattered. And now we’re standing in the middle of a goddamn felony, and all I can think about is your mouth.”

You stare at her. She’s waiting.

And maybe it’s the adrenaline.

Maybe it’s the years.

Maybe it’s just her.

You drop the bag and kiss her. Hard.

Like the last five years never happened. Like the world doesn’t end in twenty minutes. Like you never stopped.

She kisses you back like she regrets everything.

It lasts maybe ten seconds. Maybe an eternity.

Then the comm crackles: “Guests are moving toward the east wing! You have sixty seconds!”

You break apart, breathless. Wide-eyed.

Melissa grins, all teeth. “We really need to do crime more often.”

You grab the bag. “Let’s get out of here before I commit a second felony. This time for assaulting your mouth in public.”

She laughs as you run.

And God, you hope she keeps laughing.

The gala is chaos.

Jacob’s voice is high-pitched over comms—“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”, and you can hear Ava shouting “Don’t touch me, I am the fire code violation!” from somewhere behind you. Gregory’s giving cool, clipped updates, but even he sounds tight.

You and Melissa are sprinting.

Your heels click against the marble as you race through the hallway, bag of stolen evidence clutched to your chest. You round a corner just in time to hear Melissa bark, “Left now!” and shove open a utility door.

It slams shut behind you, cutting off the roar of the crowd.

Inside, it’s dim. A narrow maintenance corridor. You’re both breathing hard, the kind of breath that drags heat through your lungs like fire.

“We’re not going to make it to the car,” Melissa says between gasps.

“No,” you agree. “But we can get to the archives exit. East side. Leads to the loading dock.”

“Then let’s move.”

You both start running again, only this time, you can feel it. Someone’s on your tail. Security. Maybe a camera caught too much. Maybe Jacob tripped an alarm. Maybe it’s just bad luck. But the danger is real and closing in.

You slide to a stop outside the archive room.

And that’s when everything goes sideways.

The door won’t budge.

“Locked,” you hiss. “Cranston must’ve had it sealed after his little embezzlement parties.”

Melissa pulls out a pin from her hair, of course she’s wearing one sharp enough to pick a lock, and gets to work.

You press your back to the wall, watching the hallway.

Boots.

Shouts.

“Melissa—”

“I got it.”

She does. The door clicks open, and you both dive inside, just as a flashlight beam sweeps past.

Inside, it’s dark. Rows of dusty boxes. Echoes of time.

You crouch low behind one, chest heaving, Melissa right next to you. The bag of evidence is wedged between your legs. Her hand brushes yours in the dark.

You grab it and don’t let go.

For a minute, there’s only your breathing. The adrenaline still in your throat. Your heart, beating out of rhythm.

“I thought this part would feel better,” you whisper. “Like a clean win.”

Melissa turns to you. You can’t see much, just the outline of her jaw in the faint emergency light.

“Doesn’t feel clean,” she agrees.

You look at her. Really look. “Why’d you really bring me in?”

She hesitates.

Then she says, “Because I wanted you to see that I wasn’t that woman anymore. That I could be better. Be worth the risk.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t need proof. I just needed you.”

She leans in. No drama. No tension. Just soft lips and a quiet kiss that feels like a truce.

She pulls back, resting her forehead against yours. “If we get out of this…”

“We will,” you say, firm.

“Then I’m going to ask you to stay. This time for real.”

You nod.

Outside, the guards’ voices fade.

Barbara’s voice crackles to life in your earpiece, “East exit’s clear. Go. Now.”

You and Melissa stand.

Still holding hands.

Still choosing each other.

Even now.

Three days after the gala, Cranston’s career goes up in flames.

It starts small, a headline buried beneath a city council squabble: “Anonymous Tip Alleges Embezzlement at Franklin Institute Fundraiser.”

Then the leak hits Facebook.

Then the drive hits the press.

Then the FBI shows up at his door.

By noon, he’s on administrative leave. By dinnertime, the news runs footage of him being escorted out of his luxury condo, blinking in the sunlight like a man who never thought he’d lose.

You, meanwhile, are sitting on Melissa’s couch with her legs across your lap, a glass of wine in your hand, and an entire soft pretzel from Wawa in hers.

“I can’t believe you made Jacob the anonymous source,” you say, trying not to laugh.

“Who’s gonna question that face?” Melissa shrugs. “He looks like a distressed Muppet. The feds loved him.”

“He’s going to frame his subpoena.”

“Let him. He earned it.”

You smile. You’re quiet for a beat.

And then you say, “You did it.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Just leans back against the couch and chews thoughtfully.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she admits.

“Like what?”

“Like… closure. I thought I’d want fireworks. A parade. Maybe a little public humiliation. But it’s not about him anymore.”

You look at her. She looks at you.

“It’s about you,” she says softly. “It always was.”

Your heart aches.

Not in the sharp, unbearable way it did five years ago when she left.

No, this ache is warm. Healing. The kind that comes from the slow realization that maybe, just maybe, this broken thing between you has finally been put back together.

“You could’ve called,” you say gently. “Years ago.”

“I didn’t know what I’d say.”

“And now?”

She turns, fully facing you. Her hand curls against your thigh. “Now I know I want to build something. Not just clean up messes. Not just run.”

You blink.

“Are you saying you’re ready for a future that doesn’t involve handcuffs and burner phones?”

She smirks. “I didn’t say I was going boring. Just… maybe a little more rooted. A little more honest.”

You set your wine down.

Then you lean in.

Then you kiss her slow and deep and certain, like the kind of kiss that says we’re not done, we’re just getting started.

She pulls back, eyes warm.

“You staying?” she asks, a little shy.

You nod. “I’m home.”

And for the first time in years, it’s true.

[livesincerely]

Later, Buck will swear up and down that this all could’ve been avoided if Eddie had just opened his mouth at any point and said something.

“It was pretty fucking obvious, tonto,” Eddie grumbles, an arm slung over his waist and his nose nestled against the curve of Buck’s throat⁠—where it’s lived for the majority of the last 36 hours. “You’re just oblivious. Or blind. Or⁠—”

“Shut up.”

But to recap, Buck’s just arrived at the firehouse for his shift and the knowledge that Eddie won’t be joining him already has him feeling unsettled and a little grumpy⁠—the last floater that’d come in couldn’t coil his ropes or roll a hose for shit and he’d spent the whole shift cleaning up after him. So, it’s a genuine surprise and delight to find Eddie sitting in the locker room, already in his uniform.

“Hey!” Buck greets him cheerfully. “What’re you doing here? I thought your leave started today?”

“Bobby called,” Eddie explains, double knotting the laces on his boots. He’s forgone the gel today and a swoopy piece of hair falls over his forehead; just the sight of him has Buck’s stomach fluttering. “Whittler’s partner went into labor just after midnight, and Ginsburg’s still in Cabo until Tuesday, so he asked if I could push it back a day.”

“Bad luck,” Buck sympathizes, digging through his locker. He’s pretty sure he’s got a spare uniform buried in here somewhere… yep, there it is. He muffles a yawn against the back of his hand, then tugs the t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. “You gonna be okay out there? I know how you get.”

He feels more than sees the face Eddie makes at that.

“Chris is at Pepa’s until it’s over,” he says. “Carla’s helping coordinate his schedule for the week. I had some supplies left over from last time, but if I can’t make it to the store before it hits, I’ll just get groceries delivered.”

Now it’s Buck’s turn to make a face. 

“No, you won’t, don’t lie,” he chides, tucking his shirt in and doing up the buttons. “Text me a list, I’ll drop off some stuff for you.”

Eddie huffs out a breath. “I’m pretty sure I can manage an Instacart order, Buck.”

“Pre-rut Eddie gets territorial when the mailman comes by,” Buck points out, because it’s true. It’s honestly kind of adorable how worked up he gets. “You’re definitely not going to eat anything delivered by a stranger.”

“I can—“

“Eddie,” Buck says, glancing over his shoulder and fixing him with his sternest look. Eddie’s nostrils flare, the furrow between his brow softening in surprise. “Come on, man, don’t be stubborn. I’ve got you.”

He fastens his name tag to his chest, does one last spot check on his hair, and shuts his locker with a soft click. 

“Maybe if you’re really nice to me, I’ll swing by that place over on Lawrence with the egg rolls you like⁠—”

And whatever else he’d been about to say is lost because when Buck turns around, it’s to find Eddie standing right behind him. Like, literally right behind him⁠—how the fuck did he sneak up on him without him noticing?—a sharp glint in those warm brown eyes.

Before he can do anything other than blink at him, Eddie pushes him up against the wall of lockers: a full body press, chest to hip to thigh. He nuzzles in close, rubbing a stubbled cheek all over Buck’s throat.

“E-Eddie?” Buck squeaks, his whole body lighting up like a firework at the contact. “You… What are you doing?”

Eddie laughs, the vibrations rumbling through his chest and into Buck’s. “Take a wild guess.”

“Are you scent marking me?”

“Pre-rut Eddie gets territorial,” Eddie reminds him, echoing his earlier words. “What makes you think you’re an exception to the rule?”

“Um.” Buck has no idea what’s going on right now. Is he dreaming? Is he dead? Unsure of what else to do with his hands, he ends up settling them gingerly around Eddie’s back. “I… I’m not?”

“Exactly,” Eddie says nonsensically. He cranes up until he can tuck himself into the space under Buck’s jaw and inhales with a deep sigh. “Why aren’t you wearing your blockers? I could smell you coming the moment you walked into the vehicle bay.”

“I am wearing blockers,” Buck tells him, trying hard not to do something utterly mortifying like whimper or beg or pass the fuck out. Every one of his instincts is screaming at him to bare his throat to the attention, to clutch Eddie tight and never let him go, his head swimming with yes, yes, good, alpha, yes, please, yes. “And, uh, actually, did you know that an alpha’s olfactory senses can become up to eighty percent stronger in the three days leading up to their rut? It’s to help them stay in tune with the needs of their pack and mate throughout their cycle.”

“Yeah,” Eddie muses, and he reaches up and undoes the top two buttons on Buck’s shirt, pulling his collar open and dragging his mouth over the newly-exposed skin. Buck chokes back a gasp by the skin of his goddamn teeth, his knees threatening to buckle out from underneath him. “That tracks.”

[oceansblvds]

I SENT THE ASK ABT TEACHER CORYO IM BEGGING YOU TO WRITE TA/PROFESSOR SNOW 😝

OKOKOK IM GONNA WRITE SOME HEADCANONS BUT I MIGHT HONESTLY EXPAND THIS INTO A FULL FIC BC im a whore!

warning(s): nsfw, obsessive behavior, lowkey an abuse of power

coriolanus, almost out of university, was selected to teach a higher level math class on the account of dr. gaul saying he needed a little bit more experience with teaching and leadership if he was to be head gamemaker. so, he was a TA, teaching under a professor but was basically given full rein with the class, as the professor seemed to focus more on research than teaching the class. the second he was in the lecture discussion, he saw you walk in. you were a junior, just a year under him in university and god were you beautiful. almost mouth wateringly so. it made him sick in the head at how pretty you were.

and gods above, you were smart, almost as smart as he was (though he wouldn't ever admit that) and it was clear that you liked him. you always smiled when he complimented your high scores on tests and quizzes, and would read the notes that he put in the margins of your essays with a glimmer in your eyes. he needed to talk to you, needed to be closer to you, and the only way that he could think of was to give you slightly lower marks on your essays and homeworks. never on a test, he would never want to drop your grade low enough for it to be concerning, but he did wait for you to stumble into his office hours. and you did. you asked him how you could do better on the material, and he told you that he'd help you.

he didn't have an office, only a classroom that he was lent during his office hours in the top floor of the math building. it was there that you would meet him, every tuesday and thursday, to go over problems. he liked the way that your lip would be bitten in between your teeth when you were looking at a particularly hard problem, or when you would look at him with your big doe eyes when you asked him for help. and whenever you asked him for help, he would lean closer, and explain it to you.

one day, he finally got the courage to make a move. you asked him for help and he placed his hand on your thigh, as if he was using it to keep himself steady as he leaned over. but instead of watching him explain on the paper, you kept your attention on his face. and then he pushed his hand further up your thigh, under your skirt, and you didn't stop him. your hand came to his and you pushed it up until it was cupping your pussy. he fingered you right then and there, hoping beyond hoping that no one else would walk into his office hours for help. the two of you made out while he fingered you, going as far as to press three fingers into you, with a squelching sound, your moans echoing through the room softly.

that became somewhat of a normal thing. you two always met during his office hours, until you decided to go to his home one day for some extra tutoring. it ended with you in his large bed with your legs spread, while he put his fingers in your mouth as he fucked you with such fervor that you were sure you were going to break.

sometimes when he was grading papers, you would slink under his desk and pull his cock out, spitting on the tip and bobbing your head up and down until he gave you the attention you wanted. he always fantasized about you doing this when he was teaching another class, with you working him with your mouth as he sat on his desk and no one else knew the wiser. he would have to try that with you one day.

lots of words like how dirty you were for sleeping with your teacher. "you're such a needy thing, aren't you?" "show me how good you've gotten" when you were riding him. "you probably fantasize about my cock in class, don't you?" it was all so derogatory. and other times he would praise you. he would tell you how smart and beautiful you were. he would let you cum when you got a problem right while he sat under the desk, eating you out. when you got a problem wrong, he would stop, and no amount of begging would get him to continue unless you continued your work.

[undressrehearsal]

right back where we started

summary: ellie is on tour as the opener for a popular band. she begrudgingly passes through the hometown that she had sworn she would never see again and runs into the one good thing she left behind.

tags: some sad stuff, ellie has daddy issues, mentions of alcohol, modern au, not rockstar ellie but that same kinda genre???, no smut in this one sorry this is all setting the scene, this is another shorter one 3.6k words

a/n: listen. I'm gonna level with yall. life's been fucking insane. it's been what 3 months since I posted something?? and it's because 1. my fiancée and I are buying a house 2. and planning a wedding 3. I work 45 hour weeks (at a job I hate so much omg) 4. I'm writing a book and 5. I'm preparing for a p major surgery (I go on tuesday)

so yeah, life's been insane. but I missed writing fics. I'm writing my book so I never stopped writing but writing a lil fun fic just hits different yk?

anyway enjoy and look forward to a few (I'm thinking 3?) parts of this

love yall. reply and lmk if you wanna be added to my tag list. also I'm posting this on my phone so the formatting might be fucked lmk

part 1

Ellie couldn’t remember the last time she had been in this city.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She could remember exactly the last time she had been in this city. She had watched it disappear in her mirror when she had driven her bike west three years ago in search of the horizon. She had hoped she would find something more once she got there - more than the dingy dorm room she had loosely called home and the classes that had made her eyes glaze over; something more than playing at the bar’s open mic nights, her guitar hard to hear over the noisy din of drunk students and drunker professors; something more than a future that had been planned for her by the time she was in high school.

Her dad had kicked her out after she dropped out, of course, but that was fine. She had planned to leave that night anyway; she had kept a packed bag hidden underneath her bed for months. She hadn’t seen him in three years, either, and she planned to keep it that way.

But when she woke up and saw the city outside the bus window, silhouetted against the rising sun, something in her chest rose to her throat and refused to be swallowed back down.

She hadn’t missed it - but as she looked down at her shaking hands, Ellie figured her body must not have gotten that memo.

The band she was traveling with were still sleeping; she could hear the singer snoring in her bunk, could see the bassist's leg sticking out into the aisle. She had never been a morning bird - back at her shitbox apartment, you'd rarely catch her up before noon - but something about being stuck on a bus for days made her restless. It was her first time touring - after three years of playing at open mics and taking small jobs singing at the senior center - and she wasn't used to feeling her own bed constantly shifting beneath her.

Which is how she always ended up pacing the length of the bus, tapping her fingers against her thighs as the confined world around her slept, waiting desperately for the driver to pull off to whatever venue they had booked. She wasn't sure what the band did before their shows in the evenings, but she didn't stick around long enough to ask. Maybe it was rude, but she couldn't force herself to hang out with the band who only chose her because their usual opener had “flaked” on them - which was how they described it when the opener couldn't travel with them for several months after their mother had just died.

So, yeah, Ellie couldn’t find it in herself to feel bad about it when she rushed off the bus as soon as it parked, not even sticking around to let the band know where she was going. They wouldn't care either way. Hell, they were probably so hungover they wouldn't wake up until their show started in several hours.

The driver - his name was Zachary (never Zach) and he was the only one who paid her any mind - helped Ellie hoist her bike down from the rack on the back of the bus. The band had teased her about bringing it, bitching about how it showed she didn't want to hang out with them. She had been tempted to tell them they were right, but she couldn't really risk losing the first real gig she’d gotten. She lifted the seat and dug her helmet out, waving to Zachary as he disappeared back into the bus to get his own well-deserved rest.

The purr of the bike was a familiar comfort beneath her. Lowering the visor of her helmet to block out the sun, she squinted at the streets sprawled before her. She realized, with dizzying familiarity, that she was in the next neighborhood over from her old apartment. Hell, she had watched a few shows at the venue she was playing at - something in her stomach clenched.

Fuck, she needed coffee.

With the wind cold against her bare arms, Ellie let the world fly by, the city waking up around her. Her phone remained snuggly in her bag; she didn't need directions here, the familiar streets leading her down well-worn paths, winding all the way back to a life that was no longer hers.

It was muscle memory that led her back to the coffee shop she had frequented as a student. She looked up at it, a glow around its worn brick from the rising sun, and something tightened in her chest. They had replaced the patio chairs - the old ones had been practically falling apart three years ago - but otherwise it hadn't changed.

Ellie cursed under her breath, swallowing around the foreign lump in her throat, and climbed off her bike. When she took the steps two at a time, it felt like somebody else had taken the wheel. It was a familiar stranger that opened the door.

The smell hit her first. They say that scent has the strongest tie to memory, and the smell of burnt coffee beans hit her like a punch. There had always been a sweetness underneath it, something she had never been able to place but thought might be honey? When she stepped up to the counter, she could even smell the milk they were steaming.

The barista - a young girl with faded pink hair tied up into space buns - looked up from her phone and said, in a voice teetering on the edge between cheerful and bored, “How’s it going?”

Ellie took her in briefly, noting the brown corduroy overalls and the star-shaped nose ring, and was comforted knowing that this place was just as queer as she had left it. She would bet money on the fact that if she peeked over the counter, this girl would be wearing beat up Docs. She was young enough to be a student - probably an English major, if she had to guess.

She always ordered the same thing - iced mocha with oat milk. She had never understood why her dad drank his coffee black.

The barista - her tag said Dianna She/Her/Hers - eyed her as she rang Ellie up, brows quirked. When she smiled, dimples caved her cheeks. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you a student?”

Ellie fought the urge to groan - this girl was just trying to be friendly (and was probably trying to decide if Ellie’s flannel meant she was gay or was just a bad fashion choice), but the last thing she wanted to do after failing to sleep on a bus and waking up at the ass-crack of dawn was to make small talk.

Still, she smiled and said, “I used to be.”

She paid and stuffed the remainder of her cash into the tip jar. When Dianna thanked her, her cheeks were as pink as her hair. Ellie could feel her eyes lingering on her as she walked away, nodding awkwardly in thanks.

This place really hadn’t changed in three years. The coffee shop had a reputation of students writing all along the walls - over a decade ago, they had simply stopped trying to paint over it, so the walls were littered in signatures and drawings and claims of call this number for a good time. Scattered poetry was written along the edges of the windows, an incredibly detailed Sharpie drawing of a cat peeking over the top of the doorway. When she searched for it, she found that her own scrawled handwriting was still there, small letters where nobody would think to look, right underneath the thermostat: Find me where the sun sets east. Don’t forget me.

She swallowed the lump that threatened to choke her and stepped away. Her eyes stung from sleep deprivation and nothing more.

Ellie scanned the room and found that, to her annoyance, nearly every table was taken. Students huddled around notebooks and laptops, engrossed in their work or else on Netflix to avoid studying. Professors blinked wearily, clutching their own cups of coffee as though they were lifelines holding them to this realm. Ellie could see the spot she had frequented herself - a booth tucked by the window, where she could write her songs in a dingy notebook without anyone looking over her shoulder.

Now, there was a guy with his cheek pressed to the cold surface, snoring lightly.

Ellie jumped when Dianna called her name, holding out a cup so filled with coffee that it trickled over the side and down the glass. Ellie took it gingerly, holding it in careful fingers to not spill any more on the countertop.

Dianna held onto the cup for several seconds longer than necessary, her fingers - cold from the glass - lingering on Ellie's. When a crooked smile pulled at her lips, her brown eyes sparkled. There was a teasing tilt to her voice when she said, “I hope to see you around, Ellie.”

Ellie gave her what she hoped was a friendly smile - judging by the way Dianna’s cheeks bloomed pink, she must have succeeded - before turning away. She almost felt guilty for the relief she felt when she found there was no phone number left on her glass this time. She was never sure whether it was nicer to ghost somebody or to send a gentle rejection through text, and she did not have the energy for that decision.

She turned, searching for an empty seat to slouch in and try not to fall asleep into her coffee, when her eyes found you.

You hadn’t changed a bit.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true either. You had changed - anybody would in three years. You had changed your hair, and now you dressed differently than she remembered - you used to bitch so much about how you couldn’t dress how you wanted, and now, looking at you three years later, she was happy to see that you were finally dressing like all those pictures you had saved in your little Pinterest folder of “outfit inspo.”

Ellie could see the mark of three whole years, but truthfully, you hadn’t changed. You were slouched over a laptop, leaning way too close to the screen, and you still had that pinch between your brows when you concentrated, the one that she used to run her thumb over; she could still feel how soft your skin was beneath her fingers.

She should have ignored you - she should have gone to slump in a corner of the coffee shop like she had planned, trying not to fall asleep into her cup and pretending to not notice you even as her eyes kept cutting across the cafe to find you again. She should have pushed the memories away just like she had pushed away all of the other memories associated with this city - hell, she should have never come back to this city in the first place. There were too many memories here that she had spent three years, a thousand miles, and an ocean of whiskey running away from.

And yet Ellie found her feet carrying her over to your table of their own volition. She walked the tightrope between who she is and who she once was, chasing a memory of the only good thing she left behind.

You didn’t look up at her as she approached. You kept your head bowed over your laptop, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth. There was no reason for you to look up - Ellie could have been any nameless stranger coming to bother you when you were clearly just trying to work.

But Ellie had never been good at leaving well enough alone. Which is why she hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and tapping lightly on your shoulder. She had to bite back a laugh when you jumped, pulling your headphones from your ears and swiveling around to look up at her.

She’d be lying if she said her heart didn’t do an embarrassing acrobatic jump when you met her eyes. And she had always been a terrible liar.

“Hey,” Ellie said, trying her damnedest to keep her voice steady; she only somewhat succeeded. She cleared her throat, lowering her voice when she said, “Remember me?”

Satisfaction bloomed warm in her stomach when your eyes widened, taking in the sight of her. Truthfully, she must’ve looked like shit; she had had to take a disturbingly brief shower at the last rest stop - the water apparently didn’t get any warmer than antarctic - and she hadn’t looked in a mirror for a few days. She had forgotten to pack her brush, so her hair must have been standing up at odd angles. And God knew what the lack of sleep was doing to the ever-growing shadows under her eyes.

But none of this stopped you from running your eyes down her body, cheeks pink when you finally looked up to meet her eyes again. And Ellie couldn’t stop the slow smile that spread across her face, her own cheeks growing warm. It wasn’t intentional when her voice dropped another octave, nearly a murmur when she said, mostly to herself, “Yeah, you remember me.”

“Holy shit, Ellie?” You jumped to your feet, a smile pulling at your lips as you gripped her arm. The familiar shine in your eyes did something funny to her stomach that she was way too stubborn to name. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I was just, uh- just passing through town,” she found herself saying, rubbing at the back of her neck. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but explaining to you the actual reason she finally came back to this hell-hole town suddenly seemed daunting. “Wanted to check out some old haunts, I guess.”

And then you just… looked at her, for several long moments - long enough to make Ellie squirm. Your eyes bore into hers, searching for something that she had buried three years ago.

You jumped, and whatever spell that was floating between you broke when your phone buzzed from where it still sat on the table. You scooped it up and flashed an apologetic smile to the glaring student a few seats away. Swiping at the screen, you cursed under your breath:

“Fuck, I have to get to class.” You looked back up at her again, a question behind your eyes, and Ellie had never wished so hard that she could read minds. You hesitated for only a moment before saying, words rushed, “Do you want to walk with me?” Before Ellie could respond, you continued, picking up your cup and fiddling with the straw, “It feels like forever since I’ve seen you and I want to catch up. But you’re probably busy, so you don’t have to-”

“I’d love to,” she cut you off, trying to smother the smile that pulled at her pink cheeks. She failed drastically when you smiled back at her.

After asking for a to-go cup from Dianna - thankfully no number written on the plastic cup either, despite the way the barista eyed Ellie as she left - she followed you out the door and back into the blinding morning sun. The mid-October air bit at her cheeks, creeping under her flannel; the cold coffee in her hand made her fingers sting, but you were already walking away, so she grit her teeth and followed.

And it was like you both just fell back into place, aligning with each other as though that empty space had never existed. You were working towards your graduate degree, Ellie discovered, and were working as a TA to get through; the class you were heading to was the dreaded public speaking class that you taught around your own curriculum. You laughed as you talked about some ridiculous speech a student had recently presented, and Ellie had forgotten just how much she liked the sound until it was burying behind her ribs again.

Ellie didn't tell you exactly why she had come back. When she’d left, you had known she was chasing a dream - it was the main reason she had presented when she broke up with you. The idea of long distance was too hard - too complicated - and Ellie didn’t want anything tying her to this town.

Even so, her body still wanted to fall into old habits. She told you about her roommate and how, when Ellie had been up too late writing a new song or her roommate had had a late shift at the hospital, they would play truth or dare until they were too drunk to stay awake, and her fingers brushed against yours, muscle memory making her reach for you. Ellie told you how she had visited her sister, Sarah, while passing through Houston, and she wanted so badly to lace your fingers together. She wanted to wrap her arm around your waist - hell, she even wanted to grab your ass right where everyone could see, just like she used to. She tucked her free hand in her pocket.

“You still haven’t told me why you came back,” you said, coming to a stop in front of the Communications building - it was just as tall and ominous as Ellie remembered. Her stomach lurched at the site, remembering all the speeches she had to make in her own classes. She supposed Public Speaking wasn’t a useless class now, considering she didn't stutter when she had to speak in front of an audience now.

Ellie shrugged, dropping her cup into a trashcan without looking at you. “Like I said, I’m just passing through-”

“Bullshit,” you said, but there was no malice behind it. You tilted your head to meet her eyes and smiled at her, even as your eyes held something unreadable. “The Ellie I knew couldn’t wait to get out of this shithole - her words, not mine. She wouldn’t simply pass through - she would go out of her way to stay in the next town over. So,” you crossed your arms, “what changed?”

Before, if you had ever crossed your arms at her, Ellie would reach out and gently pull your arms away from your chest, pulling you into an embrace. She wanted nothing more than to pull you into her, instinct unaware of the three years and a thousand miles that had separated you. Instead, she leaned against the wall of the building, the brick biting into her back. “Nothing’s changed. Trust me, if it was up to me, I wouldn't be here.”

For only a second, your face twisted into something unreadable that pulled at Ellie's stomach. But you quickly schooled your expression, tilting your head, your smile soft. “Listen, I have to go - if I'm too late, these fuckers are just gonna try to skip. But we should meet up later - I want to catch up.” When Ellie opened her mouth to say you had been catching up, you continued, “Really catch up. I want you to tell me everything - it's been years, so we have a lot to cover.” You looked at your phone and cursed. “Look, my last class ends at 3:25. Meet me on the green after?” For good measure, you stuck out your bottom lip and added, “Please?”

Ellie had never been good at resisting that look - she had given into you so many times from that look alone. She had to bite back the sudden, stupid smile pulling at her cheeks, so she pressed her lips together and looked away. After three years, you still made her cheeks flush without trying.

“Okay,” was all she could say.

Without warning, you rushed forward, wrapping your arms around her neck briefly. Her hands hovered at your sides, unsure of where to go. Feeling your body pressed against her again - feeling the warm brush of your breath against her neck - short-circuited her brain, leaving her gasping on dry land.

Before she could figure out where to put her fucking hands, you murmured in her ear, “I really did miss you, Els,” and pulled away, just as quickly as you had come. Ellie's mouth hadn't even caught up to her brain by the time you were gone, the door closing softly behind you.

Later, after she had had a proper breakfast from McDonald's, she was still thinking about you. Seeing you again had opened up a bottle that she had sealed away, and the cork wouldn't fit back into it. Her fingers itched with the memory of your skin beneath them. When you had hugged her, she had smelled the shampoo that you apparently still used, and she remembered how it had felt to have your head on her chest, breathing you in as she pressed a kiss to the top of your head. And your lips next to her ear - that opened a whole subcategory of memories that she tried desperately to push away.

She was only here for the night. She lost count of how many times she had to remind herself.

Ellie was stopped at a red light, leaning her bike from one foot to the other, when she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She glanced at the blinking crosswalk sign - twenty seconds, so she still had plenty of time before the light turned green - before fishing her phone out. She had to squint against the sun, straining to make out the screen. She nearly dropped the phone when she saw the familiar name popping up on her screen, fumbling to open the text.

There was a screenshot of an Instagram post from the venue she was going to play at. The band's name was in bold letters, stars pasted around a grainy picture of the group. And in small letters underneath - like an afterthought - was her name: Ellie Miller.

And underneath, in all caps:

YOU'RE PLAYING AT THE HAWTHORNE?????

Her face flushed all over again. After all these years, you had still kept her number.

tag list: @macaroni676 @ellstronaut @elliewilliamsmiller0 @elliescoolerwife @letsreadsomesins-shallwe @liliflowers-blog @filtered-sunlight

[monacodaydreaming]

I Will Follow You | Part Eight

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Lando asked from beside you. You were both sat in the back of a car on the way home from Silverstone and you were nearly at your flat. You turned to face him.

“I have a spin class after work and then nothing.” 

“Want to come over for dinner?” He asked you, reaching for your hand. “After your spin class.” 

“Yeah I’d like that.” You smiled.

“I can pick you up from the gym.”

“No no, you can’t be picking me up every time I come to see you.” You shook your head at him and laughed a little. “

“Will you stay over?”

“Do you want me to stay over?” You teased him a bit.

“What kind of a question is that.” He laughed. “Obviously.” He squeezed your hand.

You laughed at him. “Then yeah, I’ll stay over.”

The car came to a stop and the driver turned around to face you both. “We’re here guys.” 

“Thanks mate.” Lando thanked the driver quickly. “What time shall I expect you tomorrow?” 

“Umm, spin is at 6pm so maybe like 7:30? Can I shower at yours?”

“Yeah course.” 

“Okay perfect.” You smiled at him. “This weekend was..I had a really great time with you.”

“I had a really great time with you too. I don’t like that I don’t get to wake up with you tomorrow.” 

You smiled at him. “But you do get to wake up with me on Tuesday.” You gave him a little nose scrunch and he smiled back.

“Not sure I’ll survive.” You prodded him in response.

“Right, I need to get inside and get to bed. Back to reality.”

“Let me help you with your stuff.”

“That’s oka-“

“I’m helping you with your stuff.” You just laughed and didn’t argue with him. Lando helped you carry your bags to your door and you gave him a kiss goodbye and told him to let you know when he’s home.

When you walked up the stairs and into your flat you two flatmates came running towards you and pulled you into the biggest hug. You spent an hour talking with them about the amazing weekend you’d had and laughing about the fact that you’d been on literal live television. Lando had texted you to let you know that he was home too and you’d showered, unpacked and climbed into bed with a tea. 

Ellie: I don’t want to go to work tomorrow.

Ellie: Sunday scaries are settling in now.

Lan🤍 : You so got this.

Lan🤍 : Just think, only 8 hours and then you get to have dinner with me.

Lan🤍 : I’ve already started to plan what we’re going to eat.

Lan🤍 : You’re gonna be blown away.

Ellie: Urgh don’t

Ellie: I already can’t wait 

Ellie: Let me know if you need me to pick you anything up on the way

Lan🤍 : nope, just your pretty self

Ellie: Lan

Ellie: I’m blushing

Lan🤍 : I’m glad

Ellie: I should go to sleep now

Lan🤍 : Night baby

Ellie: Night you

____

It was about 11am when Lando called you. You stood up and excused yourself to take the call outside. When you answered the phone you could hear Lando shouting at someone on the other end of the line.

‘Lando?’ You asked him stressed.

‘Baby, hi.’ He sounded stressed and your heart dropped instantly. ‘Look baby, somethings happened.’

‘Christ, what?’ You asked him, rubbing one of your hands over your face. 

‘Someone took photos last night of us outside your flat.’ You could feel your heart drop as he said the words. ‘They’ve been published on the Daily Mail with an article. Look we’re working on getting them taken down.’

‘Does it give out my address or anything?’

‘No christ no, you can’t see where it is either from the pictures it’s so dark.’

‘Oh thank god.’ You were pacing about outside.

‘Look the thing is Ell, theres one of us kissing just before I left.’

‘Oh for fuck sake.’

‘I know, I’m so sorry baby. We’re trying to get the article taken down, but the reality is-‘

‘The reality is, is that the internet lives forever and the pictures are out there now.’

Lando paused at your words for a second before speaking again. ‘Yeah. I’m so sorry baby.’

‘Please stop apologising Lando, it’s not your fault. We’ll deal with it, but please just stop apologising.’ 

‘I’ll update you when I know more and I’ll see you later.’

‘Yeah, just text me if you hear anything. I’ll see you tonight.’

‘Okay, bye Ell.’

‘Bye Lan.’

___

When you left the office for the day you were fucking exhausted. You’d been fighting questions about you and Lando for most of the day. You’d tried to smile and just bat them off, but at a certain point you were just sick of it. You kept reminding yourself that at work you’d only have to deal with it for a couple of days and then everyone would eventually grow bored.

You were able to zone out in your spin class and just forget about everything else. You were looking forward to seeing Lando again and just wanted to forget about everything else.

When you eventually made it to his apartment building you text him to let him know you were outside and he buzzed you in. 

When you made it up there you nearly fell into Lando’s arms. “Urgh I’m so gross I’m sorry.”

“Like I care.” He scoffed pulling you inside along with your suitcase. 

“Do you mind if I shower before we eat?” 

“Course not. Lets put your stuff in the bedroom.” He grabbed your suitcase and you followed him into his room. He pointed you in the direction of the shower and left you to it. 

When you eventually had finished faffing about you went to join Lando in the kitchen. He was hovering over the stove stirring away at a pan. You hovered in the doorway. “Thanks for leaving these out for me.” You spoke and he looked up to you. When he saw you stood there in one of his jumpers and big cozy socks a smile came over his face.

“Anytime.” You waltzed over to him to see what he was getting up to. You noticed the table set with a couple of candles lit, your heart swelled at the sight. 

“Mmm, Lando this looks amazing.” You beamed resting your head on Landos shoulder. His arm came around your back and pulled you into him. 

“I fucking hope it tastes as good as it looks.” You burst out laughing at him. 

“I bet it will.” You leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek.

“Okay, we’re good to go I reckon.” He dished up and followed him to the table. You couldn’t wait to eat and dug in basically as soon as you sat down. “Wait you’re not gonna say grace with me?” You looked up at him with a mouth full of pasta and wide eyes. He kept a straight face as you continued to stare at him. You were trying to establish if he was being serious or not. “I wish I had a photo of what you looked like right now.” He said before letting out a laugh. Your face dropped and you picked up a piece of garlic bread and threw it at him.

“You’re such a dick.” You deadpanned with a straight face, before returning to your pasta. Lando continued to laugh.

“How was the rest of your day after our phone call?” He asked before taking a bit of the food himself.

“Yeah it was okay, a couple of people mentioned it to me.” You dropped your fork and looked at him. “Which I was expecting, I just had to remind myself that they’ll be bored of it in a couple of days. Lando this is amazing by the way.”

“People at work will lose interest for sure.”

“What did Daily Mail say about the article?”

“Yeah kind of shit to be honest, they’re not taking it down.” 

“They’re not?” You were a little in disbelief.

“No, they say that they’ve done nothing wrong.” You raised your eyebrows at his words.

“Fucking rude.” You mumbled. 

“Although we did get an email apology from Sky which I can show you later.” You felt a little smile take over your lips. “They won’t make a public apology, but have promised that you name won’t be mentioned on any broadcasting again until we okay it.”

“Well that’s something I guess.” 

“I’m still so sorry about that.” 

“I told you to stop apologising you loser.”

There was a brief pause. “Did you just call me a loser.”

“Yes.”

“What are you eight?” 

“You fancy eight year olds?” You said, face full of fake judgement.

“Wait wha-“ You continued to stare at him. “How have you managed to do that?”

You looked smug, although you were trying to hide it. “Manage to do what?”

“Managed to turn that back to me.”

“Because I’m fucking incredible.” You beamed at him.

“That you are.”

___

“How long have you been going to therapy?” He asked you, playing with your fingers as neither of you really paid attention to the movie you’d put on.

“Just over a year.” You said, you were tracing patters on the skin of his arm. 

“Is that when you first started to experience it..the anxiety I mean?”

“God no.” You let out a small laugh - although not really sure why you did. “I’ve been dealing with my mental health since I was about 14.”

“14?” Lando sounded sad hearing you say that. “What made you reach out to someone? To help with it?”

“Um, honestly I wasn’t given a choice.” Lando adjusted behind you slightly. “I did something stupid and I was basically told that it was therapy or a mental health facility.” You said it and when you finished you couldn’t help but let out a small laugh again. Lando didn’t say anything, his grip on your hand getting over so slightly tighter.

“Why do you do that?” He asked quietly - voice just above a whisper.

“Do what?” You were feeling embarrassed.

“Make a joke? About something that’s serious about you?”

“Because...it’s how I deal with it.” You shrugged. “If I don’t make light of it - I will spiral and go into a pit of depression. And I have things to do.”

There was a pause again. “When you say you did something stupid?” He asked again quietly. You closed your eyes, dreading this question.

You sat up and turned to face Lando. His face was serious, he looked sad and desperate. It was like he already knew what you were going to tell him, but just needed to hear you say it.

“I was in a really dark place - things in my head were..a mess.” You closed your eyes as you tried to think about how you would word this. Lando sat up himself and reached out to grab you hands. “I didn’t feel any hope or any good for the future and I just honestly thought that there was no point.” You could feel a tear escape your eye. “When I woke up in hospital and I saw my parents there - I regretted it.”

Lando had let a few tears escape his eyes. “I don’t feel that way anymore.” You whispered. Lando didn’t say anything and you grew uncomfortable under his gaze. You dropped your head down and looked at your hands. “Sorry if that was a bit much.” You shook your head slightly as you spoke.

“Don’t apologise.” He said quickly, reaching out to your face. “Don’t apologise for sharing that with me. I’m so glad that you did.” You looked to him again. “I want you to keep telling me about these things.” He was leaning into you tracing circles on your skin. “I want you to keep talking to me about this stuff, always.”

You nodded in response.

___

“Can I drop you into work today?” Lando asked from beside you.  You had both only just woken up and you were lying in bed facing eachother.

“You really think that’s a good idea?” You asked him eyebrows slightly raised.

“I actually just don’t care.” He said simply. You looked at him confused. “I want to drop you into work and I don’t really care if anyone sees.” You heart swelled slightly at his statement and all you could do was lean in and place a gentle kiss to his lips. 

You pulled away slightly and mumbled against his lips. “How can I say no to that.”

[thisapplepielife]

only bc i am about to go on holiday and i absorb all your long works like a sponge and i so fondly remember reading tuesday's gone w the wind on a 6 hour flight and then waking up early every day when i was jetlagged in california to keep reading (im a slow reader)

what are the chances all across the universe is almost done and i might read it on this trip? 👀

(i will drop everything and read it the second it's done and no rush cause i do have other stuff queued up i just saw the last chapter drop a few weeks ago and was like !!! maybe it'll be done for my trip!)

Hi! This is so sweet. It thrills me that you enjoyed reading Tuesday's Gone With the Wind on a long flight/trip and would like to do that again with All Across the Universe!

You didn't say exactly how soon your trip is, so I can't answer this fully. But if it's this week, probably not. I still have to edit and, let's all be real, probably add to, lol, the last chapter.

Is it later this month? Odds are much better!

The last chapter is a long one, though, so it's gonna take me some time to get it into its final form. So, I don't have an exact posting date locked down quite yet.

But know that this does make me want to put a little more time and attention into it now!

Thanks so much for asking! ❤️

[clatterbane]

The next thing up is another day in that new outpatient surgery hell scheduled for Tuesday. 🤨

I did go ahead and successfully ask for some premedication. Ended up just telling the doctor when he came by after the procedure that I really wasn't sure if I could make myself come back, due to some past experiences elsewhere (making sure to emphasize that everyone had been great there, even as fried as my brain was by that point). I really hate feeling like my autistic ass is forced to play some kind of multidimensional manipulative social chess to try and get some needs met, which is tricky enough when I am in much better form than I was after that day. But, it apparently worked. The guy did actually seem sympathetic when my composure kinda broke down talking to him, and frankly he had probably already heard about my little PTSD meltdown earlier. I was afraid that would hurt me in general, but maybe not so much.

I now have some Oxascand waiting, which I am supposed to take far enough in advance that I am not sure how much effect there will still be by the time I even get to the hospital. (Also planning some preemptive Tylenol and take more along with me for after, as much musculoskeletal pain as my bendy ass ended up in from being stuck on a fucking gurney for hours last time. It always hurts to lie flat on my back, and I also kept ending up there. Felt like I had been hit by a truck, which probably struck my previously broken butt before sending me flying. Plus the inevitable effects of their Migraine Potion after the procedure, while I'm stuck there under fluorescent lights for at least a couple more hours before they'll let me go. Gonna bring along some cough drops and a rescue inhaler too, because coughing with the throat irritation from the damn anesthesia trach tube set off my asthma last time. Thankfully that did calm down on its own, but jfc. Do not need.)

Especially given the way my adrenaline-charged system seems to blast through benzos. But, at least that will hopefully help me get out the door to go to Lund for their early morning outpatient surgery cattle call. Idk about the hours of waiting until they wheel me back, but hopefully that will be slightly more bearable now that I do know what to expect. The premedication will at least hopefully help keep my white coat blood pressure down enough that this doesn't lead to more delays. Not surprisingly, the first reading they took while I was still sorta melting down was high enough that they waited to get a less alarming one.

The gastro endoscopy people really did burn through most of the trust they had managed to earn with this latest poor communication shitshow, I tell you what. I was down to mild dread of a quick unpleasant procedure before this, but I am back to looping unhelpful thoughts at the prospect of another round like the last one. Even going back in with a much better idea of what to expect, and prepare for.

And yes, it's starting up before the weekend for a Tuesday repeat.

I do at least trust them to be competent, try not to hurt me, and actually talk to me like I am a living human being rather than an annoyance. That is much better than I could say for the bunch I was stuck dealing with in the UK. That unfortunately still doesn't completely override the dread of being trapped in a fucking surgical unit pretty much all day.

[jhtechgeek2011]

Blown up phones, users and more

Tuesday night at work I had someone call me 4 or 5 times in a row, just one ring hang up, a couple rings hang up, 1 ring hang up, 3 rings hang up like they were just gonna MAKE me answer my phone. It's like dude you're NOT forcing me to answer no matter what you do, I am gonna keep hanging up and declining the call and putting you on silent and do not disturb till you stop it.  I then had 2 friends call and text me following those telemarketer/spammer/bill collector ones with the pattern. Friend 1 would NOT stop calling no matter how many times I kept telling her I CANNOT have phone calls at this job I am at today I can text you but even that is hard. Finally got her to get the point and stop calling, only for her to text a barrage of messages as if I can answer her immediately while a guest is at the desk. I text to tell her this and she doesn't even stop texting so I can get my message through. I then get a call from Friend 2, I tell her one time that I cannot have phone calls at the job I am at right now and we can message but even that is difficult. She immediately stops calling and texts. Friend 1 literally is mad at me for not being able to take her call during the job when I can't take ANYBODY'S calls.  She literally was snapping off at me about she really needed me she had a big emergency her mom did XYZ and her sister did ABC and her dad is mad at HER for it all. I am literally standing at my computer at work looking at this like this is an emergency for YOU, not ME girl. It's that entitlement people have of my needs taking precedence all my things are the biggest emergencies and you gotta help me with them asap!

This entitlement I saw with Friend 1 leads right to what I wanted to say about users. They are entitled, spoiled, selfish, drama queens that feel like everything they are going through is the most important, biggest emergency ever. It is that thing of thinking people owe them something and that they need to get what they think they're owed RIGHT NOW! It's that whole "Karen" mentality that drives me crazy. It can also be that they think they can get away with, get over on, and control everyone and everything. I even have people like this in my family and it sucks. I get calls from certain relatives in the middle of the night all urgent and like its an emergency and all they want is to ask to borrow money that I don't have. I will get called by certain other relatives and friends to ask if I can come to hang out with them only to end up at their house doing something for them, some favor they could have just asked for. They do not, however, ask outright because they know my answer is likely to be no. Like friend 3 that I have who asked me to come to hang out at her house and help her with her resume, cover letter, and website only to turn around and leave me working on it by myself and take off with her boyfriend and not come back for several hours, thereby getting what she really wanted, which was for me to babysit her kids and do her resume and crap for her. She then came back 3 hours later with her boyfriend dropping her off and leaving me stuck without a way home since her boyfriend left with her car. I ended up taking a taxi home because of that. I did NOT write her resume or cover letter and after the first half hour she was gone and I called her for her to tell me she would be back in another half hour, I quit working on her website because I knew what she was pulling and I was NOT going. I will never go to her house again, she blew that option from now on with me. 

I have had too many people trying to use and take advantage of me and I am so over it. Nobody will be allowed to trample my boundaries or use me again. I am not being taken advantage of again. I will help only within my boundaries and limits and I will not stratch or push them for anyone else ever again. If you cannot abide by or accept that, then there's the door go ahead and walk right out of my life. I am not obligated to let  you walk all over my boundaries because you think you are entitled to get your way and have whatever you want from whoever you want it from and to never be told no. I am done with users and "Karens" that think they can do this to people, period.

On another note, I have dealt with a different kind of Karen lately as well. I was at the grocery store the other day and there was a long line at the self check outs, this one particular Karen was taking up the entire aisle leaving no room for people to walk past the self checkouts and get to the chip aisle and frozen section. Everyone's having to go down like the cereal aisle or something and then up the other side by the meat just to get to those 3 aisles on the other side of the aisle hogging Karen at the self checkout. What makes you think you can just do that? There is enough room for you to wait in the self checkout line AND leave enough room for through traffic to other aisles, all you have to do is move over to the side half a foot. This is the same type of person that will pull their car WAY into the traffic lane to parallel park on the curb. If you are parallel parking the entire point is to pull up PARALLEL with the front car and the back into the space between it and the car behind. You REALLY suck at parallel parking if you have to pull your car on an ANGLE out INTO traffic to get into the parking space, that's literally NOT parallel parking. 

The other type of person that I have dealt with is the ones that think they own the entire road and nobody else is driving except them. The ones that will fly down a residential street going highway speed because they're in a hurry. It doesn't even get you where you are going sooner in the long run because the purpose of highway speed is for highways where there are NO stop signs, traffic lights or pedestrians to stop for. I almost got hit twice on either the way to or the way home from work by the same car (I think) doing 55 to 60 mph in a 25mph residential zone. I also live by a school and during the school day the speed drops 5 to 10mph slower to 15 to 20mph. What sense does it even make to go that fast just to stop a block later? NONE! It is dangerous and you're putting everybody's life including your own because you're in a hurry and it doesn't even help you to use all that speed and you just end up arriving either on time or late anyways because you use up all your gas speeding up and stopping over and over so you have to stop at the gas station which deletes any time you made going so fast, either that or you get pulled over and ticketed for speeding like that and end up later than you would have had you just gone a normal speed in the first place. Bottom lime your appointment, date, job, etc. is not more important that people's lives and driving highway speed on city streets wont even save you time anyways because of all the stopping and the potential speeding ticket slowing you down. Just stop the stupid speeding and learn how to share the road with the other people that are using it, you're NOT the only one out here on the road!

One last thing that I have been dealing with lately is people that think they're going to drag you back into bad habits or situations that you have already gotten out of. The worst offenders with this are like what happened with my uncle, he had a bad addiction that he went to NA and got clean from but he had friends that hadn't kicked that were pulling him back into using again. He had to stay away from them in order not to be drawn into a relapse. For me it is with mental health things that i have gotten treatment for and gotten out of that I have certain friends and relatives that want to drag me back into it. Certain things that my bipolar disorder, for example, caused I got help for and stopped doing but certain people in my life try to draw me back into them because they're still stuck in them and haven't gotten the help with it. Another thing is with diets, I no longer deal with diets, I had a problem around diets and eating and I got the help I needed to deal with this problem and am out of those behaviors and don't do diet stuff anymore. Some people that I know are still immersed in that kind of thing and try to draw me in, I have repeatedly said I will not discuss it and am not returning to it. 

One relative I have has this program she is in for therapy about some of these issues and she really expects me to sit with her through all her therapy sessions (online) on the phone with her and I refuse. I have one friend that she checks in with me before and after her similar kind of therapy and on her break in the middle of it but she doesn't expect what my relative does. My relative expects me to sit through the entire thing with her from start to finish because she's afraid or uncomfortable or whatever. I have told her no. I no longer answer her calls when I know it is time for her therapy because she pretty much refuses to take no I can't do this with you for an answer. You're the one in the dang therapy, go take your therapy. I completed mine already Im not going through it all over again.  This same thing happened with a friend of mine when we were in college, she wanted me to go through her classes with her when I already completed them the year before her or the semester before her. I am not getting ready to sit on the phone or chat with you for your whole class when Im already done with that class and got my grade for my work already. People that do that are annoying and selfish. You go deal with your own therapy, own class, own job, whatever, I don't need to do it too, I don't have that job or I finished that course already or I am done with that therapy and on to another type or whatever the case may be, I have been there done that got the t-shirt, your turn. These tend to be the same folks that expect someone to do their assignments in school for them, let them copy your exams, want you to do their work for you at a shared job or work for their job when you have a totally different job and it's not on you that they brought the work home with them or whatever. It's lazy, entitled selfish, and immature of them to do it and I wish that they'd stop. But just because they don't stop doesn't mean I gotta still deal with it, I won't. You do your stuff, I'll be over here doing mine talk to you later bye.

[dylanlynch23]

Blunts, Baptist Boot Camp, and a Boombox Full of Weed

True Story of a 90s Teen Who Got Caught, Called Out, and Carted off

🚨 Note: This story was written in 2016—before #MeToo, before I fully grasped how messed up some of this stuff really was. I always knew it was “wrong,” but it didn’t hit me like that back then. This isn’t a victim story. It’s a true one. And if you were a teenage girl in the 90s, you probably get it. You just… survived it. Welcome to the week I got sent to Baptist military boarding school at 15.

📆 January 10, 1994 – Monday: Slater Meets the Parents

I was three months from turning 16 when I got busted hanging out with a 21-year-old. If you’re picturing Wooderson from Dazed and Confused, but he was more like the super-stoner Slater.

That Monday, Slater came over while my parents were home. I lied and said he was 18. We hung out in the living room. He left at a reasonable hour.

My dad, a night-shift sergeant at the county jail, was in the kitchen reading Anne Rice and prepping South Park VHS marathons for his jail staff—before “binge-watching” was even a word.

📆 January 11 – Tuesday: Jailhouse Coincidence

Dad clocked in at 7 p.m., like always. He covered the booking desk for 15 minutes so a coworker could go smoke. That was all it took.

Slater got brought in during that exact window for a $92 traffic ticket from four years earlier.

He panicked:

“Is Officer Lynch working?”

“Hey, Lynch! One of your friends is here!” an officer shouted down the hall, delighted.

My dad had to book him. That’s when he saw Slater’s real age—and his record.

📆 January 12 – Wednesday: Shit Hits the Fan

Usually, my dad got home in time to drive me to school. He’d pull up slow, and I’d hop in. Not that day.

He hauled ass up the driveway, stormed up to the door like the damn Terminator. I panicked and dropped into the recliner like I’d been sitting there the whole time. Totally casual.

He bursts in, no warm-up:

“You wanna tell me anything about Slater?!”

“Umm… do you wanna tell me anything about Slater?” I answered, buying time.

He told me. Loudly. All the way to school.

I was a wreck. My dance teacher gave me a hall pass to skip homeroom and first period after seeing me crying. I didn’t even have to ask. Everyone knew by lunch.

📆 That Afternoon: The Guillotine Walk

Molly dropped me off. Dad was welding in his shop.

“Hey, Dylan! Come’re!”

As I walked over, I thought: This must be what people felt like walking to the guillotine. Tragic. So young…

“Whattaya thinka boarding school?” he asked.

I cackled. Wicked Witch-style.

“You think my mother is going to send her only baby to boarding school?! You’re fucking crazy…”

I was full 15-year-old smartass. You betta check ya’self, before ya wreck ya’self, sir.

“Dylan, ya mama’s the one who gave me the number.” Said in full Beaumont twang, with that serious cop face.

I stopped laughing.

Apparently, they’d already called the school. Already made plans. Spent their life savings to “reform” me.

“If it’s an all-girls school, I’ll run away. You’ll never find me.”

Empty threat. They called. The girl-to-guy ratio? One to three.

“Fine. Whatever.” I “compromised.”

Truth is, I used to ask to go to boarding school during fights. I just never thought they’d call my bluff.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

📆 January 12 (Night): The Slater Debrief

I was getting ready for my friend Parker to come get me. My parents were going on about how I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. I calmly asked them:

“What’re you gonna do? Ground me? Send me to boarding school?”

Parker picked me up. On the way to Slater’s sketchy-ass apartment, she rear-ended someone and had her first wreck. On brand for this day. We get there, and she stopped the car:

“This is where I’m dropping you off, Dylan?!”

“Yeah it’s fine, see ya at 9, love youuuu!!!”

We smoked out. I told him about boarding school. Then I let this slip:

“Dude! I just realized—I’m going to turn 16 in fucking boarding school!”

Record scratch.

“Wait… you told me you already were 16.”

Roommate’s girlfriend? Laughing her ass off.

I hit the bong, held it, and exhaled:

“Uhhh… no. I said I was about to be 16. In March.”

Back then, gaslighting was just called self preservation.

It worked. I think.

Last I heard, Slater was still roaming our hometown with those some coke-bottle glasses. Homeless.

📆 January 13 – Thursday: The Goodbye Tour Begins

Showed up to school, announced:

“This is my last day. I have an interview tomorrow at some Baptist military boarding school. I’ll probably move in Sunday.”

My dance teacher let the class sit in a circle and talk all period—for the first and only time in 3.5 years. She also wrote me letters once I was gone. She was the good kind of teacher—the kind that leaves a dent.

She once told me:

“Dylan, you don’t have to dress weird to be weird. People know you’re weird.”

I took it as a compliment. That was the day I decided to just be myself.

📆 January 14 – Friday: Interview Day

Three-hour drive. I wore my dark green bell-sleeve sweater dress, with an empire waist, which also belled out to mid-thigh, matching forest green heavy eyeliner, and my black/burgundy Steve Madden platforms.

I looked dope.

It backfired.

They “wanted to help me even more” and admitted me on the spot.

📆 January 14 (Night): Going-Away Plotting

I stayed “home.” Friends came over. We hung out in the yard.

Dad opened the door and said:

“I’m ain’t gonna have y’all smokin’ drugs in my yard!”

We weren’t. Yet.

So I left. That’s when we planned my going-away party at Trey’s.

Let there be blunts… and 40s.

📆 January 15 – Saturday: Party Time

Trey’s house was packed—easily 50-75 people. I bought a half ounce from Tino “for my travels.” Probably got tanked on Boone’s, Mad Dog, or Olde English 40s. Definitely lots of blunts.

Still made curfew. I always made curfew. My mom worried about everything.

📆 January 16 – Sunday: Move-In Day

It was my dad’s 47th birthday. (I turn 47 this Friday. 😳)

We moved my stuff into the dorm. My parents asked if I wanted them to stay.

I looked at my dad and said:

“Happy birthday.”

And slammed the door in their faces.

Yeah, it was cold. That was the point.

⚠️ Life at Muhfuggin’ Baptist Military Academy

I met Kelly that day—another new girl. She’d gotten wasted the night before and was already on restriction. Along with six other girls.

Restriction = military silence + shame circuit.

You ate only with other restricteds. You couldn’t speak. You had to initial a paper every 15 minutes to prove you were in the dorm. You wore your uniform 24/7 unless you were asleep.

Also, you had to run a mile a day for the first week—unless you had a doctor’s note. I always had a note. From at least 5th grade.

Music was my sanity. My boom box (which also held my smuggled weed in the battery compartment) blasted:

• In Utero – Nirvana

• Siamese Dream – Smashing Pumpkins

• Paul’s Boutique – Beastie Boys

• Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We? – The Cranberries

Smoking? If anyone even smelled it on you, they’d literally smell your fingers.

Nothing existed to get the smell of nicotine off your fingers.

I started using an eyelash curler to hold my cigs. Seven years later, I visited—and they were still doing it.

Proud moment.

So yeah.

That’s how I ended up in a Baptist military boarding school in the middle of Texas. I might write about how I almost got kicked out that very Wednesday another time. For now, here’s my suite-mates and I at some point, with cloves hanging out of our mouths.

[dogma1999]

“peaches” for the lovlies solana/domingo 💕💕

Tysm beloved 🥹🫶🩷✨️ this one was perfect for Solana's baking hobby. It's silly, but I like silly for them!!

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

“Jesus, Sol, what are all those for?”

Domingo's words disrupt her concentration. Solana nearly drops what he's referring to from her arms– a basket of fresh peaches. There are so many filling the basket that they nearly spill out, and she struggles to keep them all balanced.

“Oh, some guy was selling them across the street from the hospital,” she explains, carefully placing the basket down on the kitchen island and bracing it with her hands to prevent the peaches from falling. “I thought I could use them to bake something, so I bought a few.”

Domingo scoffs and shakes his head, although there is a smile on his face. “Looks like more than “a few” to me, Sol.”

Solana replies with a small laugh. “Yeah, well, you should see what Mari bought. I'm surprised she left any for me. You know how she thinks fruit is, like, the only food that exists.”

“I know,” Domingo laughs, “Nacho told me she's always trying to make him smoothies and stuff from all the fruit she buys. So what are you gonna use yours for?”

Tapping her chin in thought, Solana hums to herself as she thinks. “Hmm, I dunno. Peaches and cream pie?”

He perks up at this. “Wow, really? Like, now? You're gonna make it now?”

Solana laughs at his enthusiasm, taking a peach in her hand and tossing it up and catching it repeatedly like a baseball.

“You're very impatient sometimes, Domingo,” she replies, catching the peach a final time and dropping it back in the basket. “What's so exciting about me making another dessert?”

Shrugging, Domingo says, “I dunno, Sol, you're just really great at baking. I like everything you make, y'know?”

Blush creeps across her cheeks at his compliment. “Well, then I guess I should give up nursing and open up a bakery for the cartel instead.”

He nods his head to the side. “I mean, it's not the worst idea.”

“It's actually a really terrible idea, but thanks for the encouragement,” Solana laughs, circling around the island to get to the kitchen cabinets. “I'm gonna start now, I guess. I think I'll invite Mari, Nacho, and Angelina over to try it, too."

“Will it be done by the time I get home?” Domingo asks. “It's Tuesday, so…”

Solana nods in understanding. “Yeah, it should be. Should I be saying suerte, or is Tuco feeling nice this week?”

Domingo scoffs and shakes his head as he walks to the door. “When the hell is Tuco ever feeling nice?”

“Fair enough. Suerte,” Solana yells to Domingo from across the living room.

He sighs, then heads out, calling out to her, “Love you!”

She smiles. “Love you too!”

After Domingo is gone, she grabs all of the ingredients from the cabinets and refrigerator, then sets them up in a meticulous, perfect layout across the counter and island. Then, she goes over to the stereo system and flips it on, expecting the Marcy Playground CD she'd listened to last would begin playing, but instead she is blasted by Molotov's “No Manches Mi Vida” at full volume.

“Christ, Domingo!” She snaps, turning the dial to lower the volume. “He does not need to be listening to shit at the highest level…”

At least Solana likes Molotov, so she doesn't bother to change the CD, and returns to the kitchen. As the rest of the album “Apocalypshit” plays almost three times over, she carefully crafts the peaches and cream pie, singing along to Molotov’s angry music while she works.

When the pie is finally done, Solana sighs with content and looks at it as it sits on the counter. Not only will it taste great, but it looks beautiful, too. Then, she glances at the clock, and notices that it has only been a little over three hours, but Domingo isn't back yet. Though him being with Tuco makes this a somewhat scary revelation, Solana figures he's just late, and likely won't be back for a while.

To pass the time, Solana decides that some hard strawberry lemonade would go well with the peaches and cream pie, so she checks the refrigerator. When the only bottles in there are Modelo, Solana groans in frustration. She makes her way to the second most likely spot that alcohol would be in the house– the den, which mostly belongs to Domingo and his cousin Emilio who visits frequently. But no, their mini-fridge is empty, save a half-empty bottle of tequila and three cans of Dr Pepper.

Looking at the clock in the den, Solana thinks that she could make it to the liquor store and back before Domingo gets home, so she locks all the doors and heads out, driving that yellow Camaro of hers to the nearest place and discovering that the Marcy Playground CD has been in her car's player the whole time.

The closest liquor store isn't too far, and luckily doesn't look too busy, so Solana pulls into the parking lot and heads inside. The owner's dog, an elderly shepherd mix, greets her by licking her hand.

“Hey, Solana,” the owner greets from behind the counter, “I'm gonna need to see your ID. Company policy.”

Solana rolls her eyes. “I literally come in here all the time, man. Even your dog recognizes me. You know damn well I'm not underage.”

She shrugs and holds out an expectant hand. “Still need to see it, Miss Salazar. Like I said, company policy.”

With an annoyed huff, Solana digs in her purse for her wallet and opens it up to show her license, which is held behind a plastic sheet over one of the pockets of the wallet. The owner of the liquor store scans Solana's ID with her eyes as if she's not seen it a hundred times before, and finally nods.

“You're good,” she tells Solana, waving her off.

“Yeah, I know,” Solana says under her breath as she puts away her wallet and heads back to the malt liquor section.

After grabbing two six-packs of hard strawberry lemonade, she drops them on the counter with a thud, and the owner rings her up. She pays in cash as the owner puts the two cases into a brown paper bag, and then hands it to Solana.

“Have a good evening,” she says as Solana leaves.

“Same to you,” Solana responds, carrying the bag in one arm and reaching down to pet the owner's dog one last time with her free hand.

She heads back home, parks in the driveway, and takes the newly purchased drinks into the house. As she enters the living room, she's greeted by Domingo, who walks up and kisses her hello.

“Hey, Sol, where you been?” Domingo asks.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she replies playfully. Then she notices something is off. “Can I have another kiss?”

Domingo smiles. “Of course.”

He gives her another kiss, and Solana's thoughts are confirmed.

“Your lips taste like peaches and cream,” she states, and puts her free hand on her hip. “Did you try a piece of the pie?”

Suddenly, he looks nervous. “Um, yeah, I…err…tried it. It's really good. What's in that bag, by the way?”

Solana ignores his question and brushes past him and heads straight for the kitchen, nearly dropping the drinks in her arms when she sees that half of the pie is gone.

“Domingo, what the fuck?!” She asks, completely and utterly shocked. “I was going to invite Mari, Nacho, and Angelina over to try this! Now there's not enough for everyone!”

He blushes, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I'm sorry, Sol, I really meant to just have one piece, but it was even better than I expected…”

Solana sighs, dropping the bag on the kitchen island and walking over to him with her hands on her hips. Though she wants to be annoyed, seeing his big, brown eyes and sweet smile melts her heart, and she can't bring herself to do anything but laugh.

“It's okay,” she sighs, moving her hands to each side of his face, cupping his jaw. “I have more peaches. We can always make another one.”

They share another kiss that tastes of Solana's dessert, and Domingo exhales with relief.

“Good, I thought you'd be pissed…wait a minute, we? You want me to help you?”

Solana nods. “Yep! And this time, you only get one slice to eat.”

Domingo looks crestfallen. “One slice? C'mon, Sol, can I at least have two?”

She tilts her head and looks up in thought, then finally nods with a smile. “Fine. Two. But only if you actually listen to me when we make it. I don't want a repeat of the “too much flour” incident, yeah?”

Shuddering at the memory of the last time he didn't follow her exact instructions, Domingo agrees. “Yeah. I promise I'll do everything exactly right.”

“I know you will,” she says, stealing another peach-flavored kiss from him. “C'mon now, we don't have all day. Our friends do have lives outside of us.”

With that, Domingo follows Solana into the kitchen and they begin working on the next pie– thank God Solana bought so many peaches.

[theprinceofnothingatall]

November 17, 2024- 110.2 ish

It’s all going to shit again and it’s my fault.

I’m “fixing” it by water fasting for 6 days.

I crave a cigarette and I haven’t tasted one in two months now. Just sounds nice with the cold air. Maybe I’ll go out on the roof and have one on Friday.

My partner came home. He’s sitting on the bathroom floor doing homework while I’m in the bath. Really annoyed the past two days, but I stopped taking my bipolar meds and anxiety so that’ll do it. Still taking my apple cider vinegar and green tea weight loss pill.. only one the next few days since it’s water fast diet of lemon water, diet soda, black coffee, and plain herbal or black tea. I could have a bang or 0 cal energy drink on Friday but no money til then. I’ll break about 142 hours or longer on sat. I’ll take a bite of something. No more than that I have to be careful not to hurt my tummy. I’m going to feel so good. I’ll be 50 hrs in when I go back to work Tuesday. Work for 3 days. Good activity.. I’ll work really hard. Fasting so I feel better. They won’t fire a sick person who’s brother attempted suicide and they need me it’s end of the year. I won’t screw up anymore. I won’t be so worthless anymore. It’s a bit crazy trying to lose 10 pounds in 6 days but hey it’s possible. I’ve never water fasted longer than half a day. Nearly a week will only trim my down, take away any bloat and make me feel light as a feather. This will make me feel better… every 10 hours I can have soda or a drink or tea or something.. maybe 5. In 5 hours it’ll be almost 4. I’ll have a soda. 5 more hours it’ll be almost 9, I’ll have ginger tea or something. Drink my black coffee in a small cup so it’s more manageable and more like 1 cal the 1-2 cal tea and coffee will have won’t break just 10 from the energy drink would cause just cause. My fast my rules. Monday I’ll fall asleep at 8 or 9. Prolly 8 just to make sure. I’ll start taking iron. My leg circulation has been fucking up. B/p free face in… well by Dec 1. Guess my limit for camping will be 400. Might stay that too con then go up to 742 then back down.. after … god thanksgiving is the 26. That’s in nevermind the 28… still that’s 10 days. My limit will stay 400 for the camping tree and I’ll go back to water fasting when we get back… 742 cal limit for thanksgiving then back to water fasting depending. If I’m 99 in 6 days, or even 101.2. No 99, I can go to 400 after thanksgiving til con but that’s just 9 days. That’s 216 hours.. 3 days more than what I’m doing now. Only an hour and half in.. the fucking irony of my stomach making noises because of the pill moving my food and my fat gut digesting pizza and he asks if I want anything for lunch. His appetite has come back some. But I’m still only 74 pounds lighter… our difference needs to be drastic.. if I were 84 he’d be 100 pounds more than me. But he’s gonna lose more.. 74 pounds lighter than me then he’d be 158… prolly as far down as he’ll get anyway… it’s so triggering to me.. I’ll have to lose weight fasting like this. I’m clipping all my nails when I get out of the shower. Maybe I’ll paint them. He whispered I love you. Doesn’t sound like him. That fake. God he won’t touch me rn why did he think it would be so easy for me to touch her last night? We just had that conversation JUST a few hours before. Then turned it around like I was the bad one. They’re about to be so busy with work I can at least fake eat. I’ll not ask for food from their job. Hell maybe I’ll drop a cup size by Dec 1 that’d be nice. Imma finish my wig… well one of them today. And drink my water and whatnot. Maybe if I faint at thanksgiving my dad will give a shit. I have to be smaller and clearly sicker than my dumb ass step sister… taking laxatives.. god and she looks like an ugly witch right now. At least when I’m thin I’m pretty.. I want her to see me and how I do it so much better. I want them to wonder what happened to me and worry. My dad will give me money to try and encourage me to get groceries and I’ll be grateful. I just want them to care. The perfect little partner on this camping trip. He can pull me onto his lap. They’ll be wine I’m sure. His parents are fancy. My sweet reward for my hard work. Only needing a glass to get a good buzz. They’ll order that fancy pizza. I’ll grab a small piece and take a bite. Two bites for symbolism. Maybe eat the slice.

[carmenized-onions]

i was gonna send u an ask about this but then i deleted it cause i didn’t want to be annoying but you mentioned it in your reply soooo-

i literally saw the new chapter an hour after it dropped (also thanks for tagging me<3) but i’ve been working late every day this week grrr so i’m waiting to read it to give it the time it deserves. bc 1. i want to enjoy it properly and 2. yes it does take a little - lot - more time to read when i’m making notes along the way sjsjs

so i’ve been walking around at work thinking about how much i wanna read it and whenever i have a break i’m like hmmm. but then i’m like no i need to be patient. i’m going to treat myself and relax when this week is over, take a shower/bath, put on a facemask and then read the chapter and enjoy every last word. i’m hoping that will be tomorrow after work (i should be off earlier tomorrow), if not then monday which probably means you see the ask on tuesday cause of timezones (or whenever you have the time to read it)

so yeah master’s thesis inbound at some point in the near future!! but also you looking forward to reading it??? my heart went ✨🦋✨🦋✨ fr!!

My perfect little wonderful angel, as you and i both know, you've sent in your master's thesis, and i've read it multiple times, time to draft up a reply for 10 years before jumpin in the shower and doing my night routine like i'm supposed to be doing

consider this a warning everyone though: the thesis is so long (and wonderful), so your feed might get fucked, and that is our bad. sorry.

This is all to say, I'M GLAD YA GOT A CHANCE TO READ IT IN PEACE-- God makes his strongest soldiers work a nine to five. Frfr. I just got invited to join my local film union and i'm considering jumping ship on everything for it atp. Probably will.

I ALWAYSS LOOK FORWARD TO READING WHAT YOU AND ALL YOU SILLY LITTLE READERS SEND TO ME (sorry i'm not always fast to respond, typically it's because I'm writing the next chapter) Which speaking of, might drop tommorow? I feel like I should give more breathing room, to let you bitches like have a second, but to be fair, we stopped on a cliffhanger. So if my last review/syntax editing goes well, hey, maybe new chapter tomorrow? But also maybe the syntax edit goes terribly or maybe I decide to think on it longer, idk. we'll see.