lover's lane

24 • she/her • haz • empty age-less blogs will be blocked • requests open!

[calamitous-luv]

Introduction

hi! can call me haz/none. im currently 24, just here to write and vibe.

this blog is 18+ MDNI. that being said, you are responsible for your own consumption.

navigation: masterlist - my AO3 (on process!)

currently writing for: dcu - criminal minds - dc (comics)

currenly reading fics from: dcu - criminal minds - mcu - dc (comics) - stranger things (exclusively steve harrington)

requests are always open but not guaranteed.

featured arts:

Acis and Galatea by Abraham Bloemaert, 1590

The Circle of the Lustful: Paolo and Francesca by William Blake, 1827

The Japanese Footbridge by Claude Monet, 1899

disclaimer and stance below the cut

this blog is also anti zionists, anti imperialism, and anti fascism. anyone who is misogynistic, racist, transphobic, homophobic, islamophobic, xeniphobic, and generally oppressive should not interact.

i block anyone who: uses AI in any capacity (incl. generative AI and character AI), have no indicator of age in their description, empty blogs, and those whose views i don't align with.

i don't consent for my work to be translated, reposted, fed into machine learning, monetized, and reformatted to be posted in other platforms. all rights to characters i write for are reserved to their respective owner, though what i do falls under fair use in the U.S. copyright law.

[calamitous-luv]

The Honest Pitch for SweetDream

No overselling: SweetDream lets you build a companion who feels like yours, then talk, call, and share moments with her in a way that genuinely feels real. That's the purpose, and it delivers.

The reason to choose it over the rest is quality, deep character creation, natural and emotionally intelligent chat, beautiful photos and videos, human-sounding voice and calls, and privacy that's respected. If you're going to try one, make it sweetdream.ai.

[conleches]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

body language masterlist

a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

550 words to say instead of fuckin said

638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

some more body language help 

[bellero]

REBLOG TO SAVE A WRITER

[redgillan]

MASTERLIST

/!\ DO NOT STEAL /!\ DO NOT REPLICATE /!\ DO NOT TRANSLATE /!\

THIS AUTHOR IS NO LONGER WRITING

if you want to support my work: Ko-fi

Steve Rogers

Whisper 

Major Crush explicit  -> x

In the Dark

The Greatest Man

Cold Shower nsfw  -> x

Noodle

Not in Love | Part 2

Starving

Secret Identity

Fireworks

Happenstance 

Cross off nsfw  -> x

An Exquisite Kind of Pain

Sore Loser

Close to my Heart

Party Tricks

Betrayal nsfw  -> x

Disrespect 

The Right Partner 

The End of the War

Series

A Series of Unfathomable Feelings - Masterpage Mess with Them - Masterpage Missed Chances - Masterpage  DISCONTINUED

Bucky Barnes

Dream House

Fair Play

A Cold Hearted Monster

Adrenaline nsfw  

Hate Hurts the Hater

Offbeat

A Thief in the Night nsfw  -> x

Vicious Circle

As Close as it Gets

Honeysuckle

Never Gonna Give You Up

Find Out

Slice up explicit  -> x

Adagio

Angel nsfw  -> x

Incy Wincy Spider nsfw  -> x

Sex Code nsfw  -> x

Ball Chain & Satin

One in a Million 

Smooth Criminal

New Beginnings 

Orange Zest

Pain Covered with Skin

Cowards

Smoke Gets in your Eyes | Part 2

Strangers in the Night

Series

Live Wild - Masterpage Spirit in the House - Mastepage Selfless Love Masterpage  Rotten Judgement - Masterpage Breaking the Rules - Masterpage Guess Who? - Masterpage I’ve got you under my Skin - Masterpage Under Pastel Skies - Masterpage new They Could Never Tear us Apart - Masterpage new DISCONTINUED 

Steve x Reader x Bucky

Road Trip

Series

Only Forever (Ao3) One Girl and Two Boys DISCONTINUED

Loki Laufeyson x Reader

Mistletoe nsfw (Ao3)

Series

A Piece of Cake (Ao3) My Neighbour’s Brother (Ao3)

Others & Challenges

Tony Stark x Reader - Candy Mountain Sam Wilson x Reader - I Bemen 4 on Sam Wilson x Reader - Ace in the Hole

Steve’s Emotional Birthday (Steve’s 100 birthday extravaganza) Maisie’s Writing Challenge

/!\ DO NOT STEAL /!\ DO NOT REPLICATE /!\ DO NOT TRANSLATE /!\

if you want to support my work: Ko-fi

[keybladesoras]

Birds of Prey (2020)

[wkemeup]

Little Lion Man

summary: Sent on an assignment back to 1943, you encounter a drastically different version of the man you know pairing: bucky x reader warnings: time travel, a charming af 40s!bucky 😉, a sad af present!bucky 😔 a/n: I used the time travel logic from Endgame except fixed points exist. This was also written for @buckysknifecollection​‘s 1k challenge! I had the song prompt of Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons! Congrats on 1k hun!!

Weep little lion man, You’re not as brave as you were at the start

You found blue eyes lighting up across the crowded courtyard, beaming smile touched on the dirt freckled glow of his face, and it startled you; stilled you right in your tracks and set a stone deep into your chest, made it hard to breathe, because that wasn’t the man you knew.

No—he wore a weightlessness about him, even as he stepped away from the crowd erupting in celebration and shied to the outskirts of the commotion, he was smiling. It wrinkled up by his eyes, left behind dimples in his cheeks, a slight shake of his head as small wisps of hair fell down to his forehead. 

He didn’t seem to be counting each moment of joy on his fingers, calculating how much relief he allowed for himself before the shadows came rushing back in to take it away. He was… happy.

Keep reading

[no-droids]

The Sun on Both Sides

Summary: Cassian Andor is your very close companion.  He says best friend, you say pain in your ass—neither one of you are entirely wrong.  But then one night you smoke some unfamiliar spice with him, and everything you once thought you knew goes sideways.

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Cassian Andor/fem!Reader

Word Count: 11.2K

Warnings: SMUT, sex pollen (therefore DUB-CON by default), recreational drug use, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, dirty talk, oral sex (both male and female receiving), penetrative sex, me just making so much shit up honestly

A/N: All phrases in Festan are taken from other Star Wars conlangs.  I don’t even know if that’s the name of the language people from Fest speak tbh.  Probably not.  None of this is real.  Anyways this is Cassian as a young rebel pilot long before the events of Rogue One.  This oneshot will likely be deemed obsolete by Cassian’s new Disney+ show but whoooooooops~

—knock knock knock knock knock—

You know that knock.  It’s too quick, too rapid and annoying to be anyone else.

“I’m sleeping,” you huff with your mouth full, sitting on top of your mattress in a hoodie and sweatpants, legs crossed.

“I have gifts,” Cassian’s muffled voice asserts from the other side of the door.

“I don’t care,” you return, swallowing and shoveling more slop together with your tiny little biodegradable spork.  “S’the middle of the night.”

—knock knock knock knock knock—

“Stop it.”

“Knock knock,” he beckons vocally, as if you didn’t hear it the first ten times.  “Come, open the door.  Please—I will get into trouble.”

It’s exhausting being Cassian’s friend.  Truly exhausting.  It doesn’t matter what Maker-forsaken time it is, as soon as he comes back to base from patrols, he’s at your door.  You don’t know why he chose you as his sole victim to personally inflict this torture upon, but regardless of reason, he’s called you his close friend ever since you first offered to help the lanky, dark-haired six year old with his Basic and his best friend ever since your junior year of flight training.  Apparently with the promotion came the lingering, severe misfortune of his present company, almost always.

“Can I put in for a transfer?”  He also technically outranks you.

“Open the door and we will talk,” Cassian bargains.  Bantha shit, you and him both know it.  He’ll rip the papers in half before you can even finish filling them out.

You let out a dramatic groan just loud enough for him to hear, dragging yourself off the bed and padding over to the door.  “If I accept your gift, will you leave?”

“Maybe.”  No.

“If I accept your gift and trade it for the rest of this, uh,” you look at the MRE packet in your hands, “rice and shredded tauntaun meat in glockaw sauce, will you leave?”

“Maybe.”  No.

“Good call, not as great as it sounds.  What if I—”

He says your name impatiently, accented and sharp.  You roll your eyes as his knuckles rap on the door once more.  “Quickly, quickly—before someone sees.”

“It’s the residential quarters and it’s two in the fucking morning, Cass, nobody’s going t—”

He cuts you off once more.  “Open the door and I will submit for your transfer work, yes?”

You throw your spork prong-down into the beige pouch in your hands and pop your hip, narrowing your eyebrows at the thick slab of metal separating the two of you skeptically.  “No, you won’t.”

“No, I will not,” the voice behind it concedes immediately.  “But for you, I will pretend.”

Keep reading

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

[capsized-heart]

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol)…….I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time….i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this. 

gif credit to @michonnegrimes​ 

Keep reading

[calamitous-luv]

i just watched supergirl and im gonna make this movie my personality actually

[calamitous-luv]

I'm from SEA too!! Philippines! 🇵🇭

fellow SEAblings may we are granted the fall of our corrupt regime and the American Empire amen

[calamitous-luv]

Hey idk if this is rude or not, but do you still write for jimmy olsen and supergirl!reader? I miss them they're my favorite dynamic ever

Hi!!! U arent being rude at all! I'm so glad u liked them!! They're my babies for sure!!!

I'm sorry I've been MIA in general. Life is just crazy u know (im from SEA and if u read the news about this region we're all in survival mode rn) (i also just got accepted into my dream post grad program and preparation has been an administrative hell)!!

So my brain juices aren't as available for creative endeavors as before. I'll definitely write stuff and finish my drafts after the movie comes out!!!

[calamitous-luv]

Origin, Buttercup

Pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x gen-z!reader

Warnings: fem-coded!reader, bi-coded!reader, ADHD-coded!reader, multilingual!reader, crack, fluff, ANGST, canon typical violence, drug (adderall) and alcohol consumption, get your bearings because this is HEAVY BACKSTORY u guys

Summary: You tell the team a TLDR of how you met Spencer; Emily gets the whole story.

main masterlist / misadventures masterlist

It's a slow day at the BAU, the first one you've had since you started as an intern. 

A slow day, though, doesn't mean that you can scroll through Twitter or read through AO3, because it's paperwork day. All reports, forms, transcripts are thoroughly submitted and checked by you and Penelope. You, especially, have to go transcript and translate all interviews done in Spanish or the occasional Cantonese. 

You're also in charge of organizing the team's OneDrive folder, so messed up that even Penelope gave up a while ago. Emily gives you this task since you're already cataloging the team's cases anyway, when you were still looking for ones that are most relevant to your thesis.

JJ buys you lunch that day, shaking her head at the (yet again) grilled cheese and yogurt you brought almost everyday because hey, groceries are expensive and you can't be bothered to cook, okay?

Spencer comes in minutes after you, JJ, Tara, Penelope, and Luke have gathered at the table near the pantry. Emily is stuck in her office with someone with the door and the blinds closed.

“Doctor Gallagher said she finally gave you less teaching hours,” he says, in lieu of greeting. 

Ever since you started the internship, it feels like you're in a joint custody agreement between Spencer and Dr. Gallagher, your doctoral advisor. You know they talk about you when you’re not there, and you aren’t sure it’s all professional either. You’d bet Clarissa Gallagher and Spencer Reid pass gossip in the faculty lounge when nobody is there.

It’s a new semester, and you have another fellow grad student under Doctor Gallagher who can share the workload. Since it is the spring semester, there’s less courses anyway. 

“Yep,” you answer, chewing on your JJ-sponsored chicken katsu.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “If you want to work in academia, you have to have sufficient teaching experience.”

“My hours are sufficient.” You shrug, then add, “I will only do it if I can be your TA.”

Spencer pauses, dropping his bag of sandwich and an apple on the table. “I'm sorry?”

“What?” You point to his lunch. “JJ, why did I get shit for my sandwich and he doesn't?”

JJ snorts. “Because I'm not buying him lunch in his big boy age.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, then pulls at your baggy sleeve.

“You'd only take on more hours if you're my TA?” He clarifies, you hum in confirmation. “You recited your reason for a change in PhD supervisor as Doctor Spencer Reid is a jackass.”

“You are.”

“So?”

You sigh, setting your disposable bowl down.

“Look, Doctor Reid, you are a shit supervisor but you're a great teacher,” you explain. “I spend 80% of my time under Dr. Gallagher, just trying to figure out if an assignment was written with AI or not. On the other hand, you, Mr. Medieval, banned technologies that are more advanced than an abacus in your classroom.”

Luke leans across towards Penelope, “What's an abacus?”

“Something your parents make you learn if they hate you,” she answers. 

Tara whispers, “Like Cello.”

Penelope snickers, “Exactly like Cello.”

Spencer is still blinking at you, and you're just thoroughly enjoying the bento Mama JJ paid for. 

Spencer swallows, “You think I'm—”

“Dude, don't make this weird,” you shake your head. “And don't discredit me, either. There's a reason why you were my first choice for supervisor.”

Penelope clicks her tongue. “You know, I've been wondering about that. How did—” she wiggles her finger between you and Spencer. “—this happen?”

Spencer ducks his head. “Buttercup was my grad student, and then requested a switch.”

“We want details!” Tara specifies, then glances at you, then at Penelope. “We want the tea!”

You exchange a look with Spencer, he sighs in defeat right after.

“I saw his public lecture at the university and walked in,” you start. “Doctor Reid was presenting the Keating case as a case study.”

“The family annihilator that we didn't manage to catch until years later?” Penelope asks.

Spencer nods. “Yeah, we were spread thin back then with Barnes breathing down our neck, Emily was struggling with her new role, and I was—”

He trails off, and you wait for him to finish. But when his gaze drops to his sandwich, JJ clears her throat and urges you to continue, you let it go.

“I tried to go back to it but we didn't have enough,” Tara adds.

You continue, “Well, the case info was like, there at the study guide so I took a look and I went to his office—”

“—dressed as Buttercup—”

“Carlos had a Powerpuff Girls themed drag show! My other roommate was Bubbles.” You defend. “Anyway—I told Doctor Reid I'll only give my analysis if he'll agree to be my PhD supervisor.”

“I disagreed because I wasn't a good fit—which I was right about—”

“My thesis proposal was on female serial killers—” you don't notice how JJ drops her chopsticks on her own bowl, or how Penelope's mouth falls open. “And while I usually don't want to work with feds, I figured his BAU connections can help.”

Tara chews her food slowly. “Right. And you changed your mind about that?”

This time, you're the one who looks away. “Yes. I–uh, pivoted, to the rehabilitation and reintegration of female inmates, as you know, Doctor Lewis.”

Tara has been the one accompanying, giving you access, and, if they consented, sometimes supervising your interviews with your research subjects. 

“Right,” Spencer presses his lips together, then pivots. “So what's the twenty percent?”

“Hm?”

“You said you spent eighty percent detecting AI. What about the other twenty percent?”

“Actually teaching, of course.” You send him a sardonic smile. Then, you turn to Penelope, who's now watching with a careful eye. “How does the FBI feel about utilizing pirated software for official bureau business?”

Penelope nods slowly, taken aback. “Illegal and not okay.”

“And how does the Bureau feel about paying for an Adobe suite or Canva premium subscription?”

She winces. “Also not okay, but I will see what I can do.”

“Thanks,” you sigh. “I can’t believe public relations wants me to create propo for them. Me. And I can’t say no because they’re holding what happened to Wendy over my head like it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Spencer says.

“Sure.”

“It’s really important that you know it’s not your fault.”

“I know, Doctor Reid.”

Tara tilts her head. “Aren’t you supposed to do mandatory counseling for that?”

You nod. “Yeah, some time after lunch.”

“That sucks,” Luke whistles. “Are you ready?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, we understand it can feel invasive and vulnerable to talk to someone about your feelings,” JJ explains. “Trust me, we never liked this whole mandatory evaluation, either.”

“Doctor Lewis said it’s counseling, not evaluation.”

Luke waves his hand dismissively. “Same thing. They see you have normal human emotions and they think you’re unstable and put you on mandatory leave.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “Isn’t that a good thing?” Spencer grimaces. You raise an eyebrow. “Not a good thing?”

JJ shrugs. “Doesn’t feel good.”

“I think you guys are just riddled with control issues, masochism, and workaholism.” You lean back on your chair. “I’m actually pretty excited.”

“That’s a new one,” Penelope says, whistling in amusement. 

“I mean, I think it shouldn’t be done by any of you guys, including Emily. There’s a sense of safety and security opening up to a stranger you don’t know compared to those you know, and also not a cop,” you start to explain. “Other than that? Free therapy and counseling every week for two months until my internship ends? On the FBI’s dime? Are you kidding? I don’t have insurance! So slap on patient-doctor confidentiality and sign me the fuck up!”

This time, it’s Spencer who balks. “You don’t have insurance?”

“The only form of insurance I have is Kat and her fully stocked medicine cabinet.”

He blinks, hard, like he’s trying to keep his thoughts at bay. “We are never taking you to the field ever again.”

You shrug in indifference. After what happened to Wendy, you don’t think you ever wanted to be in the field again, anyway.

The blinds of Emily’s office stay drawn as you sit  on the leather sofa. You’ve brought along a can of Arizona iced tea, one that you found in the pantry’s cupboard nearing its expiration date. Emily’s dark eyes follow your movement as you pour the liquid over some ice. 

“Are you aware of the charges against you by Agent Graham?” She asks, leaning forward on her knees across from you. 

You take a sip through a straw. “Domestic terrorism, yes.”

“The full extent of it?”

“Probably some bullshit about conspiracy too, right?”

“Buttercup,” she held back a sigh, exasperated. “Tara said you’re excited about the counseling sessions.”

You lean back on the sofa. “Yeah, when it’s done by a psychologist, not a cop.”

“Buttercup–”

“If I tell you I killed someone, in this session, would you arrest me for it?”

“I’d have to.”

“Exactly.”

“We blackmailed a fellow FBI agent to get those charges dropped, Buttercup,” she says. “We are way past going through with them. I just want to know how you feel.”

You think. You think carefully. If there’s anything you’re good at, it's thinking. They blackmailed Graham, putting their careers on the line for you. If they want you arrested, they wouldn’t have gone through with it. You concede. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Emily sighs. “Graham thought that you conspired with Marlene Watsons to kill Wendy Orwell and Terry Hoffman. The essay you wrote for Marlene, the fact that you have access to sensitive information through the BAU, and your prior arrests for assaulting an officer, battery of a fellow student, and inciting violence brought suspicions.”

“One, I admit to the academic dishonesty for Marlene,” you start. “Then, I defended myself against a handsy cop, which was expunged because I was thirteen. Second, a guy was harassing Kat and I at a frat party, and the last one was for simply attending a protest.” You tilt your head at her. “You knew this before you hired me. And you did anyway. Why?”

“Because Spencer trusts you,” Emily says without hesitation. “He told me about you, when you first came to him about the Keating case.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She nods. “Said you found connections we haven’t, saved a lot of lives in the process, gave a lot of people closure. You did good work and he was proud.” She paused, watching your reaction. “So I don’t understand the animosity, the tension. He trusts you, but you don’t trust him.”

“I looked up to him.”

“Not anymore?”

With a shake of your head, you say, “No.”

“Why not?”

You take a deep breath, eyes on the ceiling as you brace yourself to let it out. Let it all out. 

You were, for lack of a better word, stuck. You have two offers for medical school, but only one offer of a partial scholarship. Theoretically, you can take out loans, but there’s just something that’s gnawing on your chest. An insistent feeling of you’re doing something wrong.

You thought back to the last semester—the last four years, really, counting the times you’ve felt like you were something right. You were smart—smarter than the average kid. Pre-med was the smart choice, the practical choice. Sure, you’d be buried in student loan debt but the path to a career was clear. You would’ve paid it all using the first two months of your salary as an attending.

Or maybe you could go for pathology. 

But the thought of it—the additional four years of med school, the residency with shitty bosses and scut work and unpredictable schedule.  

It had been a no-brainer for Kat, applying for the loans just like that, even with the unpaid ones from her undergraduate. Kat loved helping people that way, one by one, healing them of their pain. But you—you know you don’t have the patience. She had always been clear about what she wanted, even back when you met her as a lab assistant in your sophomore year of university. 

Carlos, on the other hand, you met at the holding cell of Metro PD. The rest is history.

“Apparently the guy was an FBI agent, and he’s been to prison,” Carlos explained, trying to get you out of your spiral about your future. “I think you’d like him.”

“I wrote a paper about medical assistance in state prison once and you think I know everyone who’s been to prison.”

“All I’m saying is that you might find his lectures interesting,” Carlos said with a grin on his face. “It helps that he’s got a pretty face, too.”

You scoff. “You think I can be bribed by pretty boys?”

“And girls,” he smirks. “Look, just drop by after your interview. It’s a public lecture, nobody will kick you out. I’ll even save you a seat!”

And pretty he was. 

It felt like electricity, zapping life and fire inside your chest that’s been snubbed out. Doctor Spencer Reid was dressed in a patterned tie and a sports coat, an unruly mess of curls on his head, like he rolled out of bed looking like Einstein incarnate. 

There are some lecturers who command the room because they are a natural; magnetic. Spencer was that, and so much more. 

“Linda is 31 years old, single, outspoken, and very bright,” he was saying as you took the seat next to Carlos in the middle rows. “She majored in philosophy. As a student, she was deeply concerned with issues of discrimination and social justice, and also participated in anti-nuclear demonstrations—”

“What are you doing here?” Kat, who was sitting next to you on the aisle, whispered as you squeezed past her to get to the empty seat between her and Carlos. “Don’t you have the scholarship interview?”

“They pulled out my records and I had to bail.”

“Shit,” Kat balked. “Are they even allowed to do that?”

“Apparently the head of the department is married to Virginia's ADA.”

“Damn,” Carlos whistled. “That blows.”

“Yeah no kidding,” you leaned back on the chair, “And they are science people, you know, doctors—no offense Kat—” she waved her hand in dismissal. “So they don’t care about nuance, y’know? I was sitting there when they just—”

“Excuse me,” a voice called. Carlos nudged your elbow to get you to stop talking. You looked up and it was him, staring at you and Kat and Carlos expectantly. “Would you care to give us your input?”

You weren’t listening. The chalkboard behind wrote “PROBABILITY” and “THE LINDA PROBLEM” in the most intelligible hand writing you had ever had the displeasure of reading. Underneath was a tally, one side was for “BANK TELLER” and “BANK TELLER + FEMINIST”. The latter had a lot more tally underneath. 

“Bank teller,” you answered. 

Doctor Spencer Reid tilted his head, “Care to elaborate?”

“To be honest with you, Doctor Reid, I wasn’t really listening,” you sighed. “But if it’s probability then Linda is a bank teller is more probable than Linda being a bank teller and a feminist, regardless of her past activism.”

“But if discrimination and social justice is Linda’s concern, wouldn’t feminism—a movement about dismantling discrimination against women and social justice for women—also be one of her concerns?” Carlos pointed out. 

“Yeah, dude, but we are talking about probability,” you continued, just talking to Carlos now. “The probability of two events occurring in conjunction is always less than or equal to the probability of either one occurring alone. Linda is a bank teller who may or may not be active in feminist movements. With the first option, that option is kept open, unlike the second option where it is definitive.”

Carlos nodded. “I think I get it now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Herrera and—”

“His friend,” you supplied, because he was in the FBI and you didn’t need more authority figures on your back.

“Of course,” he regarded you for another stretch of a second, then turned his attention back to the lecture hall. “Like the Linda Problem, profiling is about probability. My colleagues in the Behavioral Analysis Unit might disagree, but my approach to profiling relies on behavioral science as much as mathematics. Now, let’s take a look at an old cold case—”

And you were caught. Hook, line, and sinker.

His lecture that day sparked the inquisitive part of your brain that had been shut down and suffocated by the generally incurious professors over at the STEM buildings—exact sciences that left no room for deeper exploration if it wasn’t in numbers, looking for precedent while ignoring why the precedent might not exist in the first place.

That’s why it hurt so much when he quite literally rejected you. 

There was a serial killer once, in your hometown. She lived next door to you. She'd feed you and bathe you and let you read her books when your parents would forget you existed. She never shut you down. She was kind and smart and—

She was arrested. You were fourteen, first year of high school. The police and the news said she killed 5 men over the course of six months. A year later they'll let you graduate. 

So really, when you sent Doctor Spencer Reid an email with a research proposal regarding that case, it was for selfish reasons. 

“You are a part of the university's violent crime research programe,” You told him once. You had ambushed him after a lecture. “You worked with the FBI. I want to know why and how.”

“I can get you her interview transcripts,” He said. “You don't need to get a doctorate just to find out why.”

“It's not about her, Doctor Reid.”

“Look,” He took a deep breath. You saw just then how seemingly tired he was, with unruly curls and eyes sunken and red. He regarded you like he didn't quite see you fully in front of him. “I truly appreciate your interest, but I'm not fit to supervise anyone. Find someone else, something else if this is important to you.”

But you had made up your mind. You wanted him and no one else. 

The rejection haunted you, stayed with you because your brain is nothing if not torturous. His words played in the back of your mind over and over like a broken record. 

“So, are you just going to give up?” Kat asked in a dimly lit club. She had a blonde wig on, tied in pigtails with sparkly blue glitter eye shadows on her eyelids. Her dress sparkled under the mirrorball reflective lights. 

“I don't want to,” You confess, tugging on the black bob wig you had on. “Kat, you saw it. It's like he breathed my academic soul back to life in that classroom. I don't want to give that up.”

Kat was your upperclassman in undergrad. Meaning she got a good three years ahead of you, a fact that neither she nor you will let each other forget. 

“Then you just have to impress him,” She said, like it answered anything. 

It answered everything. 

You took her laptop and opened the link attached on the study guide for his classes through Carlo's student account, then downloaded the Keating case files. You didn't know jackshit about profiling, but you were fueled by a vodka Red Bull and spite and drag queens who cheered you on once they: 1) learned what you were trying to do; 2) gave you a dose of Adderall; and 3) saw a picture of Doctor Reid courtesy of Carlos. 

So yeah, Kat and Carlos drove you back to the University, taking off in the middle of the drag show, still dressed fully like Powerpuff Girls, because there was a faculty mixer that night. 

Spencer was standing near the refreshment table, with no glass of his own, in a sports coat and purple scarf, talking to another woman. That woman was Clarissa Gallagher, (future, two years after this interaction) associate professor in the criminology department. Technically Spencer's senior. Technically older than him. 

Technically he should do what she asked if he wanted to be on the tenure track. Technically he was just a little scared of her. 

And she was telling him why on Earth would he turn away a perfectly good, albeit unconventional application (you) because goddamnit we need more people, Reid! 

And he was telling her that he was still dealing with FBI stuff and absolutely under no circumstances was capable of handling a grad student, thank you very much. 

But that night, you marched up to him dressed like Buttercup from the Powerpuff Girls, swaying just enough for him to tell that you had at least two drinks. 

“I solved it,” You said. 

Spencer exchanged a glance with Clarissa. “Solved what?”

“The Keating case.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You have identified the unsub?”

“No, but I have a profile.”

“Right,” He dragged out, disbelieving. 

You crossed your arms in front of your chest, hip popping out. “I swear on Britney.”

Doctor Clarissa Gallagher furrowed her eyebrows. “Spears?”

“Exactly.”

Spencer leaned back in his heels, one hand in his pocket just to hide both his nerves and panic. A confrontation with a potential student dressed in sparkly green and black dress with a bad wig would not end well with anyone. 

He said, “You are not a trained profiler.”

You waved your hand in dismissal. “Pattern recognition on behavior and probability. That's what you said.”

That was what he said, back in that lecture he gave a few weeks ago, where you managed to impress him and irritate him at the same time. He bit his tongue from rattling off about some behavioral theory; some belief Gideon had drilled into his head about being a profiler. But he remembered how Maeve helped him during that amputation case, how Seaver held herself against a team of seasoned profilers while still being in the academy, how Alex and Kate carried themselves during their time with the team.

A lot of brilliant people. All he needed was to give them a chance. Like Gideon did with him. 

“Alright,” He sighed. “What do you have?”

“Not so fast.” You clicked your tongue. “I'll give you my notes, my profile, everything. If the information I provided lead to the arrest of the man responsible for ten victims in the span of two years, you will be my supervisor.”

Something flashed in his eyes, and he rubbed it away with his palm. “Let's go talk in my office—”

“No, I want Doctor Gallagher to be a witness in this deal when you accept it.”

“I'm not accepting—”

“You will,” You said, confidently. “Because you are Spencer Reid.” you paused, then added. “Because you and your team would want to get closure for the victims’ families and get a serial killer off the street but it was cooler to say that, y’know.”

All Spencer did was sigh, rubbed his eyes with his two fingers, and looked at Clarissa Gallagher for help. She gave him two thumbs up. 

What made it hard and heartbreaking was that Spencer actually was a good teacher.

He was passionate, and smart, and caring—when he was around. 

You understood, really—or tried to, anyway—because he was still spending half his time in Quantico if he wasn’t in class. You really had to fight for his time and attention if you wanted to progress on your dissertation, but two months in, and you had gotten nowhere. 

It wasn’t for lack of trying. Once you told him to leave the grading with you, like a normal grad student doing scut work for their professors, but he told you that you “don’t have the qualifications” and he “doesn’t trust you with them”. 

You took pre-med, so what? One time you had to write a fifteen page essay for some girl for her intro to gender studies course because she was sobbing in the library. And you (she) got an A, thank you very much. 

The beauty of your brain (and his) was that you could retain information once you understood them. Not necessarily an eidetic memory, no, but you were smart and your brain needed constant stimulation. You proved your worth by speeding through his reading material requirement for the entire undergrad program in the department in a week. 

Still, all you got was a twenty minute window when he was having dinner after office hours. But that was fine because he was Spencer Reid, a genius, all-around lovable member of the faculty. 

Three months in, you met your breaking point.

“You wanted me to analyze cases for different female serial killer archetypes for the background and introduction section of my dissertation,” you pointed out one day, frustrated. “I did, and now you want me to re-do them?”

“One,” he huffed. “Re-do one.”

“Their analyses are integrated with one another, Doctor Reid,” you said. “None of their cases can be separated from their own victimization of gender-based violence. I made a chart,” you flipped your laptop around so he’d see the screen. “You’d notice if you actually read my work instead of vibing through them.”

“I did read them,” he said with gritted teeth, impatience lacing his tone. He pushed the laptop screen down. “I disagree with choosing Cat Adams as an example of the Black Widow archetype. Black Widow killers present as a skilled emotional manipulator targeting men around their immediate—”

“—relationship, blah, blah, so?”

“Cat Adams was a part of a hitman network.”

“Again, Doctor Reid, if you actually read my analysis, it solely focuses on Adams’ kills prior to her participation in the Silk Road.”

“Buttercup,” he sighed, exasperatedly. “I am sure you are more than capable of finding another case. I can have someone give you access to the ViCAP database, if you need it. But with this one, you have no idea what you are talking about.”

“And you do?” was what came out of your mouth as the result of weeks and months of hitting wall after wall with him. Spencer paused, blinking at you. “Your academic credentials are in mathematics, chemistry, and engineering—you only have a BA in psychology. The only reason you’re in the criminology department is because you just so happen to have worked for the FBI as a profiler. Have you ever conducted qualitative criminology research before?”

Academic burn out was a bitch, and it was making you a bitch.

“Then what are you doing here?” he asked, leaning back on his ergonomic chair, studying you, profiling you, you were sure. “You chose this.”

Chose me, was unsaid but heard loud and clear still.

“Well, I should’ve listened to you the first time.” 

When you walked out that door, you didn’t imagine that was going to be the last you’d see of him for at least six months. 

You didn’t know it, of course, but an old friend of his, Ethan, was found dead at a motel in Los Angeles and he spent four months hunting the killer down and another two to grieve. All you knew was that he abandoned you.

It didn’t take long for Doctor Gallagher to tell you to take over his classes. And shortly after paying one visit to the Fairview Halfway House to invite a former inmate for a guest lecture, you pivoted your dissertation topic, starting from scratch, this time under Doctor Gallagher’s wing.

When he came back, you made it your personal mission to snub the last bit of your need for Spencer’s respect and validation. 

“He abandoned me,” you reiterate to  Emily. “You know what he said to me, when he finally came back from his impromptu sabbatical and I told him Doctor Gallagher is my supervisor?”

Emily leans back in her chair. “What?”

“He said, ‘I’m glad’.” you smile sardonically, remembering his sunken eyes, the drop of his voice when he said it. “Sure, at first it was to antagonize him, to make him feel how upset I was, but now? Now it’s just fun and it just is.”

[calamitous-luv]

guys im sorry for not being actively engaging rn while slowly churning out fics well it's because im a little depressed

[calamitous-luv]

fitness test

Pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x gen-z!reader

Warnings: basically crack fic, dialogue heavy, so unserious, not beta-d, canon typical violence, no gendered pronouns but fem!coded and bi!coded, age gap (spencer in his 40s, reader in mid 20s), physical activities, reader is somewhat in good shape except for running, Carlos-the-roommate made an appearance

Summary: Emily wants to keep you in the field, Internal Affairs disagreed. This is a compromise.

main masterlist / misadventures masterlist

“Are you sure you should be back at the snake’s den this soon?” Carlos asks, looking up at you through a bowl of Cheerios you keep stocked just for him. 

You don’t blame him for being concerned. You would be concerned too if one of your roommates-slash-best friends called you at an ungodly hour to tell you they’ve been arrested on a domestic terrorism charge by the freaking FBI. On top of that, it’s you. Carlos has had to put up with a lot of crap from you and your antics. 

“I appreciate the concern, darling, but even you know I cannot bake yet another batch of cookies in the middle of the night,” you say. “We can’t afford the butter and the gas bill.”

His dark eyes track your movement as you move from one spot to another, gathering your miscellaneous belongings that are scattered all over the apartment. “Kat just got her annual raise, and we both know she enjoys your latest invention of brown butter black sesame cookies with—”

“—white chocolate chunks, I know, ha-ha.” It’s a running joke between the three of you, three inhabitants of apartment unit 3A, where Carlos and Kat and your other friends would ask what you were baking and you happened to be baking some weird combination of flavors that didn’t have any name yet, so you just tell them what’s in it and they repeat that over and over until someone stumble. 

“She’d appreciate another batch,” he shrugs. “Especially after yesterday’s 24 hour shift.”

Kat is a—second year now—ER resident who barely eats anything other than whatever’s out on the counter that day. Carlos works at a legal aid and a drag queen. That’s why you are all depending on each other’s survival to survive, splitting a four-bedroom apartment three ways that you can only afford because the previous renter did a murder suicide on Halloween. 

You take a deep breath, looking at the guy who had pulled you—and you him—out of worse situations before. “Carlos, I love you, but you know I need to keep moving or else, I will—I’ll—”

He sighs, “Yeah, I get it.” Then he sends you off with a small smile. “For the love of all things good in this world, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Swear to God!”

Luke meets you at the training ground, which is a football stadium just West of the academy building. He’s dressed in what you call a “gym bro” aesthetic, with a compression shirt and sweats, grinning ear to ear, protein shake in hand.

The sun shines down on your face, and it should be a crime that Luke is this happy to workout this early in the morning. 

“Ready for your assessment, Buttercup?”

“I still don’t understand why Emily wants my fitness evaluation,” you complain, sipping on your Penelope-sponsored oat matcha latte. “I’m literally just an intern! My contract ends real soon!”

“Beats me,” Penelope shrugs. “If you completed the triathlon, Emily would’ve waived the requirements off.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault IA banned me and Alvez from competing!” you huff. Wendy’s death internal investigation had put the unit into a standstill for a couple of weeks, including banning their participation in the annual FBI triathlon. You nod towards Luke. “I would’ve smoked you.”

Luke scoffs, offended, even just for a little. “Girlie, I was a ranger in Iraq and ran a fugitive task force before the BAU. There’s no way that would’ve happened.”

“And I rode a bike all two years of high school, so what?”

Spencer ignores the pointed look Penelope sends him, and the elbow nudges a second later due to his lack of response. He leans back on the bleachers, sunglasses perched on his nose, eyes narrowed at her. “Morgan waived our fitness requirement every year.”

You look at him, then at Luke. “Can’t you do the same?”

“And miss this whole thing?” Luke grins. “Not a chance.”

“Fine, let’s get this over with.” You set the plastic cup between you and Spencer, with him eyeing the drink like he’s planning to steal it from you. “If you finish it you owe me a new one.”

“You’re not going to finish it,” he retorts, already bringing the straw to his lips. “By the time you’re done, it’ll be lukewarm and there’s nothing you hate more than diluted matcha.”

You deadpan, “I hate you more than that.”

Spencer grins, teeth biting into the oh-so-eco-friendly cassava straw. “And here I thought we are just starting to get along.”

“Shut up, old man.” You scowl to cover up the smile threatening to break out. Spencer sees it though, he always does, lately, and his lips pull wider. You turn to Luke instead. “Where do you want me, coach?”

Luke claps his hands, “Let’s start with warm ups!”

Penelope moves one bleacher down, sitting next to Spencer. Her skirt, full and polka-dot, grazes his hand. He moves it just a fraction. 

“Okay, spill,” she says, eyes boring into the side of his face.

“Spill what?”

Spencer can practically see the way she rolls her eyes. “Why is a graduate intern doing a fitness test required only for special agents?”

“Beats me,” he shrugs, fully intending to play coy until Penelope hits his arm. Spencer laughs. “Alright.” He sighs, eyes tracking you doing jumping jacks while Luke claps his hands in encouragement. “After IA investigated Wendy’s death, they reiterated that technically Buttercup does not have clearance to be on the field. Emily and JJ argued that they are an asset to the team, and one of the stipulations of Buttercup’s clearance is to pass the fitness test.”

Penelope lets a second pass. “And?”

“They can only do field work for local cases.”

“Have you told them that?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to?”

“No,” Spencer brings the matcha latte up to his lips again, slurping obnoxiously before sending a grin towards Penelope. “Emily will.”

She narrows her eyes at him, holding back a grin on her face. “You are an evil, evil man, Spencer Reid.”

Penelope touches her own iced coffee with Spencer’s stolen matcha latte in a mock toast. 

You and Luke come back around the bleachers half an hour later. You drop on the ground in front of Spencer and Penelope, laying on your back, sweat decorating your hairline and neck. Spencer pretends not to notice the way your shorts ride up your thighs as you bend your legs up. 

“Twenty five push-ups, that’s three points, thirty seven sit-ups, that’s two points,” Luke recites from his clipboard. “That’s better than I expected.”

“Carlos and Kat had a bit of a fitness fad during lockdown,” you say, letting a little smugness seep along your words. 

“But twenty minutes on the one and a half mile run, Buttercup, really?” Luke chides. “That’s minutes two points.”

“Ugh.”

“Sixty seconds for the sprint would be fine if you can hit at least twelve and a half minute for the run.”

You groan louder. “Ughhh.”

Spencer peers down at you from his perch. “I thought you outran MPD after you threw an egg at an anti-pride protester last summer.”

“And don’t forget the Halloween fiasco,” Penelope adds solemnly.

“Well, being chased by a cop to evade arrest is a pretty good motivator, don’t you think?”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “Ignoring the stuff about evading arrest, all I’m hearing is you need someone to chase you down.”

“I said, a good motivator.”

“Right, sure,” Luke’s eyes catch Spencer’s, then Penelope, before giving them his clipboard and stopwatch. ‘Come on, get up.”

“What?” you sit up, surprised. 

“Get up, stand on the starting line for the sprint,” He puts his hands under your shoulder blades, pushing you up. You comply, moving towards the starting line, tired and confused. 

“I can’t get five more minutes?” you yell, getting into position anyway.

Luke jogs towards you, before stopping a good meter behind your position. “No.”

“But—”

“I’ll give you a three second head start then I’m going to chase you.”

Your shock is palpable, visible, even, judging by Penelope’s giggling and Spencer’s delight. “What?”

“Ready, set—go!”

Your feet take off before you can comprehend what’s going on. “FUCK! Fuck you, Alvez!”

Luke will never catch you for real, of course, he’s there as a psychological mind fuck to fuck with your brain, triggering fight or flight response. It’s unorthodox, and definitely borderline illegal, but it gets your sprint time down to fifty-two seconds, which is worth seven points on its own. 

After three hundred meters, Luke shows mercy and lets Penelope toss you a bottle of blue Gatorade. 

“Your only defense against an unsub in the field is to run,” Spencer points out when you complain for the umpteenth time. “Good to know your flight response is still functioning.”

“Or someone can start teaching me how to fight,” you pout. “Or how to shoot—”

“No,” All three say in unison, solid and final. You scowl in disappointment. 

“Alright,” Luke turns back to you. “Let’s do the mile half run.”

“But I’m literally dying here.”

“No, you’re not,” Luke stands, before walking back to the tracks. “Come on!”

You reluctantly get up and follow him. Before you run off, you look back towards Penelope and Spencer on the bleachers. “If I die out there, spread my ashes at a Florence and the Machine concert—or any concert with pyro! Let me go up in flames!”

Penelope turns to Spencer. “I’ll have ten on fourteen minutes.”

Spencer hums in thought. “Thirteen and a half.”

“You’re on, Doctor Reid.”

When you come back thirteen minutes and fifteen seconds later, screaming and groaning before dropping on the ground again, Spencer accepts the crumpled bill from Penelope with glee. 

You wheeze. “Somebody call me an ambulance. I think I’m gonna throw up. Or pass out. Or both. In that order.”

Spencer stands next to you, bending down to look at your face. You squint your eyes to look up at him, the sun hitting his curls just in the right places where—”Best we can do is a stretcher, Buttercup.”

“I’ll take that.”

“Sure,” he smiles oh-so-pretty. “Straight to the seventh floor because we got a case.”

“We what?”

Penelope grins. “It’s a local one, too, so you’re up.”

“No!”

“You’re an asset to the team, we have to use you somehow.”

“Nooooo!!”

[calamitous-luv]

fitness test

Pairing: post-prison!spencer reid x gen-z!reader

Warnings: basically crack fic, dialogue heavy, so unserious, not beta-d, canon typical violence, no gendered pronouns but fem!coded and bi!coded, age gap (spencer in his 40s, reader in mid 20s), physical activities, reader is somewhat in good shape except for running, Carlos-the-roommate made an appearance

Summary: Emily wants to keep you in the field, Internal Affairs disagreed. This is a compromise.

main masterlist / misadventures masterlist

“Are you sure you should be back at the snake’s den this soon?” Carlos asks, looking up at you through a bowl of Cheerios you keep stocked just for him. 

You don’t blame him for being concerned. You would be concerned too if one of your roommates-slash-best friends called you at an ungodly hour to tell you they’ve been arrested on a domestic terrorism charge by the freaking FBI. On top of that, it’s you. Carlos has had to put up with a lot of crap from you and your antics. 

“I appreciate the concern, darling, but even you know I cannot bake yet another batch of cookies in the middle of the night,” you say. “We can’t afford the butter and the gas bill.”

His dark eyes track your movement as you move from one spot to another, gathering your miscellaneous belongings that are scattered all over the apartment. “Kat just got her annual raise, and we both know she enjoys your latest invention of brown butter black sesame cookies with—”

“—white chocolate chunks, I know, ha-ha.” It’s a running joke between the three of you, three inhabitants of apartment unit 3A, where Carlos and Kat and your other friends would ask what you were baking and you happened to be baking some weird combination of flavors that didn’t have any name yet, so you just tell them what’s in it and they repeat that over and over until someone stumble. 

“She’d appreciate another batch,” he shrugs. “Especially after yesterday’s 24 hour shift.”

Kat is a—second year now—ER resident who barely eats anything other than whatever’s out on the counter that day. Carlos works at a legal aid and a drag queen. That’s why you are all depending on each other’s survival to survive, splitting a four-bedroom apartment three ways that you can only afford because the previous renter did a murder suicide on Halloween. 

You take a deep breath, looking at the guy who had pulled you—and you him—out of worse situations before. “Carlos, I love you, but you know I need to keep moving or else, I will—I’ll—”

He sighs, “Yeah, I get it.” Then he sends you off with a small smile. “For the love of all things good in this world, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Swear to God!”

Luke meets you at the training ground, which is a football stadium just West of the academy building. He’s dressed in what you call a “gym bro” aesthetic, with a compression shirt and sweats, grinning ear to ear, protein shake in hand.

The sun shines down on your face, and it should be a crime that Luke is this happy to workout this early in the morning. 

“Ready for your assessment, Buttercup?”

“I still don’t understand why Emily wants my fitness evaluation,” you complain, sipping on your Penelope-sponsored oat matcha latte. “I’m literally just an intern! My contract ends real soon!”

“Beats me,” Penelope shrugs. “If you completed the triathlon, Emily would’ve waived the requirements off.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault IA banned me and Alvez from competing!” you huff. Wendy’s death internal investigation had put the unit into a standstill for a couple of weeks, including banning their participation in the annual FBI triathlon. You nod towards Luke. “I would’ve smoked you.”

Luke scoffs, offended, even just for a little. “Girlie, I was a ranger in Iraq and ran a fugitive task force before the BAU. There’s no way that would’ve happened.”

“And I rode a bike all two years of high school, so what?”

Spencer ignores the pointed look Penelope sends him, and the elbow nudges a second later due to his lack of response. He leans back on the bleachers, sunglasses perched on his nose, eyes narrowed at her. “Morgan waived our fitness requirement every year.”

You look at him, then at Luke. “Can’t you do the same?”

“And miss this whole thing?” Luke grins. “Not a chance.”

“Fine, let’s get this over with.” You set the plastic cup between you and Spencer, with him eyeing the drink like he’s planning to steal it from you. “If you finish it you owe me a new one.”

“You’re not going to finish it,” he retorts, already bringing the straw to his lips. “By the time you’re done, it’ll be lukewarm and there’s nothing you hate more than diluted matcha.”

You deadpan, “I hate you more than that.”

Spencer grins, teeth biting into the oh-so-eco-friendly cassava straw. “And here I thought we are just starting to get along.”

“Shut up, old man.” You scowl to cover up the smile threatening to break out. Spencer sees it though, he always does, lately, and his lips pull wider. You turn to Luke instead. “Where do you want me, coach?”

Luke claps his hands, “Let’s start with warm ups!”

Penelope moves one bleacher down, sitting next to Spencer. Her skirt, full and polka-dot, grazes his hand. He moves it just a fraction. 

“Okay, spill,” she says, eyes boring into the side of his face.

“Spill what?”

Spencer can practically see the way she rolls her eyes. “Why is a graduate intern doing a fitness test required only for special agents?”

“Beats me,” he shrugs, fully intending to play coy until Penelope hits his arm. Spencer laughs. “Alright.” He sighs, eyes tracking you doing jumping jacks while Luke claps his hands in encouragement. “After IA investigated Wendy’s death, they reiterated that technically Buttercup does not have clearance to be on the field. Emily and JJ argued that they are an asset to the team, and one of the stipulations of Buttercup’s clearance is to pass the fitness test.”

Penelope lets a second pass. “And?”

“They can only do field work for local cases.”

“Have you told them that?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to?”

“No,” Spencer brings the matcha latte up to his lips again, slurping obnoxiously before sending a grin towards Penelope. “Emily will.”

She narrows her eyes at him, holding back a grin on her face. “You are an evil, evil man, Spencer Reid.”

Penelope touches her own iced coffee with Spencer’s stolen matcha latte in a mock toast. 

You and Luke come back around the bleachers half an hour later. You drop on the ground in front of Spencer and Penelope, laying on your back, sweat decorating your hairline and neck. Spencer pretends not to notice the way your shorts ride up your thighs as you bend your legs up. 

“Twenty five push-ups, that’s three points, thirty seven sit-ups, that’s two points,” Luke recites from his clipboard. “That’s better than I expected.”

“Carlos and Kat had a bit of a fitness fad during lockdown,” you say, letting a little smugness seep along your words. 

“But twenty minutes on the one and a half mile run, Buttercup, really?” Luke chides. “That’s minutes two points.”

“Ugh.”

“Sixty seconds for the sprint would be fine if you can hit at least twelve and a half minute for the run.”

You groan louder. “Ughhh.”

Spencer peers down at you from his perch. “I thought you outran MPD after you threw an egg at an anti-pride protester last summer.”

“And don’t forget the Halloween fiasco,” Penelope adds solemnly.

“Well, being chased by a cop to evade arrest is a pretty good motivator, don’t you think?”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “Ignoring the stuff about evading arrest, all I’m hearing is you need someone to chase you down.”

“I said, a good motivator.”

“Right, sure,” Luke’s eyes catch Spencer’s, then Penelope, before giving them his clipboard and stopwatch. ‘Come on, get up.”

“What?” you sit up, surprised. 

“Get up, stand on the starting line for the sprint,” He puts his hands under your shoulder blades, pushing you up. You comply, moving towards the starting line, tired and confused. 

“I can’t get five more minutes?” you yell, getting into position anyway.

Luke jogs towards you, before stopping a good meter behind your position. “No.”

“But—”

“I’ll give you a three second head start then I’m going to chase you.”

Your shock is palpable, visible, even, judging by Penelope’s giggling and Spencer’s delight. “What?”

“Ready, set—go!”

Your feet take off before you can comprehend what’s going on. “FUCK! Fuck you, Alvez!”

Luke will never catch you for real, of course, he’s there as a psychological mind fuck to fuck with your brain, triggering fight or flight response. It’s unorthodox, and definitely borderline illegal, but it gets your sprint time down to fifty-two seconds, which is worth seven points on its own. 

After three hundred meters, Luke shows mercy and lets Penelope toss you a bottle of blue Gatorade. 

“Your only defense against an unsub in the field is to run,” Spencer points out when you complain for the umpteenth time. “Good to know your flight response is still functioning.”

“Or someone can start teaching me how to fight,” you pout. “Or how to shoot—”

“No,” All three say in unison, solid and final. You scowl in disappointment. 

“Alright,” Luke turns back to you. “Let’s do the mile half run.”

“But I’m literally dying here.”

“No, you’re not,” Luke stands, before walking back to the tracks. “Come on!”

You reluctantly get up and follow him. Before you run off, you look back towards Penelope and Spencer on the bleachers. “If I die out there, spread my ashes at a Florence and the Machine concert—or any concert with pyro! Let me go up in flames!”

Penelope turns to Spencer. “I’ll have ten on fourteen minutes.”

Spencer hums in thought. “Thirteen and a half.”

“You’re on, Doctor Reid.”

When you come back thirteen minutes and fifteen seconds later, screaming and groaning before dropping on the ground again, Spencer accepts the crumpled bill from Penelope with glee. 

You wheeze. “Somebody call me an ambulance. I think I’m gonna throw up. Or pass out. Or both. In that order.”

Spencer stands next to you, bending down to look at your face. You squint your eyes to look up at him, the sun hitting his curls just in the right places where—”Best we can do is a stretcher, Buttercup.”

“I’ll take that.”

“Sure,” he smiles oh-so-pretty. “Straight to the seventh floor because we got a case.”

“We what?”

Penelope grins. “It’s a local one, too, so you’re up.”

“No!”

“You’re an asset to the team, we have to use you somehow.”

“Nooooo!!”

[calamitous-luv]

new misadventures coming in approximately 5.5 hr omg who said that

[calamitous-luv]

ARE YOU 🫵 DOWN FOR REQUESTS OF THE JIMMY OLSEN AND SUPERGIRL READER VARIETY ⁉️

BABY I'M ALWAYS UP FOR JIMMY AND SUPERGIRL REQUESTS