#Wells Fargo Hours

[butch--dean]

Thinking about the weird disembodied male robot voice I hear once every couple of weeks in the middle of the night that goes WARNING! WARNING! And then says several other things that I’ve never been able to understand. I do not know where you’re emanating from outside of my apartment. But you are a friend to me

[killerchickadee]

....My new boss trying to write the schedule lol.

[icecreampotluck]

having the WORST day

[blushweddinggowns]

There were a lot of things that Eddie loved about going on tour. He loved traveling, exploring the country and beyond with his best friends. He loved the feeling of being on stage, all eyes on them as they played their asses ass. He even loved the tiny twin beds of the tour bus, especially since it usually led to Steve sleeping right on top of him. 

But he especially loved the little rituals they had before a show. 

“Eddie, baby, you gotta, fuck, go soon,” Steve groaned. He was trying to be the voice of reason, even if he was technically still pulling Eddie closer. Eddie was sucking a bruise into his neck, a hand slowly slinking under his shirt. 

“Mmhm,” Eddie mumbled, making no moves to get up. The show didn’t start for another few hours and if he was ten minutes late for mic check, they’d live. Eddie could do a lot in those ten minutes, “Just a little more-”

But then Gareth was pounding on the green room door, “Munson for the love of God, stop making out and get your ass out here!”

“Told you so,” Steve laughed, breathless as Eddie reluntaly got off of him, “Now you’re going to have to rehearse with an erection.”

“Well you have to watch it with one, so we both lose,” Eddie sighed as he stood, stopping to kiss Steve’s forehead.

“Do we? Because last time I checked that door locked. And…” Steve leaned past him, grabbing one of the Rolling Stone magazines from the coffee table. The one that Eddie was on the cover of. He grinned as he lifted it up, “I have the best jerk-off material available. You’re on your own.”

“Oh, you brat,” Eddie groaned just as Gareth started pounding on the door again, “You’re going to pay for that tonight.”

Steve smirked as Eddie walked away backwards, having the audacity to give him a little wave, “I would hope so.”

Eddie forced himself to turn away, comforted by the fact that Steve would barely be able to sit by the time he was done with him.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, Jesus,” He groaned as he swung the door open, nearly getting himself punched in the face in the process. 

Gareth retracted his hand just in time. He looked Eddie up and down with a sigh, “Why am I even surprised?”

“Hi Steve,” He added, waving at him from the doorway, “You mind if I fuck your husband up for being a late asshole? Just a little bit?”

“Just make sure not to hit him in the head,” Steve laughed, face flushed as he buttoned up his shirt, “We can’t have anymore concussions between the two of us.”

“I’ll take it,” Gareth sighed as he grabbed Eddie’s arm. Eddie barely managed to squeak out a quick Love you! before Gareth was dragging him away. 

“Next time you ask us why we make you pay for after-parties please, remember this moment.”

“Will you fault a man for his addiction?” Eddie asked, dramatically putting a hand over his heart, “It’s a dependency I have no fault over-”

“No fault my ass,” Gareth huffed, the smallest hint of a smile hiding behind his grimace, “You’ve been an addict for a goddamn decade.”

from the soon-to-be-published epilogue of this fic

@jjoesjonas because I picked up writing this again after they sent me those Joe Keery audio clips from Fargo 👀👀

[moneypreserve]

Everything you Need to Know About Wells Fargo Bank Login

Wells Fargo Bank Login: Wells Fargo Bank was founded in 1852 by Henry Wells and William Fargo to sell and buy gold and bank papers that were similar to gold at the time. Since then, the company has evolved to help clients build businesses and manage money in a rapidly changing world. Wells Fargo & Company is an American multinational financial services company with corporate headquarters in San Francisco, California, operational headquarters in Manhattan, and managerial offices throughout the United States and internationally. [The company has operations in 35 countries with over 70 million customers globally. And now serves 41 states with over 6,000 branches across the country and highly qualified customer service and banking experience. Read more…

[mostlysignssomeportents]

An interoperability rule for your money

This is the final weekend to back the Kickstarter campaign for the audiobook of my next novel, The Lost Cause. These kickstarters are how I pay my bills, which lets me publish my free essays nearly every day. If you enjoy my work, please consider backing!

"If you don't like it, why don't you take your business elsewhere?" It's the motto of the corporate apologist, someone so Hayek-pilled that they see every purchase as a ballot cast in the only election that matters – the one where you vote with your wallet.

Voting with your wallet is a pretty undignified way to go through life. For one thing, the people with the thickest wallets get the most votes, and for another, no matter who you vote for in that election, the Monopoly Party always wins, because that's the part of the thick-wallet set.

Contrary to the just-so fantasies of Milton-Friedman-poisoned bootlickers, there are plenty of reasons that one might stick with a business that one dislikes – even one that actively harms you.

The biggest reason for staying with a bad company is if they've figured out a way to punish you for leaving. Businesses are keenly attuned to ways to impose switching costs on disloyal customers. "Switching costs" are all the things you have to give up when you take your business elsewhere.

Businesses love high switching costs – think of your gym forcing you to pay to cancel your subscription or Apple turning off your groupchat checkmark when you switch to Android. The more it costs you to move to a rival vendor, the worse your existing vendor can treat you without worrying about losing your business.

Capitalists genuinely hate capitalism. As the FBI informant Peter Thiel says, "competition is for losers." The ideal 21st century "market" is something like Amazon, a platform that gets 45-51 cents out of every dollar earned by its sellers. Sure, those sellers all compete with one another, but no matter who wins, Amazon gets a cut:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

Think of how Facebook keeps users glued to its platform by making the price of leaving cutting of contact with your friends, family, communities and customers. Facebook tells its customers – advertisers – that people who hate the platform stick around because Facebook is so good at manipulating its users (this is a good sales pitch for a company that sells ads!). But there's a far simpler explanation for peoples' continued willingness to let Mark Zuckerberg spy on them: they hate Zuck, but they love their friends, so they stay:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/facebooks-secret-war-switching-costs

One of the most important ways that regulators can help the public is by reducing switching costs. The easier it is for you to leave a company, the more likely it is they'll treat you well, and if they don't, you can walk away from them. That's just what the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau wants to do with its new Personal Financial Data Rights rule:

https://www.consumerfinance.gov/about-us/newsroom/cfpb-proposes-rule-to-jumpstart-competition-and-accelerate-shift-to-open-banking/

The new rule is aimed at banks, some of the rottenest businesses around. Remember when Wells Fargo ripped off millions of its customers by ordering its tellers to open fake accounts in their name, firing and blacklisting tellers who refused to break the law?

https://www.npr.org/sections/money/2016/10/07/497084491/episode-728-the-wells-fargo-hustle

While there are alternatives to banks – local credit unions are great – a lot of us end up with a bank by default and then struggle to switch, even though the banks give us progressively worse service, collectively rip us off for billions in junk fees, and even defraud us. But because the banks keep our data locked up, it can be hard to shop for better alternatives. And if we do go elsewhere, we're stuck with hours of tedious clerical work to replicate all our account data, payees, digital wallets, etc.

That's where the new CFPB order comes in: the Bureau will force banks to "share data at the person’s direction with other companies offering better products." So if you tell your bank to give your data to a competitor – or a comparison shopping site – it will have to do so…or else.

Banks often claim that they block account migration and comparison shopping sites because they want to protect their customers from ripoff artists. There are certainly plenty of ripoff artists (notwithstanding that some of them run banks). But banks have an irreconcilable conflict of interest here: they might want to stop (other) con-artists from robbing you, but they also want to make leaving as painful as possible.

Instead of letting shareholder-accountable bank execs in back rooms decide what the people you share your financial data are allowed to do with it, the CFPB is shouldering that responsibility, shifting those deliberations to the public activities of a democratically accountable agency. Under the new rule, the businesses you connect to your account data will be "prohibited from misusing or wrongfully monetizing the sensitive personal financial data."

This is an approach that my EFF colleague Bennett Cyphers and I first laid our in our 2021 paper, "Privacy Without Monopoly," where we describe how and why we should shift determinations about who is and isn't allowed to get your data from giant, monopolistic tech companies to democratic institutions, based on privacy law, not corporate whim:

https://www.eff.org/wp/interoperability-and-privacy

The new CFPB rule is aimed squarely at reducing switching costs. As CFPB Director Rohit Chopra says, "Today, we are proposing a rule to give consumers the power to walk away from bad service and choose the financial institutions that offer the best products and prices."

The rule bans banks from charging their customers junk fees to access their data, and bans businesses you give that data to from "collecting, using, or retaining data to advance their own commercial interests through actions like targeted or behavioral advertising." It also guarantees you the unrestricted right to revoke access to your data.

The rule is intended to replace the current state-of-the-art for data sharing, which is giving your banking password to third parties who go and scrape that data on your behalf. This is a tactic that comparison sites and financial dashboards have used since 2006, when Mint pioneered it:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/12/mint-late-stage-adversarial-interoperability-demonstrates-what-we-had-and-what-we

A lot's happened since 2006. It's past time for American bank customers to have the right to access and share their data, so they can leave rotten banks and go to better ones.

The new rule is made possible by Section 1033 of the Consumer Financial Protection Act, which was passed in 2010. Chopra is one of the many Biden administrative appointees who have acquainted themselves with all the powers they already have, and then used those powers to help the American people:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

It's pretty wild that the first digital interoperability mandate is going to come from the CFPB, but it's also really cool. As Tim Wu demonstrated in 2021 when he wrote Biden's Executive Order on Promoting Competition in the American Economy, the administrative agencies have sweeping, grossly underutilized powers that can make a huge difference to everyday Americans' lives:

https://www.eff.org/de/deeplinks/2021/08/party-its-1979-og-antitrust-back-baby

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/let-my-dollars-go/#personal-financial-data-rights

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

Image: Steve Morgan (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:U.S._National_Bank_Building_-_Portland,_Oregon.jpg

Stefan Kühn (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Abrissbirne.jpg

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

 - 

Rhys A. (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/rhysasplundh/5201859761/in/photostream/

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[allthingsfangirl101]

Love Test – Joe Keery

Inspired by Big Bang Theory S8 E16

Working on Fargo was an interesting experience. The cast was great, but I couldn't help but feel like they all knew something that I didn't. I've been doing the actors' hair and makeup so I have a lot of one-on-one time with each person.

Fargo was my first big job. Before this, I worked in my mom's salon, mainly doing the hair of sixty-year-old women. One of my clients knew someone who knew someone whose nephew worked with FX. Through the grapevine, my mom found out that FX needed a new makeup and hair person.

I get along fairly well with the cast, but there was always something a little awkward between me and one of the younger cast members: Joe Keery. I've seen him act in person and he's really good, but when we get one-on-one, the only thing we're able to do is maintain awkward small talk.

Barely.

"Y/N, are you coming?" David Rysdal asked.

I turned around to see a few of the cast mates walking into the makeup trailer.

"To what?"

"Party at my house!"Jon Hamm laughed.

"Oh," I laughed awkwardly.

"You're coming right?" Juno Temple asked.

"I'll stop by," I shrugged.

"Great!" Jon Hamm cheered. "See you tonight at 7."

I didn't want to go, but after 5 seasons, this season's cast has been putting in more of an effort to get me to hang out with them. I went home after we wrapped up for the day and put more work into making myself look good. When I showed up, the party was in full swing. Jon really did invite everyone on set.

Two hours and way too much drinking later, some of us were sitting around the coffee table, talking.

"Have you guys heard about this experiment to see if you could make two people fall in love in a matter of hours?" David asked.

"Hours?" I asked. "Is it even possible?"

"That's why it's an experiment, Y/N," Jennifer Jason Leigh scoffed.

"The participants ask each other a series of questions designed to promote intimacy. And they finish it off by staring into each other's eyes for four minutes," David quickly explained to lessen the awkwardness.

"We should try it!" Juno cheered as she bounced up and down.

"Y/N and Joe should try it," Jon said with a smirk that made me nervous.

"Us?" Joe and I said in sync.

I cleared my throat and added, "Why us?"

"Why not?" Juno smirked.

"I will text you both the questions," David said as he typed on his phone. I sighed when I got the message.

"You can use my office," Jon said. "It's right through there."

"Great," I mumbled under my breath. Joe and I shared a look. He stood up and reached his hand out for me to take.

"Shall we?" He asked, trying to sound light.

"Don't have much of a choice, it would seem."

It was extremely awkward as Joe and I walked into Jon Hamm's office. We sat down on the couch, neither one of us saying anything. I grabbed my phone and looked through the questions. Every single one I read, made me want the floor to open up and swallow me even more.

"Okay," Joe said as he turned toward me. "You ready?"

"I guess," I shrugged. I glanced up to see Joe looking at me weirdly. I cleared my throat and read the first question. "Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a diner guest?"

"Bing Crosby," Joe answered instantly.

"Really?" I asked. "Bing Crosby? Why?"

"I grew up watching White Christmas," Joe explained. "I've seen everything that Bing Crosby did. Also, my mom listened to his music all the time. He's the reason I went into acting."

"Oh," I said softly. "That's actually really sweet."

"Thanks," he smiled. "What about you?"

"Pat McGrath."

"Who?"

"She's a British make-up artist," I said, a blush forming. "Vogue called her the most influential make-up artist of all time. She's kind of like my idol."

"Did she inspire you to go into makeup?" He asked.

"A little," I shrugged. "My family did. My mom owns a hair salon back home. I got into makeup because I wanted to start a new business and connect it to my mom's salon. She'd do clients' hair and I'd do their nails and makeup."

"You didn't go into it," he said slowly. "Did something. . ."

"We had a falling out," I confessed when he didn't ask his question. "Technically my dad and I had a falling out. My mom was just an innocent bystander. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps of dental school while my mom wanted me to follow in hers. No matter what I did, one of them would be upset."

"I'm sorry," Joe said, his voice dropping.

I cleared my throat and looked at the list of questions. "Next question?"

"Next question," Joe nodded as he looked at his phone and read the list. "What would constitute a perfect day for you?"

"It's going to sound lame," I mumbled, messing with my fingers.

"Try me," Joe said gently as he lowered his phone.

"My perfect day would start with me sleeping in," I started to explain. "I'd wake up and put on an outfit that was comfortable but still made me look amazing."

I blushed as Joe smiled at me. Before I could wimp out, I kept talking. "I'd walk around a mall, sipping my favorite coffee drink, and go on a small shopping spree. Girly, but what can I say?"

"No judgment," Joe chuckled. "What else would you do?"

"I'd end the shopping spree at the bookstore," I confessed. "On the way home, I'd pick up my favorite dish at my favorite Italian place on Meaker."

"Girmaldis?"

"Yeah," I said slowly, a little shocked. "You know that place?"

"It's my favorite." This sudden tension that has been building since the cast put us in the spotlight, started to thicken between us. He cleared his throat before asking, "Anything else you'd do?"

"Just finish the night with binge-watching my favorite show," I said. "And then a bubble bath."

"Sounds amazing," he chuckled. "Although, I'm not much of a bath person."

"Then you've clearly never taken a good one," I teased.

"Guess not," he shrugged.

"What about you? What would your perfect day consist of?" I asked, the nerves still jumping around my stomach.

"Oh, it's super adventurous," he chuckled. "I'd sleep in and spend most of my day doing nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he confirmed. I thought about asking him more but didn't bother to push him.

Instead, I looked down at my phone and asked the next question. "What is something that makes you feel unstoppable?"

"Weirdly enough," he chuckled, "when I'm at one of my premieres. Especially if I'm proud of what I worked on. What about you? What makes you feel unstoppable, Y/N?"

"When I see a really hard makeup look that I did on the big screen," I said instantly. Joe just smiled at me before looking back at his phone.

"If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?"

"No social anxiety," I blurted. "I just. . . I mean. . ."

"It's okay," Joe said gently. "Not everyone likes being in big groups. Hell, even I get a little bit of anxiety when I'm on the red carpet."

"That's different," I mumbled, looking down at my hands.

"You're right," he said quickly. Joe leaned over and delicately put his hand over mine. I looked up to see him smiling at me. "I'm sorry. It's not the same thing. I wish I could help you with your social anxiety."

The tension was thick between us again. It didn't seem to go away as I said, "What about you? What quality or ability would you want?"

"Don't tease me too much," he smiled as he slowly pulled his hand back into his lap, "but I wish I was better at something, anything."

"What do you mean?"

"The only thing I feel like I'm good at is acting," Joe continued. "I wish there was something else I could do. It would be nice to have something I could fall back on when acting eventually doesn't work out anymore."

"Why are you so sure it won't work out for long?"

"Actors don't act forever. It'd be nice to have a safety net," he shrugged. Without another word, he read the next question. "What is something you consider too serious to joke about?"

"People's appearances," I said a little too quickly. He looked up at me, making my face burn.

"Did someone. . ."

"Your turn," I cut him off. "What is something that you think is too serious to joke about?"

"People's relationships," Joe said, his voice soft. "I always hate when guys talk about their girlfriends like they're objects. Some things should stay between the couple. A guy shouldn't share everything with his friends."

"That's. . . Sweet," I barely got out. I cleared my throat and looked at my phone. "How do you react to anger from others?"

"Doesn't really affect me, if I'm being honest. Especially if it had nothing to do with why they're angry," he shrugged. Joe's smile dropped when he saw the look on my face. He lowered his voice as he asked, "What about you?"

"I don't handle it well," I said softly. I looked at my hands and started picking at my nail polish.

"Y/N. . ." He whispered.

"My parents used to fight a lot," I continued, my voice shaky. "It was never my fault but. . . When they fought, I'd lock myself in my room and read or listen to music. They fought all the time. The only time they weren't fighting was when they were each at work. My mom was at her salon from opening to closing. My dad was at his dental office way past closing."

"I'm so sorry, Y/N," Joe said. He went to grab my hand but I grabbed my phone and read out the next question.

"Do you often listen to your intuition?"

"Not nearly enough as I should," Joe said with a small chuckle.

"Same," I said, still looking at my phone. "Last question. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone?"

"My feelings," he blurted out. I snapped my head up and looked at him.

"Your what?"

"I just. . . I have a tendency to keep my feelings to myself," he stuttered. "When I like a girl, I rarely tell her."

The tension was officially suffocating as we stared at each other. "What would you regret not saying?" Joe asked, his voice soft.

"I guess," I said slowly, "I'd regret not telling my parents how I really feel. I've never told them how much their fighting affected me. I should've been more honest with them."

"You still have the chance," he said gently. "Luckily, you're not going to die tonight so you can still talk to your parents."

"That's true," I said softly. "That also means that you can still tell a girl you have feelings for her."

The second I said it, my face burned. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't form the words.

"What's next?" Joe asked.

"Well, we finished the questions so now we stare into each other's eyes for four minutes," I said, clearing my throat. I grabbed my phone and set a timer. "Go."

I looked up, my heart instantly jumping into my throat as Joe and I made eye contact. The longer we stared at each other, the harder it was to not look away.

"Wow," Joe chuckled. "This is kinda. . ."

"Awkward," I whispered.

"But, to be honest, this has been working."

"You think so?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. "I mean, the questions got us to open up to each other. And staring into each other's eyes forms a. . ."

"Connection," I said under my breath.

"Connection," he agreed. I hadn't realized we were getting closer until our noses touched. By the time I realized it, Joe had made the first move.

My heart jumped into my throat when Joe gently pressed his lips to mine. Time froze as we slowly began moving our lips in sync. As slow as we initiated the kiss, we broke it.

"Well," I whispered, "I guess the experiment works."

"Something tells me this is exactly why the others had us do this experiment," Joe whispered.

"You're damn right!" Jon yelled from the other side of the door, making Joe and I laugh.

"Leave them alone!" Juno chastised. "If you want them to get together, you can't interrupt their moments."

"Oh boy," I sighed. Joe gently grabbed my chin, making me look at him. I blushed as he leaned in and kissed me again.

"Hey," Joe whispered, breaking the kiss. "Let's get out here."

[seancekitsch]

Wow, I can get sexual too: An Adrian Chase x reader fic- Chapter 3

series masterlist here

warnings: eventual smut, masturbation, twitter nude culture, the very slightest dub con but not really just saying this to be safe, mutual pining, idiots in love, perv!reader but also perv!adrian

Shit, you think as you throw the door to headquarters open. You’d spent all morning wondering and worrying and sitting in your anxiety that you made two wrong turns after getting in your car ten minutes later than you usually do.

“Finally!” Leota shouts and you practically throw yourself onto the piano bench, not even bothering to take off your sunglasses. 

“And just where the hell were you?” Emilia’s voice cuts across the room. 

“My phone died,” you offer, a lie and a lame excuse, “So I woke up late.”

“Okay, slut,” Chris mutters, rolling his eyes. You fling your sunglasses off your face and in his direction.

“Sexist!” Adebayo yells, and Chris immediately apologizes. 

“She’s not a slut, she was with me last night!” Adrian pipes up.

“With you?” Chris’ eyes widen and you honestly wish for the first time in your life that Adrian would shut up. Even though he was defending you it just fuels his best friend’s fire. 

“Yeah, it was Fargo night,” Adrian pushes up his glasses and gets up. You decide to tune out whatever happens next. It's a tactic you and Economos have figured out by now, that if you start playing on your phone the others will stop bickering and lose interest.

“Dude, I thought you were practicing how to lie,” Chris says, and you open up twitter to mindlessly scroll. Adrian gets up and starts pacing, and you tune out the following argument as you try to read people’s shit takes on whatever is happening now on week two of the #Scandoval fiasco. Adrian circles the room around your chairs and the bench mindlessly, and you can already feel their argument die down under Emilia and Economos’ glares. 

You swipe your thumb awkwardly until you come across a video. It takes you three seconds to notice that it's another video from @mattvtweets and to recognize Adrian’s footsteps coming up behind you.

You quickly hit the like button with your thumb and try to scroll as quickly as possible to avoid being caught. 

A near miss of disaster as Adrian’s path lets him pass behind the pulled out piano bench to see what exactly you're looking at. You're in the clear, you're safe, you have quick thumbs.

“Why are you even using the word slut?” King of the hour John Economos chimes in. He sounds just as bored and over this conversations as everyone else- save for Chris and Adrian.

“It sounds like you both need to work on your internal misogyny,” He snarks, and it shuts them both up almost immediately. You figure yourself safe to tune out and drop out of the attention of the team, tuning back in when Emilia sounds serious and scrolling your phone the rest of the time.

The hours pass slowly, but all at once at the same time. The old clock on the dingy wall ticks as it moves, counting your minutes here even though you've lost track. You've scrolled your entire Instagram feed, and caught up on all of the Twitter drama you can find. The only thing left is…. Well, you're not going to touch that twitter account with a ten foot pole right now.

You lock your phone and discard it only to be faced with the rest of the team looking at her expectantly. 

“Well? What do you think, Cowgirl?” Adrian asks, his eyebrow quirked so hard you can see it over the rim of his glasses. Your eyes widen and you can feel yourself heat up just at the nickname. How can you not after what you saw this morning? The tweet? The use of your emoji in it? The way he fucking laid himself out on the couch you had just been on and sloppily, hastily jerked himself off like he was pent up and thinking of you. Fuck, you’re hot all over from a simple word, pathetic and needing and he’s never even touched you like that. Never even tried.

“Yeah sure,” you respond, not missing a beat but not at all knowing what you’re agreeing to. 

“Good! I’ll pick you up after patrols tomorrow,” he confirms, and you nod. 

Sure. You’ll go with him wherever this is tomorrow.

Tomorrow’s plan, as it turns out, is nothing dangerous or insane. 

Your Number: Hey so…. Don’t kill me…

Adrian’s Number: Why? Did you graffiti that one froyo place?

Your Number: Listen, they would deserve it

Your number: It's not ice cream. 

Your number: I wasn't listening when we were planning for tomorrow.

Fuck you're annoying, you think, just say it all in one text.

Adrian’s Number: Silly 🤠. That would be a crime. 

Adrian’s Number: We’re going to the bar for something Adebayo calls “Team Bonding”

Adrian’s Number: Apparently it’s what A.R.G.U.S. did before Harcourt and Economos got demoted to our team. 

At least you're not the only one who triple texts.

Your Number: So we’re going drinking?

Adrian’s Number: Yep. Picking you up around 9 tomorrow 🧜‍♂️

You sit for a second and think about that. He’s ending patrols early for a Friday to pick you up, something he never does. Oh fuck. What if, God forbid he knows about you knowing about his online activities and he’s getting you alone to get on you about it? Oh but then he should have just blocked you or asked someone higher up that you switch teams… 

Or what if it’s chill? Your overthinking stops because this is Adrian. Adrian says what he means and means what he says. If he wanted to yell at you or wanted you gone he’d have made that known. It’s okay. Like Han Solo says, fly casual. 

Your Number: Sounds good! 🤠

You toss your phone to be devoured by the duvet and your mind flies into overdrive. 

You decide almost immediately you have to make a move.

His last twitter video that you had liked at work had no mention of you, or anyone really, but it was enough to push you over the edge both physically and emotionally. You can't keep living like this. You can't spend this much time yearning with your hand between your legs. You have to do something one way or another. 

If this fails, you can always get yourself transferred to another team or even go back to Gotham. No matter what though, you have to do something.

You let yourself slip into another uneasy sleep without plugging in your phone, your only thoughts being of Adrian again, a common occurrence these days. Dreaming of his lopsided smile and his hard body, on you and under you and everything in between. Of standing in the mirror with him, then on your knees in front of him, watching through the mirror as he fucks you from behind, one hand on your throat and the other holding his phone. Fuck, you’re a goner for Adrian Chase.

The next morning you're restless, knee bouncing when you're perched at your breakfast bar on a stool. You spread cream cheese on an onion bagel in a haste as you think over your options. You can't keep going on like this.

But how do you make a move on a guy like him? How do you make a move on a guy who you know has never been in a real relationship and has you so sexually frustrated you feel desperate even when he’s not around?

Obviously, tonight has to be when you make your move… if the opportunity presents itself. If you cant get him alone at the bar then you can't flirt, and that will leave you exactly like you are now; horny, nervous, restless.

You can't believe you're like this. You’re actively losing sleep at this point over looking at a nude twitter. Part of you feels like a fucking creep. Its Adrian, for god’s sake. What would that say about you if he ever found out? You’d never live it down. Youre a fucking pervert. 

Maybe this isn't a good idea, you think, do you really want to risk your friendship with Adrian?

No, you realize as you finish off your bagel, you want to at least try. Back in Gotham you’re sure they could call you a lot of things, but a quitter is certainly not one of them. It’s not much of a stretch to think that his tweets could be about you, especially with those captions and how he’s been acting lately. Last nights almost-cuddling and almost-flirting were enough to tell you that there isn’t nothing between you. Adrian seemed like he wanted to be closer, maybe if it hadn’t been so late he would have even put an arm around you. 

That settles it, you think. You want his arm around you. His twitter driving you up a wall be damned, you want his fucking arm around you on Fargo night. You want the weird little nickname and you want everything Adrian can offer you. It’s decided, Operation Mermaid is a go.

The rest of your day passes calmly, you read a little, you scroll Instagram and Twitter, but nothing really happens. It’s odd, especially for you, to hear the absence of noise like this. Gotham never seemed to dull below a shout, and the silence of Evergreen now sets you on edge. It’s probably why you busy yourself whenever you aren’t with the team with mindless phone games or social media. Honking or screaming or whatever the fuck Batman’s looney tunes are up to became something you didn’t even register after the first week. But here, it’s been months of silence. That’s why you started watching Fargo in the first place. Adrian spent an entire morning talking your ear off about his television routines before Chris shut him up, but you absolutely didn’t mind. It’s like Adrian had known you weren’t adjusting well and his suggestions came at the perfect moment.

You start getting ready four hours early, totally not out of anxiousness or anything like that. You showered, shaved, washed hair, and did everything you could to make it look like you tried but also like you absolutely didn't try. The others would absolutely call you out if your tried too hard appearance wise, except for your ace in the hole. You have an idea that you know will absolutely kill without earning the weird looks from the others.

You search for your ace in the hole everywhere in your drawer. You find the bra. It's a vintage bra, black and satin with teal stitching from the Dita Von Teese collection. Its full coverage but it cups you in the best ways, accentuating any curve you have with the vintage cuts, but the color scheme was supposed to be the piece de resistance. It's fucked that they arent' easy to find.

Where could it be?

You search your second drawer from the top, and its all full of workout leggings and barre bodysuits. You search the next drawer and all it contains is your favorite sweatshirts. You have the bra but the matching panties are nowhere in place. Fuck. 

Okay, you have a black lacy pair that can be an alternate. They don't need to match exactly even though they do, they really do.

You even go as far as to look at the Dita Von Teese website and see if there’s same day shipping, but there's not. You're stuck with a bra that's exactly his suit colors and a high waisted thong that's close enough but not what you wanted. It's fine, you tell yourself as you get dressed the rest of the way, casual enough to be inconspicuous but flirty enough to hopefully drive Adrian wild.

And then your watch pings. 

@mattvtweets: This is dedicated to somebody very special.

You freeze as if struck by lightning. Adrian is in front of his usual mirror, but the lighting is darker than usual, you can tell that his kitchen lights are off. It's not just his own hand wrapped around his cock this time, he's got some kind of cloth. 

You check the time, 8:30 pm, and you crash back against your couch as you watch Adrian work himself.

If you ignore your feelings, they'll go away.

Ignore it, you tell yourself. 

But you dont listen to yourself, and your thumb strokes your clit through your sweatpants as you continue to stare at the video, continue to stare and-

Holy Fuck.

Those are your panties. The black cloth in the video is your panties. He pulled too hard on the fabric,  he showed his hand by doing it. It's him, those are your panties, it's him holding your panties around his cock, there's no mistake. The teal stitching is too clear, too obvious. 

It's everything I wanted. It's everything I fear.

Your hand unconsciously circle your clit and then your watch pings again.

Adrian’s Number: Hey! 🤠

Your Number: Hey you!

Adrian’s number: Ready? Be there in half an hour.

Your number: Sure.

How were you to face him now? Still wearing the black and teal bra and still worked up? Still knowing he had your matching panites at his place? Fuck. Any Evergreen lady woulda said this was a honky tonk dream come true. Adrian doesn't honky tonk though, and your job is on the line. You throw off your sweatpants in honor of the replacement panties and a pair of your tightest jeans, matched only with a top that complemented the Dita Von Teese you already tried wearing. A spritz of your sexiest fragrance and you guess that enough to send you out the door. 

He honks the horn of his Sebring not twenty six minutes later and while you're still struggling to wiggle a skirt on in lieu of the jeans from before after taking a look in the mirror and hating the outfit

Fuck!

You work yourself together, plan almost be damned, as this isn't the outfit but an outfit you liked, disheveled and thrown together but hopefully in a way that's charming and not trashy.

You would have liked it more if Adrian didn't have half of your matching set. You would have like surprising Adrian with it, watching his face as your unwrapped yourself lie a gift for him.

It's no worry, you tell yourself, as you brush a comb through your hair one last time and look at your outfit, your bra sort of  matching those panties practically peeking out. Fuck, it has to be me, right? You ponder and worry and yell, but you sit and do your eyeliner and you wait for Adrian to text. 

He knocks at your door, four, then three, then two, then one. 

Time’s up.

“Hey, Ade!” you greet him warmly as you open the door, as if you'd pregamed but you haven't.

“Hey, Cowgirl!” He puts an arm around you and leads you towards the car, and you glady let him guide you. 

Here goes nothing! You think.

[landojpg04]

Revenge on the Ranch//G.Tillman

Index

This is gonna be a multi-part series. It's gonna follow the story of Rumor Abbott as she progresses further into her career as an agent for the FBI and what she plans on when coming across blackmail. She is a long-time girlfriend of Gator Tillman and would do about anything to protect their love.

This story may have some dark themes, but I promise to detail all of the warnings. As mentioned previously, I am creating my own plotline but incorporating some themes from Fargo and Outer Range. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Warnings for this part: Language (few cuss words), Mentions of R*y Tillman.

Two weeks earlier

“What do you mean, they canceled the competition?” 

“Im telling you, they didn’t have enough cmpetitiors so now I’m done a month early.” Rhett was my older brother. He rode bulls professionally, and during the off season helped ur father and eldest brother Robert at the ranch. 

Rhett and I were closer in age making us closer in our relationship. He was the one to ship me away from the butt fucks of nowhere. Said my talent was a waste in the city we grew up in. Because of him I got into Quantico and began to pursue my dream.

“Well shit, what are you gonna do now?”

“Mom found out and entered my name into the homecoming competition. Said it’s an easy win. So guess I'm going back.”

Mom always did sneaky things to get us back home. Said shes done with Dad and Robert antics. This was a classic move by Reese herself. 

“Hows training going? You almost done?”

“I got a few months to go but its going good. I got to work this team this past week. Was able to locate and gather more intel for them.”

“Thats what I like to hear.”

I hummed to his response. I was sitting on the balcony of my apartment. The city was loud, in many ways than once. People yelling, sirens from every cancer with my head constantly going round in circles with thoughts.

“So you able to come up with me?”

“There it is.”

“Look you know Mom signed me up for a reason, she knows us.”

Mom did know us. I haven’t seen Rhett since last Christmas or have been able to get away to see him ride.

“I don’t know Rhett.”

“Come one, please. Do this for your favorite brother”

I laugh at his opinion.

“You think youre my favorite?”

“I definitely am.”

“That's presumptuous.”

“Well then, don’t go up for me–go up to see lover boy.”

I went silent thinking about that. Gator and I haven't seen each other since New Year. My schedule is the opposite of his. We talk every day still; we just haven't seen each other.

“What day are you gonna go up?”

“Probably Thursday. Friday is the competition.”

“Thursday, I have work till noon. But if you can't pick me up, no worries, I’ll drive up.”

“Sounds good. I'll see you later, Rue.”

“Bye, Rhett.” I hung up the phone. Immediately looking down at my lock screen. A picture of Gator and I last summer. I needed to go home, even for just a few days.

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I finished work around 1250. Today, I was on the desk for a gruesome case. I was able to find some information, but they weren’t able to raid till it was signed off by a judge. 

I began my walk from the office to my apartment. 

On the way there, I wanted to grab a pick-me-up drink, stopping by my local coffee shop.

I walked in, and there were two people in front of me. I took this time to text Gator,

How’s it going?

I send and within seconds I see the three dots.

Dad scheduled me to be out on the field. It’s like he know’s

You're gonna be back soon.

I’m counting down the hours 

I smiled at the last text. I look up and notice it was my turn to order.

“Hey Rumor, your usual?” I nodded and smiled. I began to pay when I heard the barista talk to me again. “You know, Rumor, there's a band playing at the Klatch this weekend; I have an in and was wondering if you’d be willing to go with me.”

The barista’s name was Vincent. He’s been working here since I moved. He went to college but dropped out, exclaiming he wasn’t gonna spend his life working away. 

“Sorry Vince, I’m actually planning on going back home this weekend.”

“Yeah, to see that fake boyfriend of yours.”

I just pressed my lips into a thin line. Despite Vincent knowing about Gator, he has always given me shit about him. Saying it would just be better if I said I wasn’t interested in him rather than creating a fake boyfriend.

Rather than responding, I just grabbed my drink, gave a small smile, and walked out.

Yeah, it's definitely time to go back home.

And like an angel from heaven as I turn the corner to reach my apartment. There he was sticking out like a sore thumb. Dressed like a cowboy. Hat, boots, and one of his sponsors jacket on.

“Rhett!” I scream overwhelmed with emotions.

He was standing in front of my building. I run towards him, he engulfs me in a hug.

“Holy shit Rue. I have never seen you run that fast.”

“What, I can't miss my favorite brother?” I say.

“That is exactly what I like to hear.”

I laugh.

“Okay, let me shower, pack my bags, and then we can hit the road.”

Rhett nodded.

“Thank god I have time for a nap.”

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Arriving at home was bittersweet. The ranch looks the same. But those who occupy it look older. Dad has a few more gray scattering his beard and Momma is aging like fine wine. Both of them cried when we got out of the car.

If it was up to them they would have us at the ranch year long, but they are the type of parents who don’t hold their kids back from their dreams. And for that, I am thankful.

“Honey, you haven't been eating,” Momma exclaimed. I roll my eyes at her.

“Mom I eat just fine.”

“Rob, go get your sister’s stuff! Rhett needs to rest up.”

“You owe me so many drinks tomorrow.” Robort says hugging me once more.

I laugh at thow we have resumed the hustle and bustle of the house like it once was all those years ago. 

Rylee was now walking and had long hair pulled into braids. I got up to swoop her, having her grow into a fit of giggles.

“Aunty Ru-Ru!” She says while giggling. 

I see Jane and rush to give her a hug. Jane was always the older sister I never had. 

“Hell Rumor look at you!” She said taking me in. “Crime stopping does wonder for you.” I laugh at her comment. Jane and Robert were high school sweethearts. Jane was always around, she got me ready for my first date and did my makeup for all the special occasions. I set Rylee down and pulled Jane into another hug “Miss you sis.” I said.

“Don’t go soft on us killer.”

I look down to see her belly growing.

“Son of a bitch.” I say under my breath.

“Hey don't talk like that about your nephew.”

“Rumor, come eat!” Jane laughed hearing Momma call me. I walked over and sat down. Content with the peacefulness around me.

After dinner and the catching up conversations with the family, Momma sent us all to bed because of the competition tomorrow. Exclaiming we all needed to be on our best behavior, as it was the first time since graduation we would all be together. I laid in bed and reached that call button. I heard it ring a few times before I heard him.

“How is my girl doing back?”

“Momma made me eat two servings of food and made us all go to bed. So currently a little happy."

“Sounds like Reese.”

“Where you at?”

“An hour or so up north. Roy sent me up due to a call about some missing cattle. I’m just sitting here till six and then heading back.”

“He hates me.”

“That I can not dispute. He is even making sure that I go to the station before the competition tomorrow to ensure my papers are up to date.”

“I hate him”

I heard Gator snicker.

“You’ll see me before your brother is up to ride, I promise.”

“I miss you.”

“I’m pretty sure I miss you more.”

I took a deep breath, and Gator did the same.

“Not to be a pest but why didn’t you text me back earlier?”

“Some asshole I was dealing with tampered my mood.

Then Rhett was already at my apartment.”

I heard him hum.

“Anyone I need to deal with?”

“Not yet. But you can deal with your father for me.”

He laughs.

“Call me if you can't sleep. Ill be up, but get some rest.”

“I will. See you tomorrow.” 

“See you tomorrow, love you.”

“Love you.”

[trans-axolotl]

tagged by @librarycards to share my nine favorite books I've read this fall!

The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine: A History of Settler Colonialism and Resistance by Rashid Khalidi

Disability Politics and Theory by AJ. Withers.

Light in Gaza: Writings Born of Fire edited by Jehad Abusalim, Jennifer Bing, and Mike Merryman-Lotze

What Can a Body Do? How We Meet the Built World by Sara Hendren.

Freedom is a Constant Struggle by Angela Davis

Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl's Confabulous Memoir by Kai Cheng Thom

Nobody Needs to Know: A Memoir by Pidgeon Pagonis

Black Madness :: Mad Blackness by Therí Alyce Pickens (Technically read this before the fall as well but reread it again and it's so good I wanted to put it on the list!)

The Future is Disabled by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

I also feel like I read a lot of really meaningful articles + interviews + poems this fall, so I'm also going to add my top nine short form pieces that I read as well.

Out of My Hands: A musician in prison pines for his bass. by David Annarelli.

Diaries of Blood: The secret artists within Israeli detention facilities. by Eman Al-Astal.

Notes on Craft: Writing in the Hour of Genocide by Fargo Nissim Tbakhi

Ableism Enables All Forms of Inequity and Hampers All Liberation Efforts by George Yancy interviewing Talila A. Lewis

Occupied Land is an Access Issue: Interventions in Feminist Disability Studies and Narratives of Indigenous Activism by Jess L. Cowing

Perfect Storm: A time to refrain from embracing by Richard Hunsinger.

Sick4Sick by torrin a. greathouse

Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People are Dying by Noor Hindi

Languaging Memory by leena aboutaleb

tagging anybody else who wants to! too tired to tag individual people, sorry.

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 45/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Welcome to North Dakota

Mulder blinks rapidly in an attempt to moisten his weary eyes, making the tail lights on the cars in front of him explode into streaky starbursts. It’s dark, past 10:00 pm, and he feels drunk from too many hours watching the white blur of the fog line whip by in his periphery. He yawns and rubs one hand roughly over his stubbled cheek, then looks over at Scully. 

She’s asleep again, as she has been on and off throughout the day. The kids have been clingy, and he hasn’t been able to get her alone for long enough to hear what, exactly, happened at the hospital. He just drives, never going more than 10 mph over the speed limit, taking them as far away from his blunder as possible. Gratefully, Peter seems to be okay, but Mulder can’t shake the feeling that Scully’s confidence in his ability to keep the children safe has been damaged beyond repair. His confidence in himself certainly has been. 

A roadside sign indicates a cluster of motels at the next exit, so he changes lanes and gets off the freeway. The shift in motion and cessation of the hum of high-speed rubber against pavement rouses Scully from her nap, and she looks around, disoriented, as he pulls into the parking lot of the Riverside Inn. 

“Where are we?” she croaks, reaching into the console for a bottle of water. 

“Fargo, North Dakota,” he says quietly. “I can barely keep my eyes open. If you want to keep going, you’ll have to drive.”

Scully shakes her head as she swallows a mouthful of water. 

“No, let’s stop,” she says on a sigh, looking into the back seat where Abby and Peter are both sleeping. “It’s been a long day.”

Frenchie woofs from the back of the van, and Abby’s eyes snap open. 

“Are we home?” she asks absently. 

“No, sweetpea,” Scully says with a thin smile. “Not for a couple more days. But we’re going to stop here for the night.”

“I have to go potty,” Abby mumbles, her eyelids heavy. 

Scully turns back to Mulder. 

“Why don’t you take Frenchie for a walk, and I’ll get us checked in?”

He nods, watching her face for signs that her feelings for him have changed, but she just looks tired and distracted. 

He walks Frenchie towards the sound of rushing water, looking back over his shoulder to watch Scully carefully extricate Peter from the van and drape his sleeping form over her torso. His head lolls around on her shoulder and she expertly shifts her weight to prevent him from slumping out of her arms before holding her hand out to Abby. She’s so natural with them, so intuitive, it makes him feel both in awe and frustratingly inadequate. 

Frenchie tugs on the leash and he allows her to guide him down a darkened path. He closes his eyes and pulls in a deep breath, letting the burble of running water and the chirp of crickets drown out his self-loathing, if only for a few minutes. 

-

“Come on,” Scully says, hoisting Peter up and then offering her free hand to Abby as they walk toward the motel lobby. “Spy names only, remember?”

Abby nods mutely, then drops Scully’s hand and runs ahead to open the glass door to the lobby. A bell above the door jangles, and a white-haired man seated behind the desk lifts his head and removes his glasses, a delighted smile spreading across his face. 

“Well, hello there,” he coos, and Abby moves behind Scully, obscuring herself from the man’s view. 

“We need a room, please. Just for the night,” Scully says with well-practiced detached politeness. 

“Of course,” the man says, putting his glasses back on and clicking around on his computer. “Two beds?”

“Yes, please,” Scully says as she places her ID and a stack of twenties on the counter. “We’ll be paying in cash, if that’s alright.”

“Oh,” the man says with a befuddled frown. “Just one moment, let me ask the boss if that’s okay.”

He disappears behind a chipped wooden door, reappearing a few minutes later with an older woman whose hair is pinned up in rollers, a pink quilted housecoat pulled tightly around her.

“We don’t normally take cash,” the woman says, her face pinched and dour. “The credit card is for incidentals, in case there’s any damage to the room.”

Scully hikes Peter up higher, her arms aching under the weight of him. 

“I understand, but we don’t have one,” she explains, wishing Mulder had selected a seedier motel. “I can assure you there won’t be any damage. We just need a good night’s sleep and we’ll be back on the road early tomorrow morning.”

“What’s your name?” the old man asks Abby, oblivious to the conversation Scully is having with his wife. Abby presses her face into Scully’s lower back, her fingernails digging into Scully’s hips. 

The bell above the door chimes, and they all turn to look as Mulder enters the lobby, sans Frenchie. Abby ducks away from Scully and gloms onto Mulder instead, standing on the tops of his feet as he makes his way over to the counter. 

“They don’t take cash,” Scully says with an edge of frustration, an unspoken request that he take up the task of negotiation. 

The old woman is studying Mulder’s face, her eyes narrowed disapprovingly. 

“What if we put money down for damages?” he suggests. 

Before she can answer, Peter lifts his head off Scully’s shoulder and looks around the lobby, blinking at the fluorescent lights. The woman stares at him with wonder as though he materialized before her very eyes. 

“I have to go potty,” Abby reminds Mulder, tugging on the hem of his T-shirt. 

“You’re gonna have to wait a few minutes,” he tells her as he runs his hand over the top of her head. 

“I have to go potty, too,” Peter whines, and Scully heaves a sigh. 

“They can use our bathroom,” the woman says, her tone terse though her offer is kind. “We’ll make an exception and let you pay cash.”

“Thank you,” Scully says, setting Peter on the floor. 

The children each take a turn using the bathroom behind the counter, and the old woman sits on a stool with her arms crossed over her chest while the man finishes booking the room. The way she watches them, following the children with her eyes as they explore a rack of pamphlets, makes Scully uneasy, and she wishes she would have left them in the car. 

“Please don’t touch anything, guys,” she says over her shoulder. 

“How old are they?” the woman asks gruffly. The dissonance between her demeanor and her apparent interest is confusing at best.

“Four and six,” Scully says, offering a placating smile. 

“Hm,” the woman says ambiguously, her eyes roving back over to the children. 

“Is there a river here?” Abby asks, holding up a pamphlet that says The Red River across the top. 

“Yes there is, just a few hundred feet away!” the old man says brightly. 

“Can we go swimming?” Abby asks hopefully.

“We won’t have time for that, kiddo,” Mulder says, and Abby’s shoulders sink. 

“You wouldn’t want to go swimming in Old Red anyway,” the old man says, pushing a receipt across the counter towards Scully. “She looks calm, but the current is strong, and there’s all kinds of junk hiding under the surface. It can be dangerous, even for strong swimmers.”

Scully scrawls Lisa Davenport across the bottom of the receipt, feeling the old woman’s eyes on her the entire time. 

“Stop it, Peter!” Abby screeches, and all the adults whip around to see her shove Peter forcefully. He stumbles and then falls hard on his backside. 

“Hey!” Mulder says firmly, and Abby startles, then regards him with wide eyes. He walks over to Peter and helps him up off the floor before turning back to Abby. “What was that about?”

“He pinched me!” Abby says indignantly, holding her arm. 

“No I didn’t!” Peter says, his bottom lip trembling. “It was a accident!”

“Come on, let’s go,” Mulder says, ushering them both to the lobby doors. He throws Scully a significant look, and she nods. 

The bell jangles, and the lobby falls silent as the overtired and under stimulated children exit into the night. 

“Do you need two keys?” the old man asks, that same oblivious smile on his face. 

“One should be fine, thank you,” Scully says. 

She feels the old woman’s eyes on her again, and she slowly turns her head to meet them. 

“Beautiful family,” the woman says flatly.

“Thank you,” Scully says, uneasy. 

She takes the key from the old man and bids them both a good night. As she passes through the doors, she takes one last look at the woman, still perched on the stool with her arms crossed. The woman nods once, and Scully nods back, and though the evening is warm she feels a shiver run up her spine.

-

Mulder is steadily learning that the amount of energy a child exhibits can have an inverse relationship to their level of exhaustion. Not ten minutes after running giggling laps around the motel room—replete with a trampoline by way of the second bed—both Abby and Peter are out cold, a now-requisite row of pillows between them to prevent the younger from kicking the elder in the ribs all night. 

Mulder looks at Scully, only now realizing that he’s spent the entire day waiting for this moment with bated breath. She pushes her mouth into a weak smile and sighs, then walks toward him. He’s anticipating some kind of connection, some shred of affection at the end of such a harrowing day, but she walks past him to her duffle bag and begins to rummage around. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” she says, and his heart sinks. 

He lies in bed and listens to the rush of the water, the plasticky tick of her toiletries and the scuff of her toothbrush. He waits, as he’s been waiting all day, to learn whether they are okay—both their relationship and their safety after whatever happened at the hospital. 

The room is dark when Scully emerges from the bathroom, feeling her way to the other side of the bed and slipping under the covers. He doesn’t reach for her, subconsciously afraid of being rejected, so when she wriggles up beside him and lays her palm on his chest he’s hit with a wave of emotion. He lifts his arm and she replaces her hand with her head, then drapes one leg over his. When he kisses her wet hair she tilts her chin up and he feels her hand on his cheek, guiding him to her lips. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, speaking the words directly into her mouth. 

“What for?” she asks, her fingernails audibly scratching at the hair on his cheek. 

“What happened at the hospital?” he asks instead of answering. 

Scully settles her head back on his chest. 

“In terms of the anaphylaxis, nothing out of the ordinary,” she begins. “He was given epinephrine and it had the intended effect. But there were some questions about the sutures on his neck, and they called the social worker.”

“They thought he was being abused?”

“I don’t know what they thought. But Peter being Peter, he told them all about his adventures in the VW bus with Hickey, Dryers, and French Toast, among other things. In explanation of the sutures, he said that I cut a bug bite off his neck.”

“And they believed him?”

“God no, thankfully. I told them that his father just passed away unexpectedly and he’s having a hard time processing it, hence the fantastical stories. I think the stories were just wild enough that my explanation sounded more plausible than the truth.”

“So they discharged you?”

“It took a while, but yes,” Scully says, her words stretching out into a yawn. 

Mulder sinks deeper into the mattress, tension draining from his muscles. 

“Thank god,” he says, running one hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Scully. I should have remembered. I could have killed him.”

Scully lifts her head, and he feels her eyes on him in the dark. 

“But you didn’t,” she says gently. “He’s okay. It could have just as easily been me.”

“No,” Mulder says sternly. “You wouldn’t fuck up like that; you’re a great mom.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Mulder can hear Peter’s noisy breathing in the next bed, and a train whistle blasting nearby. 

“I couldn’t do this without you,” she finally says, her voice achingly vulnerable. “And I think you’re doing remarkably well, considering that you’ve only been a father for about four days.” Mulder grunts noncommittally. “Did I tell you that I slammed Abby’s hand in the car door once?” she asks. 

“Don’t make things up to placate me, Scully,” he grumbles.

“I’m not making it up,” she insists. “It was maybe a month after I came home from the hospital and she was just starting to warm up to me. Thankfully there were no broken bones, but I felt like the worst mother on earth.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

“Does it?”

“A little.”

“You know what?” she says, rolling on top of him and tucking her face into his neck. “I actually think this officially makes you a parent.”

“Nearly killing my kid?” he scoffs derisively. 

“No,” she says, her breath hot on his neck. “Feeling guilty about messing up. Welcome to parenthood.”

He smiles and runs his hands up and down over her back. 

“At least I’m in good company,” he says, and she chuffs a sleepy laugh against his chest. 

He doesn’t speak again, and neither does she. Abby wakes twice that night, and though Scully tries to comfort her, she won’t stop screaming until she hears Mulder’s voice beside her.   

-

It’s a pleasant, lemony morning. The rising sun drenches the awakening world in warm yellows that reflect brilliantly off the dew-soaked grass, and though there’s a chill in the air Mulder feels cozy and buoyant as he watches Abby practice tricks with Frenchie on a paved path that runs alongside the river. 

As described, the river appears placid, and its waters are ruddy and brackish. A few hundred feet in width, its depth is indiscernible due to the opaqueness of the water, and the banks are tree-bound and mostly inaccessible. Even if not for the fact that they need to keep moving towards their final destination, it’s not a body of water that inspires the urge to swim. 

“Sit!” Abby says sternly, and Frenchie obediently plops her rump onto the pavement. “Good dog,” the child says, holding out her hand so Frenchie can lick a single Froot Loop off her palm. Not the healthiest of treats, but they’re making do. Mulder checks his watch. 

“We’ve got about five more minutes, Bunny, then we gotta hit the road,” he tells her. 

Scully and Peter will be waiting with the van packed up and the room checked out. If they avoid traffic and don’t take too many breaks, they might be able to make it to Bozeman before they stop for the night—especially after they cross into Montana, where the speed limit is more of a suggestion. 

“Shake!” Abby says to Frenchie, holding out her hand, but the dog turns away from her, ears pricked up. “Shake!” Abby says again, but Frenchie is focused on something in the distance. 

A deep rumble vibrates in Mulder’s feet, and he follows Frenchie’s sightline to a slowly approaching freight train. 

“Grab her leash,” Mulder instructs the child, who dutifully picks the end of the leash up off the ground and watches the train engine roll by before it passes over the river on a small wooden trestle. 

The sound of the cars rattling on the track makes Mulder feel a little queasy as the imminent fear and danger of his last train ride are called to the forefront of his mind. He looks down at Abby, who is somberly watching the train pass, and wonders how much she remembers about the man who was her father for just a few short months. He’d ask her, but he doesn’t want to risk calling forth her own painful memories. 

A smile stretches across Abby’s mouth. “There’s the caboose!” she says with delight, pointing to the red car that brings up the rear of the train. 

Her innocent delight at something so simple makes him smile as well, and he wraps one arm around her shoulder, giving her a squeeze. They watch together as the caboose approaches and then passes by, trailing over the river and out of sight. 

Frenchie stands up and growls. 

“Easy,” Mulder says, looping his fingers through her collar. 

“There’s a lady over there,” Abby observes, pointing to the grassy area on the other side of the tracks. 

When Mulder looks to where Abby is pointing, his blood runs cold and his heart skips two beats. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back into an uncharacteristically messy ponytail, but it’s unmistakably her. She lifts one hand and waves a small, unobtrusive wave before she begins to walk toward them. Mulder scans the surrounding area in a panic, expecting to see snipers camped out in the bushes, but she appears to be alone. Frenchie lowers her head and the fur along her spine stands on end. 

Mulder instinctively pats the waistband of his jeans, though he knows he’s unarmed. It was just supposed to be a quick walk to get Frenchie’s energy out before they hit the road. He hadn’t given it a second thought. 

“Take Frenchie and go back to the room,” Mulder says to Abby, and she looks up at him with a mix of confusion and fear. 

“I don’t wanna go by myself,” she says, shaking her head vigorously. 

“Abby, go,” he says severely through clenched teeth.

“No,” she says despondently, grabbing his forearm tightly. 

“Hi,” Diana says brightly as she steps over the tracks. “You must be Abigail.”

Abby steps behind Mulder, Frenchie’s leash still wound around her wrist. Frenchie herself is low to the ground, ears pinned back and a deep warning growl sounding continuously from her throat. 

“Stop right there,” Mulder says, holding his palm out. Diana stops, though by her expression he can tell that she’s mildly offended. 

“Nice to see you, too,” she says facetiously before addressing Frenchie. “Hi, Frenchie girl,” she coos, and the dog snarls, baring her teeth. 

“What do you want, Diana?” Mulder asks bitingly, and she pulls in a deep breath. 

“I just want to talk,” she says with a shrug. 

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” he tells her. 

Diana crosses her arms over her chest, her posture deflating a little. 

“I understand why you’re upset with me, Fox,” she says contritely, digging the toe of her shoe into the soft earth beneath her. “But there are things you don’t know that might change how you feel about what I did. Just give me five minutes, and if you still feel the same way I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

His curiosity is piqued, but so is his anger. He bites his lip painfully hard, aware that whatever Abby bears witness to will only deepen the trauma of this entire experience. He crouches down beside her, pivoting his body so that Diana never leaves his sight, and speaks to her in hushed tones. 

“I’m going to walk over by the train bridge and talk to this lady for a few minutes,” he whispers, and Abby nods. “Stay where I can see you, and if anything happens I want you to run back to the motel and find Mommy, okay?”

“Okay,” she warbles. 

“Hold tight to Frenchie, okay?”

Abby nods, and he slowly moves toward Diana. 

“Don’t come too close,” he says when she starts closing the distance between them, and they walk two arms lengths apart until they are just shy of the trestle before they stop and face each other. Now that she’s closer, he can see the deep purple bags under her eyes and the dry, cracked skin on her lips. She looks like hell. 

“I can’t believe I actually found you,” Diana says with a secretive smile, like he ought to be proud of her. “We got so many tips from all across the country. A daycare center in Decatur, a baseball game in Oakland. But something about the way this woman described you…I just knew it was really you.”

“Well,” Mulder says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Let’s hear it. Please tell me the totally justifiable reason that you destroyed my life.”

Diana scoffs, mirroring his posture. 

“I hardly destroyed your life, Fox. Don’t be dramatic.”

Anger so acute it makes his ears ring floods through him, and he clenches his fists.

“You have five minutes,” he reminds her, and she softens. 

“You don’t understand,” she implores, her eyebrows knit. “I didn’t have a choice. They were going to kill you.” Her typically measured, stoic demeanor is entirely absent, replaced by a desperate, harried version of her that he can’t recall having met in the past. 

“That would have been a preferable option,” Mulder says, and her mouth falls open. 

“I love you,” she says emphatically, and Mulder shakes his head. He should have known that she had nothing new to share. Just lies on lies on lies. 

“I was happy, Diana,” he says levelly.

“I know,” she says, taking one step forward before he holds out his hand to stop her. “I was happy, too. We can be happy again, you just have to trust me. I can fix this.”

“I was happy, and you stole that from me,” he spits at her. “You took my memories, my work. You took Scully from me.” Diana’s demeanor shifts, her contrite facade falling away as her jaw sets and her eyes narrow. “You don’t love me, Diana. You never did.”

“You have no idea what I’ve gone through for you,” she says tightly. “You have no idea what I’ve had to do. You should be thanking me.” 

Mulder barks a derisive laugh. 

“Thanking you?!” He throws a glance to Abby and lowers his voice before continuing. “Which part should I be thanking you for? For making me think I cheated on you so you could use my guilt as a weapon? For forcing me to stay in a job that made me fucking miserable? For making me forget about the most important person to me in the world? Thank you so much, Diana, for turning me into your Stepford husband. It was a blast. But if you’ll excuse me, I have a family to get back to. I hope the rest of your life is just as unbearable as you made mine.”

He turns on his heel and stalks back toward Abby, who has been watching the exchange nervously while Frenchie holds an uncomfortable-looking position beside her, hackles still raised. He just wants to get back to Scully and Peter and get the hell out of here. Maybe they’ll need to change course, or contact the Gunmen for a new set of identities, but right now his only goal is to get as far away from Diana as humanly possible. 

“I’m not going to let you do this to me, Fox,” Diana says loudly from behind them.

Mulder keeps walking with his arm around Abby’s shoulder as she drags a perturbed Frenchie by her leash. Abby, prone to curiosity more than cautiousness at the tender age of six, looks back at Diana and shrieks. 

When Mulder turns to see what she’s reacting to, the bright morning sun glints blindingly off polished gunmetal, disorienting him for just a split second. In that split second, a terrified Abby drops Frenchie’s leash, and the snarling dog charges Diana. Abby screams again, this time worried for the welfare of a dog that she’s only just begun to like. 

Diana doesn’t have time to react, much less shoot. Frenchie is on her in an instant, jaws snapping and sharp white teeth bared, and whether by chance or strategy, her first bite is to the forearm of the hand in which Diana holds her weapon. 

“Frenchie!” Abby sobs, abject terror in her eyes, and Mulder forcefully turns her away from the scene and into his torso, burying her face in his belly. 

Diana is clambering backwards towards the river as Frenchie tears at the flesh of her ankles, painting the bottom of her jeans bright red. Diana lifts her foot and delivers a sharp kick to Frenchie’s skull, and the dog lets out a piercing yelp. Having temporarily stunned her attacker, Diana unsteadily gets to her feet and runs onto the trestle, though her gait is slowed by multiple injuries to her legs and feet. Frenchie follows after her, and Mulder’s initial surprise fades enough that he has the wherewithal to take action.

He grabs Abby by the shoulders and looks at her face, which is bright red and wet with tears. 

“I need you to go get Mommy. I know you’re scared, but I need you to be brave.” Abby chokes out a sob, but she nods, and he points her toward the motel a hundred yards or so away. “Run as fast as you can. Our room is the one next to the ice machine, remember? Go!”

Abby takes off at a terrified sprint, her arms pumping furiously. Mulder turns back to the trestle where Diana and Frenchie are an indecipherable blur of blonde fur and blood-stained cotton, wrestling their way further and further out over the river. As he races toward them, he passes by Diana’s abandoned pistol in the grass, and he kicks it into the edge of the treeline along the river. 

When he reaches the trestle, he steps carefully and quickly over the ties, his eyes on the looped end of Frenchie’s leash dragging along the tracks. Diana is on her back, her arms held defensively in front of her face and her heels braced against the wooden ties as she tries to evade Frenchie’s snapping jaws. Her initial loud cries of pain have subsided into muted wails and grunts, and she is no longer trying to fight back.

Frenchie herself is unrecognizable to Mulder. His typically gentle, mildly protective dog looks crazed and vicious, her muzzle wet with blood and her eyes wide and wild. Her continuous guttural bark echoes off the banks of the river, and she pursues Diana with something akin to blind rage, snatching a mouthful of flesh before she backs off and goes in again at another location. 

Mulder gets close enough to smell the hot, metallic stink of Diana’s blood, and he loops his hand through Frenchie’s leash before sitting down and bracing his feet against the track for leverage. He’s not even sure if his goal is to protect Frenchie from Diana or protect Diana from Frenchie, he just needs to put an end to the violent, bloody scene before him.

Diana scoots away quickly when she realizes that her attacker has been restrained, and Mulder pulls with all his might as Frenchie continues to snarl and lunge at her. For a moment they just sit there like that, Mulder struggling to hold Frenchie back and Diana panting with a shell-shocked expression on her blood-smeared face. She looks at Mulder and he meets her eyes, and Diana’s face crumples as she lets out a devastated sob. She starts pawing at her ankle then stands abruptly, swaying under the effects of blood loss and adrenaline.

She looks past him, anger, grief, and frustration contorting her mouth into a grimace. When she raises her arms and he sees the weapon in her hand, he looks sharply over his shoulder and sees Scully standing a few yards behind him, gun drawn. 

“Scully!” he shouts, but there isn’t time to say anything more. 

He lets go of Frenchie’s leash and she lurches forward, teeth bared. There’s the crack of a bullet, and Diana’s body twists from the impact to her shoulder just as Frenchie pushes up onto her hind legs and slams them into Diana’s belly. Amidst a spray of blood, Diana tumbles over the side of the trestle and Frenchie follows, down and down as though in slow motion, until one strikes the smooth surface of the river, and then the other. 

Mulder watches, gobsmacked, as Diana’s inky head surfaces and then disappears under the ruddy water. He spots her again a short distance further down the river, hair plastered to her face as she gasps for air before slipping back under. He continues to watch, holding his eyes open, for long enough that Scully makes her way to him, but he doesn’t see Diana come up again. 

“Are you okay?” Scully asks breathlessly, crouching down beside him and taking in the blood-stained trestle. 

“Yeah,” he says flatly, still watching. 

“I just clipped her shoulder,” she says, visually scanning the river. “She could have made it to shore.”

Mulder shakes his head slowly. 

“She can’t swim.”

Scully is quiet, and when he’s absolutely sure that Diana has not emerged from the swath of the river that he can see, he turns to look at her. Her expression is curious, and a bit concerned. She’s unsure whether Diana’s death is cause for celebration or mourning. 

“She can’t hurt us anymore,” he says, caught off guard when his throat tightens and cuts off the end of his words. 

Scully closes her eyes briefly and then loops her arm around his neck, pulling his head to her chest. He breathes her in deep, allowing the steady beat of her heart under his ear to calm his nervous system. 

“I’m sorry about Frenchie,” she says softly, and Mulder heaves a sigh before pulling away. 

“Where are the kids?” he asks, getting to his feet. 

“In the van. We should get out of here before the cops show up,” Scully says, already headed back down the trestle towards the motel. 

As they cross the grassy field that separates the riverfront park from the motel, Scully stops abruptly and lays her hand on his forearm. 

“What?” he asks, his stomach dropping out. 

“Did you hear that?” she asks, flashing her eyes up to him. 

He holds his breath and strains his ears. There’s a thin, watery bark far off in the distance. 

“It’s probably not her,” he says, tempering his own hope. 

“Probably not,” Scully agrees. 

They start to walk and he hears it again, a little bit louder than before. Mulder stops and turns in the direction of the bark, his hands cupped around his mouth. 

“Frenchie!”

Another woof, this one of a more optimistic pitch. Scully calls her name as well, and they wait. 

“Mulder,” she says, pointing into the brambled tree line beside the river. 

He sees her there, a sopping wet muddy yellow blob, hobbling through a tangle of blackberry bushes and twigs. His heart swells with relief and joy, and he takes off running as his faithful companion limps into the grass, tail wagging and a smile on her panting mouth. When he reaches her, he drops to his knees and scoops her up, and she licks his face as her fur soaks his jeans and t-shirt. 

“Good girl,” he says, scratching her ears. “You did a good job, French Fry.”

He’s overcome with emotion, and Frenchie licks away the tears that wet his cheeks. He can’t bring himself to feel any sadness for the loss of Diana; whatever he thought they once had, he now knows that it was never real. He was a possession to her, a thing she felt entitled to. She’d rather have seen him dead than happy without her. What she felt toward him was the furthest thing from love imaginable. 

Now that she’s gone, maybe he can finally find some peace. 

Tagging @today-in-fic

[maybege]

Birthday Parties - FBI 10

Summary: It is your birthday and it does not go as expected. (Part 10 of FBI)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.2k | Rating: T

Warnings: we all hate Josh and we will swoon over Hotch

So, uh, welcome back, I guess. I hope you are all doing well! I am slowly working on fics besides my thesis and it was a lot of fun to get back to Hotch. I hope you are still somewhat interested because I promise, things are now going to be heating up a little 👀 As always, please let me know what you thought in a reblog or a comment, to hear from you truly means the world to me!

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

“You are distracted today, why?”

You looked up from your screen to find Hotch standing beside your desk, mustering you quietly. Great. That was the last thing you needed.

These last two weeks had been pure hell. Very stressful hell. First, there was stress at work, which was something you were used to by now. But then there was stress at home and that was a factor you hadn’t been prepared for and something you, therefore, could not handle. At all.

Josh had decided to fill every little slice of free time you had at home with inviting people over – from the quiet but okay John to the absolutely unbearable Amber – and there wasn’t one minute you had to yourself. Even with limiting your time in the shared rooms and just quickly whipping something up for dinner before hiding in your room to the tunes of The Nanny title sequence, you could still hear Amber’s annoying chatter more than you’d like.

Add to that your mother who had decided that you, in fact, did not know what you were doing and the best thing would be to insinuate that you should come home at every phone call, safe to say your life was pretty miserable right now.

At this point, all you wanted was some peace and quiet as you attempted to watch Bridget Jones’s Diary for the umpteenth time.

And today was the worst day.

“I am not distr-“

Hotch threw you what Reid had previously called The Boss Look – absolutely unconvinced and with his eyebrow cocked up as he still held the file in his hand – and you faltered. Remembering the look he threw you when you had brought yet another load of banana bread to the office kitchen to him, you decided that it wasn’t worth lying to him. He could read you like a book anyway.

“It’s, uh, it’s my birthday,” you admitted shyly, not knowing if he was really interested in your personal life woes. Probably not. But he had asked for it and you knew Agent Hotchner would only ever be satisfied with the truth.

“A-and my roommate, well my best friend, he organized this dinner for me and –“

Hotch cocked his eyebrow even more and you grew quiet. “Sorry. I, uh, I will make an effort to have those reports finished, Sir. I promise.��

Hotch nodded, though he didn’t look very happy, and the moment he walked away, you internally cursed yourself. Clearly, this had been oversharing on your part. Why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut for once?

“What was that about?” Derek asked you, setting down the coffee he had just gotten on his desk. You knew he meant well, Derek Morgan always did, but you had just learned your lesson and just shook your head with a smile. “Nothing really,” you murmured, “I just need to focus on these reports if I want to leave early today.”

It took you another two hours and a copious amount of tea to get the texts to a level that was at least somehow acceptable. With a look at the time, you knew it was now or never.

Hotch’s door was slightly ajar and you peeked your head inside. “I got the reports finished.”

He nodded, not looking up from whatever he was writing. “Great, put them here with the others, please.”

Your heels made a dull sound on the carpet in his office, echoing your heartbeat. It had been weeks since your case in Fargo and weeks since he had shown you the kind of affection that let you hope he might like you in any way, shape or form. Sometimes you wondered if he was avoiding you but then you remembered that you were the one who ran around like a headless chicken in an attempt to keep control of your unravelling life.

The papers added another inch to a pile of files that were already too high for your liking.

“And what?”

Your head shot up, meeting his eyes. He was sitting at his desk, his hands still posed over the reports, looking at you as if it was clear what he had been asking. “What?”

“You didn’t finish your point earlier,” he made a loose gesture with his hand and you tilted your head.

Did he really want to know about your personal life? You eyed him for a moment, expecting him to burst out laughing and tell you it was all a joke. The moment never came.

“Josh, uhm, I think he wanted to do me a favour so that people are there as I … haven’t really found a new friend group since moving here but,” you sighed, for the first time showing your disappointment openly, “It’s just his friends from work and he knows I don’t even like them. So, it’s just,” you let out another deep breath, avoiding his eyes, “I am not looking forward to it.”

He made a non-committal sound at the back of his throat, leaning back in his chair. “Why not tell him you would prefer not to have them invited?”

“Because that’s still a better option than spending the evening of my birthday completely alone,” you admitted, knowing it would make no sense to lie to the man in front of you. He could read you like an open book anyway and this way, at least, you’d have control over how much you humiliated yourself in front of him.

“If you would excuse me,” you murmured, not giving him the chance to reply, “I have a birthday dinner to attend to.”

*

Hours later, you were wishing yourself back to the office and working on all the reports Derek didn’t want to do. At least you wouldn’t have to endure this.

“So, uh, what do you do?”

“I work for the environmental law department,” John explained to the group of guests Josh had invited, and you felt excitement bubbling up in your chest, “A few months now, it’s really exciting.”

“Oh wow,” you exclaimed, genuinely impressed, “So what kind of cases does that entail? That’s so interesting!”

“It is,” he smiled, “Currently, I am working on a case involving the –“

“Ugh, this wine really isn’t very good,” Amber jeered next to you, looking down at the glass in her hands. John paused, clearly surprised by the sudden interruption as was the rest of the group.

“Amber, it’s your second glass of that wine,” you replied, unsure of what was happening.

She shrugged, “Can you get me another one? Do you have any red wine?”

You hated red wine.

John looked at you with sympathy and you threw a look at Josh who just stared at the bottom of his glass as if that would somehow give him the answer to a question he had posed. No one made a move.

You sighed, pushing your shoulders back and throwing her an extra wide smile, “Sure, let me take a look in the kitchen.”

Amber only nodded at you.

You made your way to the kitchen, hating how you were barefoot when all the guests had decided to leave their shoes on. The entire evening was a disaster, you felt. No one had even known it was your birthday and you had the sneaking suspicion that Josh had just told that story to you so he could have a party without feeling bad about not spending time with you.

So here you were, trapped with his friends and him in your apartment with no excuse to just retreat back to your room and watch a sad movie so you could cry your heart out.

How could you feel so lonely in a room full of people?

You threw open the door to the fridge, looking at the different bottles Josh had stocked there only to find out that he had taken your ice cream from the freezer to make space for ice cubes.

Tears stung in your eyes, frustration building up as you grabbed a bottle of white wine from the fridge. That was your emergency ice cream for a bad day.

“Hey, hon,” Josh chirped as he entered the kitchen, going to the freezer and getting out the ice cubes as if nothing was amiss.

“Why did you pull out my ice cream?” you asked, hating how small your voice became now that you were confronting him.

“I needed space for the ice.”

“You could have taken out your ice cream,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest, “And why is Amber acting like this is her apartment?”

He frowned, “She’s not. She’s just comfortable around us, that’s a good thing.”

“Josh, for once, could you just – “

The doorbell rang.

You took a deep breath, pressing your hand against your chest as you tried to just calm down. This did not have to be miserable. This could be nice. You just had to go out there and smile and pretend everything was all right when you really really did not feel like it.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Josh said, his voice sincere, “Here, I will get the wine to Amber and you get the door, does that sound good?”

“Yeah,” you muttered under your breath when he had already left for the living room, “I don’t even know how many people you invited to this fucking thing.”

You did not feel any better as you stood in front of the door, opening it with a greeting on your tongue that dried out the second you saw who was standing in front of you.

“Hello!” Derek slipped through the open door as you gawked at them. At all of them.

They were all here.

There was Derek, dressed casually as always, sending you a blinding smile as he held up a six-pack of beer. Next, Garcia in her ever colourful dress carried a big wrapped present with a mismatched bow on top.

“Happy birthday!” JJ exclaimed, pulling you into a one-armed hug as she raised the bottle of prosecco in her other hand, “I got you the good one!”

“Uh, thanks,” you stuttered, watching her follow Morgan and Garcia to where the food was.

One by one they filed past you grinning at you, and – in Reid’s case – waving at you excitedly as he eyed the pictures in the hallway.

“I hope we aren’t too late,” Hotch’s voice ripped you out of your thoughts and you turned back to the door, seeing that he was the only one left standing there, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“No, I –“ you swallowed back the tears, “You – you told them?”

He didn’t answer but that was already answer enough. Something warm bloomed in your chest at the thought that he had done that for you.

“Uh, Rossi mentioned that flowers might be nice,” he held up a bouquet. It was so enormous you were surprised you had not noticed it until now.

“Thank you, Hotch,” you brought out, taking it from him and letting him step inside. His fingers brushed over yours and a shiver went through you. Suddenly, even the wide hallway seemed too small for the both of you.

“You look nice,” he commented suddenly, a friendly smile on his face that made your heart skip a beat.

“Thank you,” you whispered, looking down at the dark red slip dress you had donned for the occasion. It reached just a little past your knees, the skirt flaring every time you made a spin (which had also been the reason you had bought it in the first place – you loved a good twirl).

It was the first time that evening someone had paid you a compliment.

“You didn’t have to, you know,” you tried to say, “But I really appreciate it.”

“I wanted to,” he replied, still standing in front of you.

Then he turned around, making his way to the others and you found yourself reaching for his arm, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“Thank you Hotch,” you murmured, avoiding his eyes to not let him see just how close you were to crying, “It – You have no idea how much this means to me.”

His big hand clasped over yours, squeezing softly. “Anytime.”

In the living room, the arrival of your colleagues had not gone unnoticed.

“Um, Josh, everyone, these are my colleagues from work,” you said with a proud smile, gesturing to the group of newly arrived guests. Garcia smiled excitedly at everyone. “And uh, this is Josh,” you said, pointing to him, “My roommate.”

“And best friend,” he added, smiling politely at all of them, “Pleasure to meet you.”

From then, the conversation continued as usual. Everyone split off into smaller groups and you were happy that you did not have to talk to Amber anymore. You even got to finally taste some of the appetizers in peace, already eyeing the cake you had gotten from the bakery around the corner.

You were joking with Emily and Garcia bout the next girl’s night when you heard a comment from right behind you.

“To be honest, I am surprised you would even show up. It’s not like she’s a star agent or anything.”

Josh.

You frowned, seeing a similar expression on Garcia’s and Emily’s faces before you slowly turned around. He was right behind you, his back to you which explained why he had felt like he was safe to make such a statement.

Did he believe what he had said?

He was standing in a circle with Amber and John as well as another couple of his friends, but most importantly, you found Hotch and Derek staring right back at you. Josh had said that to them. To your colleagues and, most importantly, your boss.

Heat crept up your neck, flooding your cheeks and ears as you found shame spreading all around you. You felt paralyzed by his words. By your best friend saying something so … demeaning about you.

Yours and Hotch’s eyes locked and he must have seen something in them because he took the largest gulp of scotch you had ever seen him drink.

“On the contrary, she is a very capable agent,” he stated dryly, “Her presence in the team and her additions on the field are irreplaceable just like everyone on this team is. If she is not a star agent then none of us are.”

“That’s true!” Reid piped up, “Uh, for example when it came to the Headless Killer, she was –“

“Who’s the Headless Killer?” John asked innocently and you winced when Reid went off into a long-winded, untypically graphic and completely fabricated story about some serial killer off in North Dakota. You could spot the amused glint in his eyes and even Hotch looked like he was hiding a smirk as Josh’s guests shifted uncomfortably.

“That much for party conversation, huh?” Derek joked, taking a long sip of his beer. But even as the tension dissolved, most of Josh’s guests going back to their previous conversations, your eyes were still on Hotch.

He was looking at the floor, hand around the whiskey glass in his hand as JJ told him something and he nodded, looking serious as ever. Heat rose into your cheeks. Why did it feel like he had defended you just then? Had he defended you?

Josh passed you, clearly on his way to the kitchen and you excused yourself from Emily and Garcia before following him. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you gathered the courage to confront him. Humiliation was still burning in your stomach and it didn’t help that he – the one person who you thought was your best friend – was the source of it.  

“Josh, that wasn’t an okay comment to make,” you opened, remaining standing in the doorway as he stood in front of the kitchen aisle, not even really acknowledging it.

“It was just a joke, hon,” he shrugged off, opening a cabinet, “Do you know where we put that spare bottle opener?”

“It was not a funny one, then. And I would appreciate it if you stopped making jokes about my work. Or about me.”

“Look at that Miss Innocent finally found her claws,“ he groaned, “Seriously, did we get it out already? I could’ve sworn, I put it here.”

“It’s right here,” you said, opening the drawer closest to you, and bit your lip. You wanted to say more, wanted to get him to apologize, to see how wrong he was. How he had hurt you. But, as it often was, the words wouldn’t leave your mouth and so you just watched him smile at you, shaking the bottle opener in his hands before leaving you alone in the kitchen.

You took a deep breath, staring into your glass, and trying to gather the courage to go back and face everyone.

“You alright, kid?” you turned to find Morgan leaning against the door, obviously having noticed your confrontation – if it could even be called that – with Josh. You sighed, bringing your wine glass back to your lips.

“He means well,” you tried to explain, although the more you had to think and say it this evening, the more you doubted it.

“My experience is that the people we need to clarify that about usually don’t care if they mean well or not,” Morgan said, tilting his head as he looked at you inquisitively.

You were certainly not in the mood to discuss your deteriorating friendship with Josh. You heard shuffling in the hallway and frowned, peaking your head out of the kitchen to catch your colleagues regrouping in the tiny space in front of the door.

“Penelope, what are you doing?” you asked the woman who shouldered her bag.

“We are going out.”

You felt something inside you shatter. Probably your heart.

But who could blame them, honestly? It was a horrible dinner or party, whatever it would end up being.

“Oh of course,” you nodded, swallowing back the anxiety.

Hotch met your eyes over her shoulders and you could see his throat bob as he swallowed. He didn’t say anything but you imagined seeing a little bit of doubt in his eyes.

Apparently, one did not need to be a profiler to notice the sadness on your face because the blonde technician rolled her eyes good-naturedly and grabbed you by the arm. “And obviously you are coming with us, silly!”

“Me?” you stuttered, “B-But the party –“

“Yes,” Emily appeared by your side, “You need to celebrate, not mope around with these strangers.”

You were not going to lie, celebrating sounded kind of nice.

“Okay,” you murmured, seeing Reid and Morgan grin at your agreement, “Let’s go celebrate.”

You turned to the living room where Josh was in an avid discussion with Amber. “Josh, I will go out with my friends,” you said, your heart skipping a beat at calling these people your friends. But they were right and at the moment even more your friends than he was. “I hope you don’t mind, I know you put a lot of planning into –“

“Sure thing,” he called, waving you off, “Have fun!”

And at that moment, you decided, you would have a lot of fun. Even if it was just out of spite.

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

The Spider-band (with lots of OCs!)

3 season 2 TV movie show in my head of Hobie, Gwen , Diane , Ansi , Artie (another Hobie) , and Percy in a Spider-band, going on their first world tour.

They're called Wicked Webs

They live on a tour bus, with Hobie's Daredevil, Riri, and Kamala tagging along as well as Angel, who does sound tech, Mariah and Pavi being their charismatic manager and stage manager.

The show is somewhat about their music and shows but it's mainly a It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia style comedy - about the shenanigans the band gets into during off time.

The bus breaking down in the middle of nowhere and they end up at the weirdddestt pub - they're sure they're about to get super murdered but somehow Ansi makes friends with the biker gang????

Hobie loses his guitar and it's the whole gang retracing his steps in the middle of snow-struck Fargo and Hobie can't understand anyone's accents.

A rotten egg gets stuck in the tour bus vent and they spend three hours trying to web it out.

Stuff like that.

Sacha and Tomoka are the wardrobe managers and Diane's variant Annie is the snappy make-up artist.

Asa is their recording manager who lives in New London with his kids, looking after the band when they're back legs of the tour, managing them recording songs in the studio, giving statements, setting up concerts etc.

And the whole thing is shot like a behind-the-scenes documentary.

They're a legit band about to go Platinum, they do talk shows and interviews and photoshoots that somehow always goes wrong because that band is a walking disaster but their music is ICONIC

They get in major trouble because they literally WRECKED the set during a Rolling Stones shoot with their mayhem

Umm. That. In my head. A lot of it. Lol

We are Wicked Webs and we're here to make you hate the government and break shit and stuff!!!! 1 2 3 4-

-----------------

OC's mentioned:

Mines:

Disco-Spider Diane, Hobie's Variant Artie Brown, Diane's Variant Annie, Hobie's Mary-Jane Mariah

Others:

@spidey-bie Ansi, @autisticarach Asa, @thewolfsoul Percy, @onmyownside1 Angel, and @mothmothmothmothmothmoth Sacha & Tomoka

I think that's everyone lol

[safedistancefrombeingsmart]

Hi! I'm kinda new to the fandom, and when I say 'new to the fandom' I mean that I've recently discovered I've a soft spot for Martin 😅😂. I'm checking out your posts and I'm really enjoying your blog. I waned to ask you some questions, I hope you don't mind 🙃

Like, what movies/series with Martin would you recommend me to watch? Up to now I've already watched Breeders, bbc Sherlock and The Hobbit and I'm planning to watch Cargo and The Responder and I think I'll leave Nativity for Christmas 😂

I also meant to ask what are your favourite facts/things about him? Or if you have any headcanons(?) about him.. yk just to get to know more things about him 😂 sorry if it sounds too weird ahah

Lastly, would you mind tagging some- preferably still active- blogs about Martin that you enjoy?

Sorry if you've already been asked these questions, you could link your previous answers, maybe I just haven't stumbled upon those posts just yet.

Thank you very much 🧡

Hello there,

first of all, congrats to your excellent taste. (on Martin.... and on my blog, I suppose) 😃 And of course, I don't mind.

With Breeders and Sherlock you've already watched my 2 personal favourites. I'll also have to recommend Fargo and The Responder. And The Office (the original version from the UK, he was fantastic in that!). Also, StartUp is worth a watch, even tho Martin's role is not that big. But every scene he is in is automatically 500% better. Small warning: The Shower Scene™ and the Cafecito Scene™ should be illegal. I am more a fan of Martin's tv work, but as movies I really like Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Black Panther, Ode to Joy, The World's End. The Hobbit movies as well. I am really looking forward to see Miller's Girl, which should be released at the beginning of next year (February?).

What I like about him? So many things: his love for music and fashion, his sense of humour (often misunderstood, but it's 100% my cup of tea), his thoughts on fame (he hates it), the way he always speaks his mind (which many people see as rude, but I envy how he doesn't give a shit about what other people think about him and his opinions), his hair (😆, i hope it grows back fast once he's done with shooting the 2nd season of The Responder), his looks in general. Just the way he talks: I could listen to him for hours and don't get bored. I don't really have headcanons, I think.

Truly active Martin blogs are rare these days, sadly. Lots of Sherlock blogs around, but blogs dedicated to Martin are hard to find.

@colourfulwatson @sannapersikka @free-martinis @shiroinu98mf and there is always my sideblog @martinfreemanspotter. ^^

And no worries, I enjoyed answering your questions. You have more? Great, send another ask! :D

Thanks for the ask!

[loveshotzz]

My father turned on the TV and free guy was on and my dad stopped and pointed at the screen and said "I know that guy who is he!!" And I just gave him a blank look and said Fargo and my dad did the D: face and went "GATOR!? KEYS IS GATOR? I had no clue! He looks so different and he's not an idiot here!" And my mother went "He's cute"(she hasn't seen fargo) and dad went "well yes thats true"

Lmaoooo your dad is amazing ♥️ and what’s so funny is my mom called Steve a cutie the first time she watched Stranger things, but also didn’t recognize him either in fargo!! I guess they just don’t stare at his face for 20 hours out of the day like some of us 😔

I love that your family is pro joe keery lmao

[landojpg04]

Ok, so I have been addicted to Outer Range and Fargo and wanted to create something with a twist. It's gonna follow my own plot, but have some details from both of the shows. Obviously its gonna be with Gator because Joe keery. But i wanted to see what you guys think of this small snippet.

Rumor is Rhett's younger sister. And they grew up alongside the Tillman household. Roy sees Rumor as a rebel as she went to school to pursue her dream, but Gator couldn't care less about what his father thinks about her.

“You’re never round here any more, Rumor.” Peter said to me. He was in the competition with Rhett and grabbed me as I was looking for Gator.

“Yeah, well I did move the day after graduation.” I was annoyed with Peter’s antics. He's been pulling this shit since sophomore year. The same year my boobs came in.

“Well is there anything that could make you move back? Maybe someone?” He said moving closer to me, I noticed he was trying to sneakily move his hat to fit on to my head. I begin to laugh and his foolish antics

“You put that hat on her Collins I swear I will break every single bone in that arm of yours.”

Right on time. 

I turn around to see the carrier of that voice. Still in full uniform, standing well over six feet. He had one hand on his belt while the other held the top of his vest as he stalked over. Peter audibly gulps, standing in front of me.

“Move, your pony ride is coming up.” He growls out as he is now standing next to me. Peter nods, and frantically turns to walk away.

“What the hell am I gonna do with you. Not even a full twenty-four hours back home, and these assholes are already on the prowl for you,” I just shrug at his comment. I turn my body towards him. I wanted to take him in. For almost a full year, we have been away from one another. 

His hair is slicked back, but I can tell it's longer. He smells like cologne and nicotine. I know he didn't grow, but with his work boots on, I feel as if I’m straining my neck a bit more to meet his eyes. He looks good. He notices me taking him in; he grows red in the cheeks and lets a small smile pass through.

“You look good.” I say.

“I look good because I knew my girl was back in town. Should've seen me yesterday, I was a mess.”

It was his turn to take me in. His eyes travel down and back up.

“Your hair got longer since I last saw you.”

He grabs my arm. I can feel what he is gonna say next.

“Did your Reese yell at you for not eating enough down there?”

“Shes been feeding me as much as Rylee the entire day.”

He laughs. “You look good Rue, “ he begins to move closer, I close my eyes and feel him ghost over my lips “You look good.”