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thankschef-blog · 1 hour ago

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OH STOPPPP I LOVE MY LIFEEEEE

જ⁀➴°⋆ first day

°⋆ pairing: clark kent x wife!reader

°⋆ summary: in which clark kent and his wife haven't had a quiet day in their house since their daughter april was born, but now that it's time for her first day of school ever, they're both a little upset by the silence.

°⋆ warnings: no use of y/n, they both cry, lmk if i missed something

°⋆ wc: 1.5k

There’s a peacefulness when Clark wakes up in bed beside his wife.

This has been a dreaded day for a while, and the conversations leading up to it had been endless. They’ve both been preparing to wake up this morning and walk their daughter down to the school bus for the first time in her life. But no amount of preparing could stop the inevitable emotions.

“Honey, wake up,” he whispers, softly brushing her hair to the side so he can kiss her cheek. She stirs, slightly, and he speaks in her ear this time, “It’s 7, we gotta wake April up and get ready for school.”

“Do we really have to?” She groans. Neither of them really want to do this.

“Yes, baby. We really have to. Today is the first day.” He reminds her, reaching out to rub her shoulders gently in the way he knows she can’t resist. Slowly, she sits up, and he’s out of bed to help her stand before she can blink.

“I hate that super speed thing sometimes.” She grumbles, taking his hand and standing up to get dressed.

Most mornings getting ready are spent happily, poking each other as they brush teeth, leaning down as she fixes his hair, sneaking in a little kiss here and there while April is still sleeping. It’s full of laughter, and squeals, and love. He loves the way her eyes sparkle when she looks up at him, the way she laughs when he picks out a wildly inappropriate work outfit that she certainly can’t wear.

This morning, they get ready in silence. There’s a certain solemnity between them, because both of them know there’s not going to be squealing coming from their favourite third party today. Normally, it’s different. Her workplace has a daycare where they leave April, and every day, they do lunch breaks together. Clark flies every day from the Daily Planet just so they can have that 45 minutes together in the middle of the day. But there will be none of that today. And they both understand this.

She’s already gone to make breakfast for them, so he’s the one who goes to wake April. He cracks the door open, smiling. “Wakey wakey, rise and shine.” He crosses the bedroom in two strides, kneeling by her bed side. “You ready for your first day of school, princess?”

“Yeah, I’m ready, daddy!” Sure enough, when he pulls the blanket off of her, she’s already in her school clothes. “I got excited went to bed in my outside clothes.” She’s beaming, showing off the two front teeth she’s lost. Clark’s heart is aching. He scoops her up from bed, lifting her up in his arms and spinning her around. It always makes her laugh, and in that regard, today is no different. By the time he lowers her so she’s resting in one arm by his hip, she’s giggling uncontrollably.

“Where’s your backpack, peanut?” He asks, looking down at April like she’s the only thing in the universe.

“In the kitchen.” She nods proudly. He starts to go there, but she whines in protest. “Wait, daddy, I wanna take Mr Whiskers.”

Mr Whiskers is the rabbit that April had ever since the first day she was born. Now, five years later, he’s ratty and covered in drool, despite the fact they just washed him last week. “Are you sure, April? I don’t know if taking stuffed animals to school is a good idea.”

“I want him to meet all my new friends!”

Maybe he’s from Krypton, but in the end, Clark Kent is just a man. And no man would ever say no to his daughter after she said something like that.

When they get to the kitchen, breakfast is already on the table, and she’s setting down the maple syrup. April jumps out of Clark’s arms and runs for a hug, which she gets, no question. “There’s my girl.” Despite the happy tone, there’s a sadness behind her eyes that Clark can’t miss. He’s not stupid, after all. “Eat up, you’ve got a really big day ahead of you, sweetheart.”

April is chatting animatedly as she eats, sloppy and spilling jam on Mr Whiskers as she clutches him to her chest. From what Clark is catching, she’s talking about how she’s going to say hi to every kid she sees, and smile at everyone so that they’ll just have to be friends with her. But all he can focus on is his wife, and her sad eyes as she pushes the last piece of her only pancake around her plate. No parent looks forward to this day.

A squeal breaks them both out, and before they know it, April is running for her backpack. “The school bus is here! I heard! I heard!”

“Wait, honey, wait for us,” She motions for Clark to get up as well, holding a napkin. She kneels in front of April when they both reach the door, and wipes her face off, which was a good idea. The poor girl had made a terrible mess of herself eating breakfast. “We’ll walk you to the bus.”

So she takes one of April’s hand, and Clark takes the other, and they walk down the front path. Before they reached the halfway marker, the girl ripped away from them and ran towards the open doors, not even looking back.

“Bye, April!” They both shout at the same time, watching her backpack bounce with each step as she races excitedly to start her new school year.

It’s not three seconds before the doors close and the bus drives away that Clark hears a choked sob from beside him. Without hesitation, his arms opened, and he pulls her into a hug.

“She didn’t say goodbye.” She sobs into his chest. One of Clark’s hands tangles in her hair, grounding her as he cradled the back of her head, and the other wraps around her back. He carries her back into the house effortlessly, setting her down and closing the door. They both crumple to the ground in an instant, and Clark would be lying if he said he didn’t shed a few tears too. “Clark, she didn’t even look back at us.”

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love us, sweetheart.” He whispers, pressing his wobbly lips into her hair. “She’s just excited. She’s five, she doesn’t know any better. She wants to go make new friends.”

“I just- I’m not gonna have lunch with her today. I’m not going to hear her voice for a whole eight hours. What am I gonna do all day?” She cries, hard, and Clark is kicking himself because this is one of those times in his life where he can’t do anything to make it all better.

Well. He can. Sort of.

“We’re gonna go to work. I’m gonna come and have lunch with you like we always do. Then both of us will leave early today, and we’ll pick her up together, and she’ll tell us all about the wonderful day she had and all of the friends that she made.” He pulls back slightly, just enough that he can look down at her. His hands cup her cheeks, and his thumbs swipe her tears away. Then he leans in and he kisses her forehead. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“She’s going to have a life outside of us, Clark. Soon she’s gonna hate us.” She babbles, and Clark’s heart melts. His heart is really taking a hit today.

“No, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. You know April loves us.” He murmurs, catching her lips in a soft kiss. “Just think about it. It’s only a few hours. Then she’ll be happier than ever.”

Later, they’re both waiting outside the school apprehensively. The nervous energy is tangible. April is the first kid to run out when the doors open, flying into their arms. She’s tucked in the car seat in the back within 2 minutes, already chattering about her day at school.

“And my new teacher is nice. And all the kids are nice. I made friends with a whole bunch of people.” She’s speaking through the crackers they’d packed for her, because her manners lessons obviously haven’t worked yet.

“Well, I’m glad you had a good day, peanut.” Clark smiles, his eyes wrinkling as he looks at her through the rearview mirror.

“Good day.” She parroted, stuffing more crackers into her mouth. This time, she swallows her bite before saying, “But… I missed you and mommy all day.”

Clark’s heart is really taking a hit today.

credits to thecutestgrotto for the dividers!

taglist: @thankschef-blog (to be added!)

a/n: since its back to school season this idea struck me and i just had to do something about it... i love clark kent and i love this idc if its slop

#𝜗𝜚 emma loml #thankschef reads!

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thankschef-blog · 15 hours ago

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i teared up then i cheered then i teared up again and now i’m cheering AGAIN. jumping around rn

LIES ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: after ohio, you rebuild your armor and pretend the kiss didn’t happen. two weeks of awkward distance, a charged moment at the gun range, and a stairwell conversation later, you tell spencer the cruelest lie you can think of. it should end there — but then he finds the only evidence that can prove you wrong.

genre: angst. just a lotta angst (sorry)

tags/warnings: make sure you read “head rush” first or this won’t make any sense! tw one scene takes place at a shooting range. reader is elle's sister, tension/distance/avoidance, almost-kiss moment in a highly inappropriate setting, reader is a lying liar who lies, hurt spencer reid (but he kinda stands up for himself!!), ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, no use of y/n

a/n: yeah I know what you guys are gonna say 🫣 i know this is mean!!! I’m SORRY, don’t hate me!!! just trust me when I say it’s all for a reason. it wouldn’t be greenaway!reader without angst, u know? next part is coming this week too so I swear I won’t make you sit and suffer for long. | GIF creds to @reidgif ! 🫶🏼

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

It’s the first Monday back in the office after the case in Ohio — three days since a kiss that didn’t happen and also very much did. The bruise at your temple has faded to a yellow color you can hide if the light is kind, but the wanting is harder to ignore.

You decide to be early, as if punctuality is a shield you can wear over everything else. Spencer’s already at his desk when you arrive, of course — legal pad open, handwriting so small it almost looks like a secret code. You drop your bag near your desk and feel the pressure change in the room when he notices you.

You accidentally stand at the same time he does and make a ceremony of needing printer paper from the supply closet down the hall. You count the ceiling tiles, take the long route, and by the time you get back, there’s a cup on your desk: your name written in black pen ink, a crooked little Möbius strip doodled beneath it. You say thank you to the cup more than to Spencer directly.

“You’re welcome,” he says with a small nod.

At nine, Hotch calls for a briefing. The room choreographs itself: JJ standing by the screen, Morgan sprawling at the far end of the table, Rossi hunched over a case file. You choose a seat two chairs away from your usual spot next to Spencer and try to ignore the look Prentiss gives you as you sit down.

Victimology, timelines, pens clicking. When you speak, your voice is steady enough to fool most people: “The timing of the crimes suggests the unsub might be a night-shift employee. He sticks to the early daylight hours, which correlates to the time he might be getting off work.” You keep your eyes on the board.

Spencer threads in a beat later. “The murders all cluster between 6:15 and 7:45am, and the scenes all sit within two miles of three 24-hour sites with graveyard shifts: a hospital, a distribution hub, and a bus depot. If he isn’t employed there, he’s at least hovering during those hours.”

He doesn’t look over at you directly, but his addition reinforces your point to something more solid. He does that often — makes you sound smarter by agreeing with you in a way that feels like a true partnership.

“Good catch, you two,” Hotch says. “We’re just consulting on this one from Quantico for now, so no go bags needed. Yet.”

—

Midafternoon, you and Spencer converge on the basement records room at the same time. He keeps to the left aisle; you take the right. His sleeve rides up when he reaches for an evidence box, and you notice the way his muscles flex as he moves before swiftly training your gaze on a peeling label until the letters stop meaning anything.

Back in the corridor, he matches your pace, remembers not to, then overcorrects.

At six, the bullpen thins. Morgan leans on your desk and floats the idea of one drink at O’Keefe’s; you cite a headache and laundry. He grins like he’s collecting excuses for sport and leaves you with a “rain check” you both know you’ll never let anyone cash.

When it gets quiet enough to hear yourself think, you glance up and find Spencer alone at his desk. He leans back, tilting his head. You’re halfway to forming a sentence that says something reckless when he turns to look at you like he felt you thinking it. Your eyes hit your monitor a fraction too late to look innocent.

At 7:30, he pauses at the edge of your desk on his way out, both hands wrapped firmly around the strap of his messenger bag. “See you tomorrow," he says quietly.

“Night,” you answer without looking up.

The Möbius strip on your long-empty coffee cup looks back at you, a loop that doubles over on itself and pretends it’s a path forward. You slide the sleeve off and, without looking, tuck it into your drawer like muscle memory.

—

Tuesday comes and goes without a coffee from Spencer at your desk. So does Wednesday, and every day after that. You try — and fail — to convince yourself that’s a good thing.

—

On Thursday, the “we’ll consult from Quantico” plan mutates into a quick out-and-back on the jet. JJ’s asleep under a blanket; Morgan has an arm over his eyes; Prentiss is pretending to read. You take the open seat across from Spencer (diagonally across, not directly) and angle yourself towards the window like clouds are compelling television.

“How’s the head?” he asks, low enough not to wake anyone.

“Sometimes fine,” you say. “It comes in waves.”

He slides a bottle of water across the table. Your fingers brush the plastic at the same time, and both of you pretend they didn’t.

“Post-concussive spikes in symptoms during the first 7 to 10 days after injury are common,” he says after quickly clearing his throat. “Light sensitivity, headaches, irritability. It’ll settle.”

“Irritability’s kind of my baseline, Reid. Don’t think that’s the concussion.”

He almost smiles — there and gone — then looks past you at absolutely nothing. You can feel the conversation wanting to tilt toward the thing you’re not talking about, so you tilt toward the window again instead.

He opens a paperback and doesn’t turn a page for seven minutes. You unlock your phone and stare at a draft text you started writing two nights ago: I’m sorry about—. You delete it and turn your phone over.

“Try to sleep,” he says softly.

“I’m terrible at that.”

“I know.”

You close your eyes because it’s easier than avoiding looking at him, but you don’t sleep. You inventory the ways you’re pretending not to want what you already know you want, and the engines keep their steady, merciless hum all the way to your destination.

—

By the following Friday — 2 weeks post-Dayton — the choreography has settled into something you could teach a class on: don’t be where he is, don’t make it weird when he is, don’t look directly at his golden brown eyes whenever possible. You almost believe you’re pulling it off smoothly. Almost.

Hotch’s email lands at 9:12am: Mandatory Firearms Re-Qualification Hours Today — 1400–1600. JJ groans. Morgan says, “Bang bang Friday.” Rossi replies with “exemption for being an FBI legend?” Hotch responds with a simple “No.”

You and Spencer both end up at the case board after lunch with as much distance as possible between you. He draws a small arrow from one name to another and waits. You nod because he’s right and because speaking feels too intimate.

“Range at two,” he says, mostly to the board. “Try not to be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you answer.

He turns to leave. For a second you think he’s going to say your name, but he doesn’t. The space where it would have been hangs between you, bright and mean.

You check the time. You check your pulse. Two weeks exactly. You tell yourself that’s all it is — a number, a calendar date. Then you open your desk drawer and touch the rubber band around the stack of coffee sleeves, and close it again before anyone can catch you looking.

—

The range is relatively full when you arrive. Morgan and Prentiss slot into stalls 2 & 3, JJ takes 5, and Hotch is off somewhere trying to track down Rossi, who is, of course, fashionably late. You walk up to the furthest open spot — stall 8, and try to pretend not to notice when Reid slots in at 7.

You shake your head, load a mag, and let the world narrow to the target in front of you. On your first round you post a tight, neat cluster because you are very good at this particular kind of control.

There’s a rhythm to the place: Morgan’s cadence two lanes down — bang, bang, breath, bang — JJ humming between rounds, the distant bark of an instructor correcting a new agent trainee’s elbows. When targets run back on the wires, you catch a flash of the one next to yours: a scattered, chaotic set of wide shots that veer too far right.

You tell yourself to mind your own lane. It works for two more shots. On the third, you feel another tug of concern before you can manage to swallow it. You angle your body just enough to glimpse when his next target slides in: four wide, one high. Spencer’s never been known as the best shot on the team, but you know he’s usually far better than this. You know his hands. You, for more than one reason, know what they’re capable of when they’re steady.

You holster your gun, step back, and lift your muffs before leaning around the partition. “Reid.”

No answer — he’s busy missing again. You wait until he stops to reload. “Reid.”

A beat, then his head turns back to face yours — muffs, goggles, the faint pink dent where the plastic meets his cheekbone. You’d laugh at how adorably boyish and disheveled he looks if your chest wasn’t already doing that unpleasant, opposite-of-laughing thing.

“Oh,” he says, like being directly addressed by you is a small surprise he wants to handle correctly. “Hey.”

You point at the target. “You’re a bit wide.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed. It’s fine.”

“It’s not. C’mon, scoot over,” you say, already moving. You don’t wait for agreement — you just step into his stall.

Up close, the tension in his body is visible — shoulders too high, grip too tight, jaw set on a stubborn angle. You have the sudden, miserable thought that this is what you did to him: You tightened something that was already too careful.

You keep it clinical. “You’re choking your grip. Loosen up a bit.” You tap the tendons along the back of his hand until his fingers ease. “Good. Shoulders down.” You draw two knuckles along the slope of his trapezius, and heat blooms under your touch.

“Breathe for me,” you say. “Hold. Slow exhale, then shoot.”

He does it. You watch the air leave him and try not to think about the way it sounded in a hotel room two weeks ago.

His shot flirts with center, then shies away. He resets, and you hear it in his breathing — the stutter when you’re this close. You force your own lungs to behave.

“Here,” you say with a sigh, and close the remaining distance between you so you can show him how to position. Your chest finds his back. Your palm covers his hand, your thumb fitting into the web between his thumb and index finger. You align his elbows with your own arms, your cheek almost at his jaw so you can look down the same line.

The world collapses to the warmth of him, the shape of his hands, the way his pulse jumps against you like a skipped rock.

“This better?” he asks, barely audible under the muffs, under everything else.

You nod slowly. “Let it happen. Don’t fight the recoil.”

You feel him lean back into you the tiniest bit, for only a moment. It’s unconscious. It’s catastrophic. If he turned his head a little, your mouth would be right there. The idea of closing that distance flashes brightly through your brain.

“Now,” you whisper.

He fires.

The target jerks, the hit dead center. For half a second everything is silent except the echo in your bones.

The recoil nudges him back into you, and your lips part to release a shaky breath when he shifts just enough to look at you. His mouth stops a whisper from yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his exhale skim your jaw.

You don’t move. Neither does he. It would take almost nothing — just half a tilt, a few inches you haven’t earned. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up and for one suspended, impossible second, you both hover there, the distance between you held in place by a rapidly fraying thread.

The moment snaps, and you step away so fast you clip the partition with your elbow. “Good,” you say, too brisk. “That’s—that’s good.”

He lowers the gun. His eyes are wide, and there’s pink in his cheeks that wasn’t there a minute ago. You are suddenly acutely aware of your own mouth.

“Did I do okay?” he asks, too soft. You hate how genuine of a question it is.

You manage a nod as you step back even further. “Keep practicing.”

Back in your own lane, you lift your gun because your hands need something to do that isn’t reaching for him again.

You pass behind his stall on your way out and catch a sliver of his profile: goggles pushed up, earmuffs askew, lips parted like the word he was about to say decided to stay in his throat. The shape of it is so clear you almost answer.

You swiftly turn your gaze forward and head for the locker room with your heart doing the exact thing you told him not to: fighting the recoil.

—

You make it as far as the corridor outside the range locker room before you hear it:

“Can we talk?”

Spencer stands a few feet away, hands visible, posture careful. Not blocking your exit. Not crowding. The opposite of an ambush, but it somehow still feels like one.

“I have to file my qual sheet,” you say, which is not a lie and also not an answer.

“Please,” he says. “I don’t want to do this in a hallway.

You sigh and push the door to the stairwell open with your shoulder, taking the first landing as he follows. He lets the door close softly behind him and leaves a few feet of space between you, but your body still thinks it has something to brace for.

“What do you want, Reid?” You hear the edge in it and nearly flinch, but it’s easier for you to be sharp than soft.

“I want to stop guessing,” he says. His voice is low, even. “I’ve been trying to give you space. I told myself not to read into anything. That what happened in Ohio was… a statistical anomaly.”

You huff, a non-laugh that hurts on the way out. “That sounds like something you’d say.”

“I guess so. Outliers exist. People do things under stress they wouldn’t do otherwise. I thought: concussion, adrenaline, proximity, tough week. Someone like you would never choose someone like me anyway, so it had to be a fluke.”

You want to tell him how stupid that is — that he’s a catch, that he’s handsome and smart and kind and wonderful, that he’s the only person who makes you clumsy just by breathing near you, that you’d always pick him on purpose. The protest claws up your throat and dies there, because saying it out loud would mean admitting so much more. You fold your arms tightly because if you don’t, you’ll shake.

“I tried,” he says quietly. “For two weeks I tried. Except I couldn’t help but… review the data.” He grimaces at himself. “I kept going over the last six months in my head. I didn’t really even want to be doing that, but once I started, I couldn’t stop.”

You stare at the exit sign.

“O’Keefe’s,” he says as his voice goes a little softer, like he’s turning pictures over in his head. “The lights came on and you were still talking to me. You laughed without meaning to and then pretended you hadn’t. In the hotel after I ran into that stupid dumpster, you patched me up with a funny bandage and your hands were steady on me when they weren’t steady anywhere else. When Hotch assigned us to that overnight stakeout, we spent most of the night talking about everything and nothing and you nearly found an excuse to hold my hand. You let me take care of you when you were sick and didn’t punish me for showing up unannounced, even though I know you probably wanted to. When you got drunk at Garcia’s, you called me for a ride instead of a cab and said I was the only person you wanted to call. Then you said I was,” —he clears his throat awkwardly— “hot, and tried to invite me inside at 2am. You constantly choose to sit with me on the jet even when every other seat is wide open. You text me in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep. You borrow the books I annotate for you and bring them back dog-eared and pretend you didn’t spend all your time reading the margins. And in Dayton…”

He lifts his eyes to you. They land heavy.

“In Dayton, you kissed me,” he says. “You started it. Not me. And then you stopped it and asked me to forget it ever happened.”

Something in your chest pulls tight, but you manage to keep your face still because you’ve spent years practicing that trick.

“I’ve been trying not to be an idiot. Especially since three days after that kiss, you showed up in the bullpen and built a wall around yourself like we’d barely even met. I told myself to respect it. I told myself, ‘She set a boundary; be decent.’ I stopped reaching out, stopped bringing you coffee and hanging by your desk and finding excuses to be near you. I tried not to take any of it personally. But then you came into my lane today and put your hand over mine and I realized I can’t keep pretending that I made all of this up.”

You could tell him the truth — that you’re sorry. That you’re scared. You could tell him you don’t know how to want something without breaking it. You could tell him how the way he kissed you knocked something loose inside your chest and made you crave a future you don’t think you deserve.

You could do all those things. But instead, you choose to lie. It’s cowardly and cruel, but it’s the only thing — other than him — that has the power to make you feel safe.

“It was physical attraction, Reid,” you say cleanly. “That’s all. A heat-of-the-moment thing. Proximity. I was concussed, I’d had a week from hell in that town, and you were…there.”

His shoulders drop, like someone lifted a weight and left a bruise. The breath he lets out is quiet and catastrophically tired. For a heartbeat his face is unguarded, hurt flashing across his features, and then he straightens: thumb finding the seam of his bag strap, a small, practiced nod as he reassembles into neutral.

“Okay,” he says after a long second. “If that’s all it was, we should be able to go back to normal. Professional.” He nods once, as if he’s setting a parameter for himself.

“That’s all it was,” you confirm. You don’t recognize your own voice. “Look, Reid…you’re an objectively attractive guy, and you were being nice to me, and I was really out of it. I got caught up in a moment.”

The lie tastes metallic, like old pennies on your tongue. You know exactly how much it’ll hurt him, but you say it anyway. It’s the only way you know how to keep him safe from you. If you say what you really want to say — I like you, I want you, I’m sorry — then you have to do something about it, and you aren’t built for loving things you’ll inevitably lose. You’ve proven that. Repeatedly.

He drags his hands down his face once, like maybe he can sand the expression off. When he drops them, he looks so defeated. “I’d wanted to kiss you for ages, but I was never going to act on it because I thought you might never want me to, and I’d made peace with just being the person you felt safe with if that’s all I ever got. I could live with that. And I still can, if that’s what you want.” He takes a breath. “What I can’t live with is you pretending you never wanted me at all. You kissed me like it meant something and now you’re punishing me for kissing you back.”

You lean against the cinderblock wall because your legs feel like they might give out. For half a second, you debate closing the distance between you, shaking your head, admitting the truth, and kissing him all over again.

But you don’t. Instead, you lie. Again.

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, Reid. It was just one kiss. One meaningless kiss.”

Spencer’s throat works once. His eyes close for a second and he leans his hip against the rail like he needs something to keep him steady as he absorbs the blow. “Is that really how you feel?”

You nod, your posture betrays you — the smallest reveal, a micro-tell you would have easily caught in someone else. His gaze flicks to it and away like he’s doing you the courtesy of not holding you to it.

“Okay,” he says, voice no longer holding the softness he usually reserves for you. “Then we’re done being…whatever this has been.” He doesn’t say friends, because you both know that word’s not exactly the right way to describe what the two of you were up until the kiss. “We’ll be professional.” A beat. “And…distant. I can’t go back to how it was before.”

You nod because anything else would be a confession. Your mouth is dry enough to crack. “That’s probably for the best.”

“Maybe,” he says, and there’s so much in it you almost look up.

He pushes off the rail. Doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t reach for you.

Of course he doesn’t. He’s done reaching.

The door sighs open, and he’s gone. You sit down on the step because your knees feel unstable and tell yourself you did the noble thing. You’re protecting him. You kept your perimeter intact.

You stay there until your face stops giving you away. Then you stand, find your bearings, and walk the long way back to your desk. The top drawer sticks a little when you open it — bad karma, probably — and you put your hand on the stack of coffee sleeves again like you’re logging evidence, counting contraband in plain sight. You could throw them away. You should throw them away. But… you don’t.

You shut down your monitor, shoulder your bag, and head for the elevator without looking back.

—

Hours later, Spencer cuts past your desk to drop off a file. The top-right drawer still sits a thumb-width open — one of those details he can't help but fix on instinct. He nudges it to get it to close, but it catches on something, so he tugs.

The drawer springs open, and that’s when he sees what it was stuck on:

A neat stack of cardboard coffee sleeves, held together by a rubber band stretched painfully thin. He removes the band carefully and spots the crooked Möbius strip doodle from two weeks ago on top, then leafs through them one by one: A skull and crossbones, a dead fish king, two hands not quite touching. Some with just your name or his initials or little messages that always mean more than meets the eye.

There are dozens of them, organized from oldest to newest. Months-worth of sleeves, starting with the first one he ever customized for you: the one that says Bullseye.

For a second he doesn’t breathe. The realization hits with the dumb, stunning weight of certainty: this isn’t hoarding, or recycling, or some other weird reason you might try to fall back on. No. It’s record-keeping. It’s you, memorizing him and pretending you aren’t. Saving reminders of all the moments when he made you feel seen. Pieces of him you’ve kept just for yourself. A secret way to keep him close.

He slides one sleeve free and closes the drawer, the soft click too loud in the empty room.

Coat. Keys. He’s already moving, the sleeve burning a hole in his pocket, headed straight for your front door.

to be continued…

ᝰ.ᐟ

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

ICYMI: I'm hosting an event I've very affectionately dubbed “whisper week” in two weeks to celebrate hitting 1k followers! details on whisper week and how to submit requests for it can be found here 💜 ily

#thankschef reads!#she’s so STUBBORN but he’s so GOOD

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thankschef-blog · 1 day ago

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reader is so me… i was drinking and smoking tonight as well so i saw this late but i’m rly connected to reader rn….

: ̗̀➛ y/n l/n's diary - entry 1

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ dear diary... y/n l/n has been single for her entire life, no thanks to her mother, who tries to set her up with a new man every holiday season. this year, it's clark kent - but both of them are pretty uninterested. she might be interested in her boss, lex luthor, but what are the chances of that?

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ pairings: childhood friend!clark kent x ditzy!reader, boss!lex luthor x ditzy!reader

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ warnings: love triangle (fixed ending), reader is really awkward and embarrassing, alcohol, outside of the dc universe (no superman and lex isnt entirely evil), smoking, to be added to.

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ wc: 1k

Date: January 1st

Resolution number one: Find a nice boy. Not a pervert, megalomaniac, kleptomaniac, any kind of maniac, or womaniser.

“Y/N! Oh, do come in, sweetheart.” Her mother kisses both of her cheeks, smiley and bright, and she can’t help gagging a little over the woman’s shoulder. Her breath reeks of alcohol, and the party hasn't even begun. "You know, Clark Kent is here. Very handsome boy, he's grown to be. You used to play in his paddling pool."

"I don't remember." She shakes her head, removing her scarf and hanging it up at the door.

"Divorced, apparently. His wife was very cruel." The glare isn't lost on Y/N, and she sighs. But her mother plows on anyway. “Well, anyway, what are you going to wear to the party?”

“Well, mum, I was going to wear this.” She looks down at her clothes, eyebrows slightly wrinkled up. Her outfit is simple enough - a white t-shirt with little black polka dots, flare jeans, some nice earrings she’d been given as a gift.

"Don't be silly, dear, you'll never get a boyfriend dressed like that."

Horrifyingly enough, within 10 minutes, she’s been dressed in an ugly grandma sweater that looked like a carpet, a black pencil skirt, and tights that have been worn so many times they’re screaming to be put out of their misery. The guests have already filtered in the living room by the time she’s downstairs.

Pervy man who insists on calling himself uncle, check, nosy aunt, check, Clark Kent, check. Unfortunately.

Jimmy. Must text Jimmy.

"Honey, don't be rude and sit on your phone." Her mom's voice snaps her out of the trance she's in, unfortunately. She tucks her phone in her pocket, forces a smile. "Why don't you go over and talk to Clark?"

"Mum, I can talk to other people, I don't have to talk to-" There's a hand on the small of her back, leading her towards the very broad back that she's been trying to avoid staring at for the last 5 minutes. To be honest, he's not bad looking, at least from the back. Maybe this year, her mum had got it right.

Her mom clears her throat and taps Clark on the shoulder. When he turns around, his sweater is revealed - something even uglier than hers. There was a huge reindeer on it, with a light-up nose.

"Clark, this is Y/N. Do you remember her? She used to run around your farm with no clothes on."

Goodness. Thank you, mum.

After taking a second to wish she was dead, Y/N smiles, and looks up at him. "Hello, Clark. I don't remember doing that."

"I don't remember it either." He shakes her hand politely, but all she can think about is how huge his hands are, and how surely that must indicate something else-

Some woman interrupted their conversation, to very inconspicuously steal her mother away and leave the two of them alone. Lovely. She just wishes the ground could swallow her up whole so she could escape too.

"So, uhm-" She fiddles in her purse, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it before bringing it to her lips for a drag. No matter that it's inside. Half the people are smoking anyway. "Are you staying with your parents for New Years?"

"Yes." He's very deadpan. Maybe he's not happy about being set up by his mother. Would make a lot of sense. "You?"

"Oh, no, I'm just staying in Metropolis. Got a taxi here. Had a party last night, so- I'm afraid I'm just a bit hungover. Kind of wish I was at home with a blanket over my head and a pint of ice cream. New Year's resolution, drink less, and quit smoking!"

He looks down at her hands. In one, she's holding a glass of wine, and in the other, a cigarette. She laughs nervously, because this is not going well.

"Well, I suppose it's a resolution to keep resolutions as well!" She smiles up at him, sheepish.

He's so not hearing anything I'm saying, but god, he's so hot.

"And I guess, stop chatting shit to strangers who don't care!" She laughs again, taking another drag of the cigarette. "Or, stop talking, full stop."

"Yes, well." He clasps his hands in front of him, avoiding her eyes. "I think it's time to eat."

And with that, he walks past her. Really not very nice. Mother hadn't got it after all.

No matter.

The buffet is bustling, and there are plenty of other people to talk to. Not that she talks to any of them. Clark and his mother are just ahead of her at the table, scooping food onto their plates.

"Her mother says she lives quite close to your apartment, in Metropolis, Clark." Martha is saying, a smile in her eyes. Y/N has always liked Martha, because she's nice, and used to bring her family pie.

"Ma, I don't need to be set up on a blind date." Clark complains, which makes her start to really listen to them. Eavesdropping is an unfortunate habit, but then again, so is smoking. "Especially not with a girl who doesn't know how to talk to people, has been single her whole life, smokes like a chimney, drinks like a sailor, and dresses like her mom!"

Thank god her and Martha are the only two people he heard that. She freezes, thinking about the nearest escape route. She's lived here her whole life, why can't she think about where the exit is? As soon as he was done insulting her, Martha looks back, and so does Clark. They're staring at her, and she's just staring back like a fish with her mouth open.

"Yum." She says, eyes wide, clearing her throat. "Pot pie. My favourite!"

And that was it. The moment she re-met the love of her life.

taglist: @thankschef-blog @matcha-kitty13 @ft-winnow @iynsane @floatinginthecosmo @mihani @itsyagrillkat @amndstuckinwonderland (to be added) (just ask!)

a/n: It's so hard to find a tone that works for this reader... but I think I like this one. Let me know what you guys think though!! I had fun with this :) Like and reblog if you enjoyed <3

#𝜗𝜚 emma loml #thankschef reads!#clark kent

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thankschef-blog · 2 days ago

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EMMAAAA THIS IS MY SUPERBOWL

- celebration!

soo i just hit 1 million interactions on c.ai AND 200 followers on tumblr!! this is the most insane thing to ever happen to me, because i didn't think what i was putting out there was good enough to merit this kind of support, but everything means so so much to me. to celebrate this huge milestone, i really wanted to put something together that involves you guys, and both platforms!! i love each and every one of you guys so much, even those of you who are silent followers, i appreciate your support and thank you so much for sticking around <3

First thing is bot requests!! I have a few laying around in my form that I'll finish, but for the time being, please drop some in my inbox with the tag #celebration so I know that they're for this :)

For the second, I'll be doing short blurbs, which you can drop in my inbox with the same tag. You can request from any of my usual characters, and I'll do mostly anything (except for perhaps PURE smut, I'm not very good at that...). The characters I write for are also linked in the tags below!

Finally, I wanted to do something a little special. Since this celebration is about both platforms, I wanted to combine them, so for the time being, you can request bot to fic transformations, or fic to bot transformations! Essentially, for the first, you can request a bot from my profile and I'll write a fanfiction on it, and vice versa. Drop this in my inbox with the tag as well :)

credits to strangergraphics for the dividers!

if this gets no hype im gonna be so embarrassed... anyway i will be taking requests for one week, until september 1st, and then hopefully it will only take me a week to write everything (depending how much i get :))

#𝜗𝜚 emma loml

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thankschef-blog · 2 days ago

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SOMEONE SEDATE MEEEEEE

PAINTED NAILS WE HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE BACK

(Ty to the iconic @/jeremyawphotos on twt for your service)

#jeremy allen white

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thankschef-blog · 2 days ago

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complimenting people's writing after i fix 20 things and leave approx 15 comments... softening the blow if u will

#“but its super easy and fun to read!”#i say as i fix the flow so its readable

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thankschef-blog · 2 days ago

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can't believe i missed this for so long because i was doing work... loser father spencer u are so special to me.... also them not living together anymore ahhhhhh i need to be sedated

𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: an accidental package order to his address leads to spencer’s first time in your apartment.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, reader is wearing a bathrobe because she had a #self care night, spencer gets roped into assembling a cat scratcher (laddies im trynna do my work today…), looking at the photos on the fridge and a little diva!reader lore drop, a funny, light fic (i hope so)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.3k

𝐚/𝐧: request

If this elevator suddenly fell, Spencer Reid would die on a Saturday evening on his way to the apartment of a woman with whom he had a relationship more complicated than the Poincaré conjecture or the layout of the New York subway, carrying a gigantic box in his hands that could contain anything. From chemical reagents, to a set of lace lingerie.

Both options were equally likely, by the way.

In any case, the elevator reached the right floor safely. That thought, however, lodged itself in his genius brain, forcing him to look at himself from the outside, with pity. For a while, they had shared an apartment because her place was under renovation. Now the stay had ended, but she apparently forgot to change the delivery address for the package. And he, after she didn’t reply to his message, suspiciously quickly decided to take the trouble to go to her in person.

Not even considering whether she was home. He rang the doorbell, adjusting the box in his hands. It was Saturday evening. The probability that she wasn’t there exceeded the probability that she was inside. Hanging out with friends, maybe a date.

He considered both options intensely, especially the second, when the door opened. Spencer peeked out from behind the box blocking his view and jumped.

“What is that?”

At his sudden question, she also jumped, surprised.

“Jesus fucking Christ, and what is that?” she asked, nodding toward the box.

Only then did he look at her more carefully, beyond what had caught his eye first. Some strange thing on her face, looking like a killer’s mask from a slasher, glowing with red light. She was wearing a black satin robe trimmed with lace at the edges, which was also very short. After noticing this, Spencer quickly returned his gaze to her face.

“I asked first,” he said, masking his fleeting embarrassment.

He knew that under the mask she had just rolled her eyes very performatively. She pointed to her face with a finger. “This, my dear, is an LED mask. Increases skin firmness and elasticity, delays aging, supports regeneration. Want me to send you a link to this model, since you’re so interested?”

He shook his head from side to side.

“I’ll pass. But this…I have no idea what it is. You ordered it to my address.”

She didn’t answer, clearly confused, reaching out to take the box from him. He handed it over carefully, suddenly not knowing what to do with his own hands. Luckily, she wasn’t looking at him, shaking the contents.

“I don’t even know what it is…oh wait, maybe it’s my new heels!” Her voice brightened, excitement replacing thoughtfulness.

Suddenly, Spencer knew what to do with his hands. He let them drop at his sides, looking at her reproachfully. “You mean I schlepped across the whole city just to deliver heels?”

“Well, no one forced you,” she snorted mockingly, and Spencer pressed his lips into a thin line. Well, she had a fucking good point. She shook the box again and muttered. “Actually, probably not heels. Too many pieces, too big box. But hey…let’s find out…”

She moved further into the apartment, leaving the door slightly open…an invitation? For him?

Spencer froze for a moment, unsure what to do. What if he stepped inside and she looked at him like he was an alien, and he burned up with embarrassment, setting her whole apartment on fire? On the other hand, he had never been there before. Curiosity forced his foot to take a step.

The interior was…incredibly spacious. Or rather, at first, that’s how it seemed to him, thanks to the way the space was arranged to feel as open as possible. The living room and the kitchen, where she went in search of something to open the box, flowed together as one, the colors muted — a mix of white, black, and gold — but only on the walls and floors, everything else breaking that simplicity. A dark red leather sofa of an unusual shape, each cushion with its own unique pattern, almost screaming paintings, an animal-print rug and large plants.

The woman returned to the living room, setting the box on the coffee table where several fashion magazines and books were stacked, and sat down on the sofa, opening it with the help of a kitchen knife. She removed the mask from her face and set it beside her. Her face looked so fresh and so rested, gentle even, when it wasn’t covered by a speck of makeup. Equally beautiful, but less intimidating.

Spencer, meanwhile, stood just in front of the sofa, each of his limbs awkward in its own unique way.

“You don’t even know what you ordered?” His lips kept spilling out sentences about consumerism or something, wasn’t even sure what he was saying, scanning the room while the woman in front of him focused on the contents of the package, not listening at all. He was just background noise.

In his line of sight, a small black shape appeared, growing into the size of a cat, first brushing against the woman’s bare leg, then against his black pants, tail held high.

“Hi, crumb,” Spencer said, leaning down to gently pet Marie.

“Oh, how good it is that you’re here, young lady,” the woman said to the cat, a smile on her face and both hands resting loosely on the edges of the box. She pulled out a flat piece decorated with a leopard print pattern. “Your loser father brought your new scratching post.”

“Loser father, you say?” Spencer repeated, raising his eyebrows. “You ordered a leopard-print scratching post for your cat. ”

She shrugged dismissively.

“So what? My princess has to feel connected to her ancestors.”

The descendant of leopards was now sprawled on the sofa on her side, only two devoted servants waving giant eucalyptus leaves over her were missing.

Spencer blinked.

“You really think she has anything to do with leopards?”

“She’s basically one. A few hundred years of evolution one way or the other.”

“She’s the most spoiled cat on this planet,” Spencer said seriously, looking the cat in the eyes. With love, of course, he was only stating a fact, not trying to offend her. “The only thing she’s ever hunted herself is a piece of chicken from my plate. Which she didn’t eat because apparently she didn’t like it.”

The woman looked at him, mouth wide open in indignation.

“Did you let her take the chicken from your plate?” she hissed. “What if there was a bone and she choked?”

Spencer spread his arms wide.

“See? That’s my point! What kind of leopard chokes on a chicken bone?”

“She’s not a leopard! How can you even compare such a tiny, delicate cat to them?”

With his mouth slightly open, he blinked several times. The absurd argument didn’t faze him, not really, maybe a little. “Me, comparing her?” he repeated, emphasizing each word, then just shook his head. “Okay, you know what, never mind.”

A silence fell, during which the woman kept her gaze fixed on his face. No anger this time, just something gentle. Even charming, suspiciously kind. At first, he hesitated under her look, then a wave of suspicion hit him. Everywhere. She didn’t look at him like that without a reason.

“Stop, this isn’t you—”

“Will you put together that stand?”

“First I brought it here, voluntarily, and now you expect me to put it together?” he asked, finally finding a place for his hands, crossing them over his chest, which matched his expression and overall presence perfectly.

The woman didn’t look like she was about to give up. In fact, it seemed more like she was changing tactics.

“Don’t you have that PhD in engineering? Put it to some use for once,” she shot back. She held his gaze for a moment, and when she realized that wasn’t working either, she let out an exaggerated sigh, reaching her hand toward Marie. “Fine. But remember, you’re not disappointing me. You’re disappointing this tiny, innocent—”

“Oh my—Okay, fine, whatever,” Reid finally gave in, shaking his head. Wow, he really knew how to stand his ground. Maybe it was just that he was already here, wasting a good chunk of his free time, so what difference would another half hour really make? He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Nice chandelier, by the way. “Fine, I’ll put the damn stand together for you.”

Her grin was as triumphant as it was grateful. And so genuinely so. Spencer almost laughed to himself. Maybe if he’d known she’d react like that, he would’ve agreed sooner. The thought of putting the scratching post together with her — because he assumed she’d help — didn’t seem so bad. It was a simple construction anyway, and besides, it’d give him a chance to ask about one of the books on the table. He found it incredibly eye-opening and wanted to hear her opinion.

She got up with smug satisfaction and clapped her hands.

“Perfect. You get to work, and I’ll go dry my hair.”

And she marched off toward the bathroom with a light step before he even had the chance to part his lips, let alone squeak out, shyly, that he’d thought they’d be doing it together. He sighed. Honestly, what did it matter? They’d probably end up in some misunderstanding or two anyway, and the whole process would become twice as complicated and therefore twice as long.

Before he got to work on the scratching post, he slowly shifted his gaze to Marie.

“I guess it’s just you and me, huh?”

The cat meowed and hopped off the couch to follow her.

He might have been the loser father, but the rest of this unconventional little family was simply ungrateful. He sat down on the red couch, peering into the box. Putting the whole thing together really wasn’t complicated at all. The only surprise was the sheer size of it, he hadn’t even realized they made scratching posts that big.

By the time he was nearly finished, the woman came back from the bathroom with her hair dried. He glanced at her only out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to distract himself from what he was doing. She was still wearing that robe, and she sat down on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, watching his progress like it was some kind of reality show.

When the leopard-print scratching post was finally assembled, Spencer took a few steps back to give it a once-over and make sure everything was in place. He nodded in approval.

“Ta-da,” he muttered. “All done. You’re welcome. No need to thank me too profusely…”

He turned his head to look at her, and startled slightly when he realized she had risen almost soundlessly from the couch and was now standing right next to him, giving him a look from under her lashes. It wasn’t exactly frustrated, more amused, but it was enough to shut him up instantly.

“Now it just needs to go into my bedroom,” she said.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “Now? After I just finished putting it together? Why didn’t you tell me to assemble it in your bedroom in the first place?”

“Well, I didn’t realize you were so impatient to see my bedroom.”

“That’s not impatience! That’s practicality. How am I supposed to carry it in there now?”

She shifted her gaze to the scratching post, her lower lip pushed out in an exaggerated pout.

“We can do this. Grab the other side.”

“Oh my—you really want to—”

Yes, she really intended to squeeze the assembled scratching post up to her bedroom. It was faster than disassembling it and putting it back together, and it wasn’t heavy either. The problem was that her bedroom was up the stairs, and carrying it required both of them to cooperate.

After dozens of steps and just as many insults thrown at each other, the stand finally took its place in the corner of her bedroom, with its enormous round bed and countless pillows. Somehow unreasonably fitting her. And while her living room had been tidy, there he almost immediately slipped on some sequin…something just inside the doorway. Besides the massive wardrobe, there were also two clothing racks, from which the clothes nearly fell. What he also noticed before reminding himself not to look too nosily was a bust of a woman’s head in an antique style, adorned with an abundance of jewelry around its neck.

The woman sighed and adjusted the tie of her robe at her waist, glancing at the cat that had followed their trail.

“This is your new scratching post, my little, sweet cutie-patootie,. Come on, go play. Hop-hop,” she said in a high-pitched voice, trying to convince Marie to try out her new post.

Spencer watched both her efforts and the cat sitting motionless. He shook his head. “She’s so uninterested.”

“What are you talking about, of course she’s interested, I bought this for he—okay, fine, she doesn’t give a fuck.”

The change in her tone halfway through was due to Marie suddenly moving, brushing against her bare leg and hopping onto the bed, not even glancing at the scratching post. Both of them honored their efforts with twenty seconds of silence. For Spencer, there was something else behind it too. Should he just leave now that his role here was finished…?

“You want something to drink?” she asked him suddenly.

Spencer froze, as if she’d asked him to profile a murderer about whom all they knew so far was his shoe size.

“Mhm…” he finally managed to sputter, reasonably. “Mmh, okay. Yeah. Sure.”

It seemed to him that the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. She waved her hand for him to follow her back down the stairs, which, of course, he did.

“So, wine? White, red…?”

“Um, water?”

A sigh.

“You’re breaking my heart, darling.”

Spencer chuckled, following her into the kitchen and standing beside one of the tall bar stools without a back.

“Believe it or not, I had the exact same conversation with Rossi.”

Rossi hadn’t called him darling but kid yet the rest of the conversation went almost exactly the same way. The woman was just pulling a glass from the cupboard when Spencer’s gaze fell on her fridge. Or rather, on what was attached to it.

The little details were what really made the décor of her apartment, and in the kitchen, that included the Polaroid photos covering the fridge door. There were too many for him to examine each one. The one that caught his attention, however, showed a smile that could blind a driver — or several — causing a car accident, and a man’s arm tightly wrapped around her. He couldn’t see whose it was, though, because a magnet covered his face.

Spencer only then realized he had been lost in thought, and the kitchen was completely silent. He turned back to the woman, swallowing, caught staring at her photos.

“One of the pictures—” he began awkwardly, making some hand gesture. He scratched at his nose. “It must’ve tilted or something, I don’t know, but the magnet covers—”

“Face of my ex-fiancé, I know,” she replied, sliding a glass of water under his nose. Spencer didn’t even look at it, though his hand reached for it, eyes fixed on her completely indifferent expression. He tilted his head slightly, keeping a photo of an ex on the fridge didn’t seem like her style. “I looked so stunning in that photo that I couldn’t take it down. And at the same time, I didn’t leave him just to keep seeing his face every morning.”

For a moment he stayed silent, lips slightly parted, before a short laugh slipped out of his throat.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Sorry, it’s just… t’s so…so you.”

She raised an eyebrow slightly, but didn’t seem offended. On the contrary, Spencer felt a lightness and a certain simplicity in the conversation, rare in their relationship full of verbal sparring, jabs, and sarcasm.

“But I did look stunning, you have to admit that.”

“You know you did, my admitting it doesn’t really matter,” he replied, his gaze returning to the fridge door, feeling as if she was silently giving him permission to look. Lots of photos of Marie, many with friends, but his eyes landed on one in particular, one of the few where she was alone. Dressed a bit differently from her usual style, maybe a shoot styled after a different decade, he didn’t know much about that, but…“You look really good in this one,” he blurted before he could catch himself.

A sound came from her. Laughter that made her tilt her head back. He looked at her, confused. He knew he didn’t usually compliment her so openly, but was it really that funny…

“That’s not me, Reid,” she finally said, eyes sparkling with amusement. He froze, watching her like that, and also at what she had said. “But true, my grandmother looked beautiful here.”

At the same time, he wanted to open his eyes wide and squeeze them shut in embarrassment but only managed the first impulse. For the second, he fixed his gaze back on the photo, exhaling in awe.

“You two are so alike. I mean, yes, I know genetics perfectly and I know exactly how this works, but… still. So…you’re close with your grandmother?” he asked, his body tensing, unsure if he was crossing a line by probing so much into her life. But he was genuinely interested.

He looked at her, swallowing, ready to be sharply brushed off if she didn’t want to answer. She had every right not to. With her arms still crossed over her chest, she paused, her expression inscrutable, slightly brightening as she said, “Very. She’s always been… everything I ever wanted to be.”

He hesitated, cursing his awkwardness in conversations and his tendency to sometimes miss the meaning behind other people’s words.

“I’m sorry, is she…is she—”

“She’s absolutely fine,” she saved him from finishing the question, without a single scoff or an exasperated glance. Wow. This conversation really was one of a kind. “Living her best life in Los Angeles.”

He nodded awkwardly. “Right. I mean… good for her…” He was frantically searching for anything to say, anything that might change the subject or at least cover for his lack of communication skills.

And then — salvation. His eyes landed on one of the polaroids covering her fridge, and the sight made him fall completely silent. He blinked, as if checking whether his vision was betraying him.

“…Is that me?”

Saying it out loud made it sound even more absurd. His photo on her fridge. He had to be losing his mind. He turned to look at her. And she shot him a look that basically said yes, and what about it?

He looked at the photo again, then at her, then back at the photo. In it, he was holding Marie when she was still just a kitten. The very same day she’d been found in the dumpster. She’d been so tiny then, her little face smudged with kitten formula.

“What?” she asked, tilting her head toward him. “Did you just see a ghost in one of the pictures, or what?”

His photo on her fridge. And she was acting like it was the most normal thing in the world! Maybe it was, and he was just perceiving it through some strange filter, assigning it more weight than it actually had.

He drew in more air into his lungs, letting it out slowly in an attempt to cool down. He wasn’t angry, of course, the reaction was simply the result of one of the biggest surprises he’d had in a while. For a moment, silence settled between them. She, stoic; he, torn by hesitation.

“You know,” he began after a longer pause. “On second thought, maybe I will have that wine?”

a/n: text doesn’t explicitly say it, but in my head they had a cozy night in her apartment, drinking wine and bonding xx

#thankschef reads!#matilda i love ur mind

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thankschef-blog · 2 days ago

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idk if u liked the most recent fic but heeeey… wanna support a fellow writer…. reblog whatsoever…

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thankschef-blog · 2 days ago

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can't stand it .ᐟ

summary: carmen comes back to the beef after mikey's death, and his childhood best friend is less than happy. first part of summerteeth series.

contents: one mention of suicide and some allusions, cursing, probably depression because carmy

word count: 2k

a/n: ok firstly... if u remember this no u dont look away. look Far far away. and second, this series has been sitting in my drafts for a year and the premise is super basic but ur getting it anyways !!!!

Carmen can’t seem to remember the last time he wasn’t at the Beef past midnight, slaving over files and papers he has no idea how to interpret or do. The organization system Mikey left is… Well, is there a system? It doesn’t seem like there is to Carmen, and even if there is a system, there are no identifiers of what is what, or anything close to signaling how anything should continue to be filed. Where the fuck did these random charges come from? What the fuck was Mikey doing?

Carmen runs a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek to feel the bit of pain it gives so his thoughts of cussing out Mikey will stop, do not speak ill of the dead, even the ones that— Stop it.

He slams his hand, and with it the papers he’s holding onto the desk, letting out a frustrated groan. He finds his hand reaching for his pack of cigarettes and takes one out, absentmindedly lighting it and letting it sit on his lips, because fuck him if he even has the energy to inhale. The stick dangles from the corner of his mouth as he leans back, his gaze fixed on the papers laid out on the desk.

He’s not an accountant, he spent years in the kitchen under someone, where some manager had to do the filing so the chefs could continue to work. Someone who knows how to do it, someone who knows how taxes for establishments are filed and what expenses are necessary. This is not supposed to be done by someone who can prep, cook, and plate a whole menu with his eyes closed. He has no idea how to do all of this, let alone do this with a fucked up system his— Don’t.

He flinches at the knock on the door, and he feels his body practically lock when your head peeks in.

“Chef, I did cleanup, every shitty spot— Gonna head out.”

His gaze stays on you, how could it not? You walk into the office to put the cleaning stuff in the corner then pause and let your eyes absorb the sight of the office. A small space that seems even smaller with the clutter in it. He doesn’t say anything, but gives a tiny nod in your direction as his mind races.

It took you three weeks to talk to him besides yelling.

Another week for you to smile at him, a very fake one that was followed by an insult, but one regardless.

A little over another two weeks for you to give him a genuine smile (one you caught and dropped in a second, but he remembered).

Now, it's been a little over two months since he came back, and you offer him help without him asking for it, because he won’t ask for it. He has it in his mind that Mikey didn’t and, fuck, does he look like someone so weak? He can live up to his brother, he has to. Still, Mikey did— stop— then he blew his— fucking stop it. Don’t even go there.

“Chef?”

Your voice isn’t enough to bring him out of his thoughts, but it does annoy him. Not your voice exactly, but what you say. You don’t say his name. It irritates him to no end, though he has no right to be irritated. Maybe he’s not even irritated, exactly, just sad. Sad and angry, and more at himself than anyone, but he’s aware that he still shows it to everyone.

He doesn’t reply, and he’s aware that it’s annoying, borderline concerning that he’s staring into space rather than saying a simple “Okay,” but his mind is still reeling, did he prefer you saying his name even if it was to cuss him out?

“Because fuck you, and fuck your stupid stars— You don’t even come to the damn funeral and then think you can come to The Beef and it’s all fun family time, fuck you Carmen!”

His mind fills with the first thing you said to him when he came into The Beef again, well you yelled it in the alley while sobbing and hitting his chest (he didn’t react, he let you take it out and stay, regrettably, silent). After that, you’d left for three days and didn’t show up to work. Richie had said it was the longest you bailed on the beef (besides when Mikey died, and that wasn’t really bailing), and Carmen felt horrible— Feels horrible. It’d taken a week after you returned for you to even look at him again.

Even then you had used his name, his full name, so fucking formal, and not Carmy. He hated that, but it’s still his name. Now, no, now you have to call him ‘chef’. You will clean the whole fucking place so he can retrieve to the office to try and figure out the paperwork, but saying his name is too hard and—

“Chef.”

That does it, the sharp tone, the little tap of your foot that he realizes too late. He snaps out of his little daze and shakes his head a little. His eyes focus back on the papers in front of him and he doesn’t plan to raise his head ever again as his ears start to turn pink.

“Thank you, chef, you can go. Thank you.”

He waits to hear the click from the door closing, but it doesn’t come. You stand there, staring at him in silence for a while, and he doesn't dare lift his head and meet your gaze.

“You look like shit.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Tired, irritated, angry— That’s how he usually feels, and let’s be serious, he doesn’t handle it well. He doesn’t keep it inside, he lets everything turn into anger and then leashes it onto anyone nearby.

When you say that though, he bites his tongue then turns to stare at you with his eyebrows raised, a sigh escaping his lips.

“What?”

“Said you look like shit—”

“I heard it the first time,” he cuts in, but you don’t stop.

“—Seriously, go fucking sleep or shower, or preferably both.”

He swallows back the anger building, biting his tongue and shaking his head. He won’t let himself argue with you, not when you’re right— He doesn’t sleep much, he hasn’t eaten really, and he’d love a fucking shower.

“You done with the insults?”

“Well, you’re not gonna figure out the files.”

“Why the fuck not? Can’t I do my job? Can’t I run this fucking place?”

you roll your eyes, and he scoffs in response.

“It’s ‘cause Mikey— his fucking ‘system’ barely existed, it got worse when— whatever.”

The silent agreement between you two seemed to give him a slight relief, neither of you would mention Mikey beyond his name, and not many did besides minor comments. Still, the relief doesn’t show on his face and instead he sighs and leans back further in his seat, his gaze hard on you.

“So what? I'm supposed to let this place go to shit and shut down?”

“That isn’t even remotely what I said,” and you’re cut off with a loser “Yeah?” but you don’t stop, “Why would I fucking say that?”

“Sure sounded like it—”

“I just meant— Fuck, stop talking.”

Carmen falls silent like a scolded puppy, he doesn't know why, he wants to yell— why didn’t he yell?

“Look, you need more than a few useless hours in the office after God knows how many in the kitchen to figure those out, just… You need it to give it a full day, full energy.”

He knows that— Does she not think I know that? He furrows his brows, his face hardening. He knows she knows that. No matter how much New York fucked him up, had it even match his own fucked up-ness? No, he was always messed up, always overthinking, never happy, never truly content, even before New York, especially after New York, and especially, truly, after Mikey— Will you stop that?

“I know, just— Don't have the time, do I?”

You shrug, a thoughtful look settling on your face.

“Couldn’t Nat help?”

“Don’t wanna disturb her.”

“You mean you’re too much of an idiot to accept this shit is impossible without help?”

“Hey, I’m not a fucking idiot, besides Mikey—”

“Mention him one more time and I’m blowing my fucking brains out.”

Your eyes are basically burning through Carmen, and his guilt and frustration returns tenfold. He knows just what your look means, he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there to witness how Mikey ran this place, how he handled the finances or anything— but he was his brother. He tries to justify what is very obviously just him being a stubborn ass with that, but still you’re not supposed to mention how— Still, nope, not going there.

“Just— fine. What do I do now?”

“Fucking go home, then call Nat tomorrow, I don’t fucking know, work it out with her.”

Carmen nods slowly. Yeah, he can go home, he probably won’t be able to sleep, but he can rot at home instead of in the office. That is… doable.

“Fine.”

“Go, I'll lock up.”

Not being the last one to leave is so foreign to Carmen that he almost doesn’t process what you say, but still, he hands you the keys that are hanging from a nail on the wall and grabs his coat and bag. He knows you probably have locked the place up more than him, and he tries to silence the little voice in his head that tells him he doesn’t deserve to leave.

“Night.”

He murmurs your name weakly after a second, a sort of knowing defeat heavy on his voice. He knows you won’t reciprocate. He could yell your name until he lost his voice and your referral to him would stay at “chef”.

“Mhm, night,” you hum as your eyes skim over the papers laid out on the desk.

Great, fucking great, he doesn’t even get the “chef” he despises. He makes a mental note to question you about it later, it won’t come to anything, most likely it’ll make things worse, but the need he feels to yell at you, shake you until you refer to him with his name is overwhelming, He’ll have the energy someday.

He leaves the office, then the building and heads home to eventually pass out on his couch, the TV playing some meaningless rerun to ensure he can’t hear his own thoughts.

——————

Fuck, this is bad— this is horrid. How did he not see this coming? Of course he didn’t see this coming, this isn’t you— It was you before you hated him, it was you when you could utter his name, but this isn’t you now.

Well, apparently it was.

Carmy curses loudly when he enters his office. Like, loud by Carmy standards. because there you are, asleep, somewhat curled up on the chair with a full ashtray and— Fuck, the papers are split into neat piles with a notebook open, full of notes.

Of course you wake up with the loud swearing, a jump and an exclamation of “Fuck!” falling from your lips. You run a quick hand over your face, panting as you sit hunched over.

There are no comforting words coming out of Carmy’s mouth about how he is sorry for startling you, how you should breathe. No hand on your shoulder, no thanks for the obvious hours you put into organizing the files. He just stands there, staring as you try to catch your breath.

You return the non-existent favor with silence of your own, standing up after you catch your breath and swiping your pack of cigarettes from the table and exit the office.

You were nice. You helped him. His eyes focus on the full ashtray as his breathing picks up.

A panic attack from his old friend helping him was a nice start to the day.