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sunlight-moonrise · 4 years

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Satisfied Curiosity (Reid Imagine)

Summary: Bartender!Reader does everything she can to get the cute FBI agent’s attention.

A/N: This wasn’t suppose to be so long or late, but my mind got the best of me. Big Thanks to @spencer-reid-in-a-pool and @reidetic for being amazing Betas (you guys are precious!). This story would be utterly unintelligible without them. Also thank you to everyone who showed love to my first fic. I didn’t expect for it to receive half of the attention it was given. I’m super grateful and I hope to provide more for you all. Enjoy!

Category: Smut

Content Warnings: Sexting, Oral (Male Receiving), Fingering, Penetrative Sex, Rough Sex, Degradation

Word Count: 9.1K (sorry, not sorry)

Masterlist

I’d like to think that I’m able to read people pretty well. Since working as a bartender for the past five years, I can examine an individual and have their personality down pat. Facial expressions, body language, posture, gestures. All these things are basically words to a story that I am able to put together.

My thought process was cut off when I noticed these two guys sitting at the end of the bar. I regarded them momentarily. They don’t look like the typical bar patron, their clothing a little too unseemly for a place like this. They were surveying the area as if looking for something.

I got a side profile of the tan Hispanic man. He had dark curly hair and trimmed facial hair. He was talking lowly to the man he was sitting with, their eyes still skimming all over their surroundings. I couldn’t get a good look at the other guy since his back was to me.

They sat tall, their bodies alert to any movement. It was as if it was their first time at a bar, but I know they were not uncomfortable here. There were no jittery movements from what I can see; no telltale signs that they were nervous. They also were not paying much attention to the people around them, focusing more on random spots within the place. Weird. Are they inspectors? Nah, that can’t be. Drew always gives us a heads up when visitors come. Plus, we got checked a few weeks ago.

The two finally turned towards my direction, and I was able to see the other guy. Wow, he was hot. Like very hot. Loose brown curls sat wildly on his head, looking as if he just rolled out of bed. He had a light stubble going on, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw. Damn, I bet I’d cut myself just touching it. He had a beautiful pair of pink lips. I quickly turned my attention to his left hand, noticing the lack of a ring. No wife, good. Now I need to make sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend or fiancée waiting for him at home.

I trailed my eyes upward, noticing that he was staring at me as well. I felt my face heat up when I saw him smirk. Damn, he caught me checking him out. His companion was also looking at me expectantly. They probably have been trying to get my attention for a while now, most likely to order some drinks. I made my way towards them, smoothing my hands over my jeans.

“Evening fellas, would you like to see a menu?” I asked as I placed some napkins in front of them.

“No thanks, but my partner and I would like to ask you some questions…” said the Hispanic man with a small pause. He quickly looked at my name tag before looking back at me “…(Y/N)”

The fuck? Partners? I didn’t think they were a couple. I did a quick glance over at them. Two Alpha males in a relationship rarely ever work out. They were not physically close to one another either. Sigh, you always fall for the ones you can’t get.

I didn’t answer them, still mentally distraught over this taken man. I’m sure they took my silence as confusion because the Hispanic man went on to explain, “I’m Luke Alvez and this here is Dr. Spencer Reid,” they flashed their badges, showing me some credentials. “We’re with the FBI.” Oh. I glanced toward Dr. Reid, a smile tugging on my lips. Score, we’re back in business.

I figured I might be here for a while so I got myself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as I can get standing behind a bar. I leaned towards them, my hands resting on the bar top. “Well, in that case, fire away.”

“Have you noticed any males here who arrived by themselves? This man likely sits alone, only interacts with women. He presents himself as a charming gentleman. His head would be facing downwards if he were sitting at the bar and he would probably wear some kind of hat to shield himself,” asked Luke.

“That’s roughly 50% of my male patrons, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“Yea, I should have figured that is not much to go by.”

I turned my attention back to the doctor who has yet to say a word, noticing that he was once again looking at random spots around the bar. “Your friend here is awfully quiet.”

At my comment, Spencer finally looked at me. I am sure that time stopped as his honey-colored eyes stared deeply into my own. If it wouldn’t come off strange, I’d stared at them all day.

He eventually turned away from me, “This place has a lot of blind spots.” He pointed to one corner by the back and another near the billiards table. It took a moment for me to comprehend what he was saying since I was distracted by the sound of his voice. He could probably recite Shakespeare and I’d think it was erotica.

He continued talking, oblivious of my swooning. “The man we are looking for does not want to be seen, he’ll know where to be so that the camera can’t spot him. He’ll likely bring the woman he’s talking to there or even over there,” he pointed to another spot, this time it was a small crook partially hidden behind a wall.

“The area by the restroom entrance also has no camera at all so he’ll possibly spend some time there as well,” he finished.

“I’d think I’ll notice some creep hanging near the bathrooms all night,” I remarked. “However, we have a security room in the back if you want to look over some footage.” I pointed to a door opposite the kitchen’s entrance.

“That’ll be very useful, thanks,” Luke reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He turned to Spencer saying “I’ma call Garcia, see if she can run some facial recognition on this guy.” With that, he walked to the security room.

I focused my attention back on Spencer, hoping he’ll stay here a bit longer. “May I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” he said, the damn smirk on his face once again. Smartass.

“Haha, I’m serious,” He didn’t say anything, which I took as my cue to continue. “What exactly does someone like you do in the FBI?”

“Someone like me?” he repeated.

“Well, you do not look like a typical agent,” I stated, and he just raised a single eyebrow at me. “Not to say that you’re probably bad at your job. I’m sure that you’re amazing at whatever it is that you do. I’d just like to know exactly what it is. Like what does your job entail…” Great, out of all times for my motor mouth to talk off, it chose this moment.

Spencer didn’t say anything and the awkward pause was killing me. I wanted to grab his gun and shoot myself in the foot. He probably thought I was insulting him. He continued to watch me as I fidgeted under his stare.

Finally, he decided to show me some mercy. “I use psychology to profile and find people,” he put it simply.

“That’s it?” I questioned.

“Pretty much,” he stated evenly, focusing his attention on the napkin in front of him. His body was slightly tenser than before, telling me that he was uncomfortable. I decided to drop the topic.

I scanned his being in an attempt to find something, anything that would allow me to continue talking to him. He beat me to it. “Which Sherlock portrayal are you a fan of?”

I was momentarily confused as to how he knew I was a fan. “Um, I started watching BBC’s Sherlock but I find the books to be much more interesting than the show. Are you a fan?”

“Of the books, yes. I haven’t had the chance to watch any of the series or films. I always find that reading offers a better experience. That’s a nice pin you have by the way.”

Pin? I looked down and remembered my “I am Sherlocked” pin clasped next to my name tag. Gosh, I feel like an idiot. Just when I was going to reply, I saw Luke stepping out of the security room.

I turned back towards Spencer, who was digging his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a card and gave it to me. “The number of the precinct we are helping is on here. If you have any further information, you should contact them.”

What, no. I don’t want him to leave yet. “But what if I want to talk to you more?”

“My number is on the back.” I flipped the card around and was greeted by a ten-digit code sprawled out in blue ink.

A smile adorned my face as I looked back at him. “How did you do that?” There’s not even a pen near his hands. Unless he carries all these cards with his number on it, which I severely doubt.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he stated.

“I’m a naturally curious person.”

He paused for a moment to dart his tongue across his lips. He made sure to look into my eyes before saying “You know that curiosity killed the cat.”

“But satisfaction brought it back.”

He gave a low laugh, “Touché.”

Just then Luke walked back to us, his phone to his ear. “C’mon man. The team needs us back at the station. There’s been another victim.”

“We’ll talk later,” Spencer said to me. My heart skipped a beat at his words. I felt like a kid who had a childhood crush.

Spencer got up and with one last glance at my direction, the two of them headed out the door.

Well, there goes the best part of my day. I’m being selfish wishing that he would have stayed behind. The man is here to find a criminal, not get his dick sucked. I folded the card and slid it into my pocket before grabbing a rag. These shot glasses aren’t going to clean themselves.

●The Next Day●

I spent the last few hours debating on whether or not I should text Spencer. I tried to distract myself with mundane activities. I watched TV, did my chores, even attempted to read a book, but nothing kept my interest. I grabbed the card that was sitting idly on my dresser, pondering on what to do.

You shouldn’t. But I’m bored and he’s cute. He’s an FBI agent for crying out loud. He got important things to do. What’s the worst that can happen? You could get arrested for obstruction of justice. Or I can get closer to him and find out more about him.

It is settled. I added Spencer’s number to my contacts and perched myself on my bed before sending a short text.

‘Hello Dr. Reid.’ I waited a minute, then two, then three, anxiously hoping for a response back. This was a bad idea, he’s probably at another bar trying to catch this guy. I should just delete his number and make myself a sandwich.

Right when I was going to do just that, my phone vibrated. I never opened my messages so fast in my life.

‘(Y/N). Is everything okay?’

A smile broke across my face as I pondered on what to send him. Should I keep everything cute and sweet? Nah. That’s boring. Should I send some salacious texts? No, he’ll probably think I am some kind of skank. Perhaps I should go for the playful persona?

I finally decided to type out a message, not wanting him to wait any longer. I don’t need him thinking that I’m in actual danger because I don’t know how to respond to a simple text.

‘I’m more than okay now that you’re here.’

I didn’t have to wait long before his next text came in. ‘Is there something that you need?’

Oh Spencer, if only you knew. However, what I want cannot be attained at the moment. I quickly typed across my keypad, ‘That’s a loaded question.’

Apparently he did not like that since his next reply was, ‘I don’t have time for this. I am working right now.’

Well shit, should I stop? Hell no, we are in too deep. Besides, he could always choose to ignore my messages instead of responding. And he did give me his number instead of just leaving me with the precinct’s. With that in mind, I typed out a text and quickly pressed send before I started second-guessing my choices again.

‘So you don’t want to talk to me?’

Again, I didn’t have to wait long for his next message to come through. ‘You should only contact me if you have information pertinent to the man we are looking for.’

That’s bullshit. Why give me your number if you didn’t want me to talk to you? ‘You said we’ll continue the conversation later. It’s later.’

‘Later, When I am not working.’ he clarified.

If I were a smart girl, I would have left this alone so that he could work peacefully. But I’m not. ‘All work and no play makes for a grumpy doctor. Don’t you want some entertainment?’

‘You’re acting childish.’

I couldn’t help but grin at his statement. If only he knew. Well, I could drop him a hint or two. ‘I’ve been compared to a brat before.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘I’m a glutton for punishment, agent.’

‘Do you want me to deliver?’

My breath caught in my throat. Could it be? Does Dr. Reid have a darker side to him? Or maybe I’m reading too deeply into this. I don’t care, I’m having too much fun at the possibility of this man having a more unhinged side to him. I wanted to see it. I decided to be cheeky with him, ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you Sir.’

‘What are you trying to get at?’ One step forward and two steps back. I guess profiling and mind-reading are not one and the same if he has to ask me this. Or maybe he isn’t used to someone asking him to dick them down without outright saying they want him to dick them down.

‘I said it already, I just want to talk to you.’

It took a couple of minutes for his reply to come through. ‘We’ll talk later.’

I decided to give Spencer a break. I got what I wanted with his earlier comment. I ended everything with an ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ and put my phone down. I looked at the clock on my bedside table and saw that an hour had passed. I guess time really does fly when you’re having fun. I might as well start getting ready for work.

●●●

Four hours into my shift and the crowd near the bar was barely manageable. I’m not a big fan of working Friday evenings. I easily get annoyed with the sloppy drunks who think they could hook up with any of the workers but the tips usually make up for it at the end of the night.

I was grabbing some bottles of beer when all of a sudden I got a twisted feeling in my gut. I felt the hairs in the back of my neck stand up, and not in a good way. Call it a sixth sense, but I suspected that something was wrong, very wrong. I placed the bottles down and looked at the countless customers littered around the bar top. My eyes landed on this man who was giving off some creepy vibes.

I’d like to think I had a pretty good memory and this guy was definitely new. He was hunched over, eyes looking at the menu on the table. He was rapidly tapping his finger on top of the table, so I assumed he was feeling uneasy. Every once in a while, his head would peek up, as if he was searching the crowd for someone. He had a baseball cap on, the hat pressed tightly down on his head, his blond hair barely peeking through.

From what I can see he was attractive enough. A full-on beard decorated his face. He had on a leather jacket and a fitted shirt; seemingly trying to give off bad boy vibes. I started making my way towards him, “Is there anything you’d like to order?”

“That depends, are you on the menu?” Ugh. Gag. If I had a dollar for every time some Casanova wannabe used that line on me, I could pay for two months of my rent. He had a smile on his face that could be charismatic but I just found it downright disturbing.

“Food and drinks only. Sorry to disappoint.”

“That’s fine sweetheart, I’ll have whatever beer y’all got on tap.” As I walked away, I could feel his eyes leering at me. Should I text Spencer? No, I dealt with creeps before, this is nothing new.

I turned back to where Mr. Creepy Guy was previously sitting but he was no longer occupying the seat. Fuck. I took a look around the crowded pub, hoping to spot him. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you see it, I did. He was near the bathroom entrance talking to some girl who hardly looked like she could keep herself up.

Shit, I should get Spencer right now. I pondered on whether I should call him but figured that he wouldn’t be able to hear me over the volume of the crowd. I hurriedly pull my phone out of my pocket, trying my best to send the message as fast as my shaky hands can manage.

‘I’m pretty sure the man you’re looking for is here. You should bring some officers ASAP.’

Come on, Come on, Come on, have your cell on you. My phone vibrated, alerting me of a message. Oh thank god yes. ‘Are you serious?’ it read.

What the? Does he think I’m pranking him or something? I angrily typed on my screen, ‘This isn’t exactly something I will joke about Spencer.’

‘We’ll be there soon’ came his simple response. Okay, good. Now I just need to make sure that this guy doesn’t try to escape.

I looked back up and saw Mr. Creepy Guy still near the restrooms. One of his hands was holding on to the girl’s arm and I just knew he was trying to get her out of here. Spencer and company won’t arrive fast enough. I have to do something to make him stay longer.

I turned to my co-bartender, Manny, “I am going to take a 10 minute break.” I didn’t give him a chance to respond before I opened the small door dividing us from the crowd and made my way to Mr. Creepy Guy.

Once I got to the two of them, I spewed the first thing that came to mind, “Uh, excuse me. You um, forgot your drink. You know, the beer. That you ordered. At the bar earlier. About 10 minutes ago.” God, I looked like an idiot, but I couldn’t risk saying something that made him apprehensive.

Mr. Creepy guy sneered at me, “Yeah. I didn’t want it anymore.” Well, who shit in your cereal, mister. Oh right, that would be me. I gotta keep him a bit more distracted.

“Well if you order something, you gotta pay for it. Bar’s policy.” He continued to glare at me upset that I was being a cockblocker. Or more appropriately a murderblocker. Realizing that I wasn’t going away soon, he pulled a bill from his pocket before throwing it at me. Wow I wonder where his pleasant attitude disappeared to.

I turned my attention to this poor girl and noticed she wasn’t looking too good. I assumed she was drunk but she looked way off it; as if she had been drugged or something.

Fucking hell, she probably has been. She can’t stand on her own two feet and she could barely stop her eyes from drooping downwards.

“Your friend here doesn’t look too good,” I commented, my hand already going towards the arm he wasn’t currently holding on to.

“She’s fine. We were just about to leave, right Sarah?” he asked the girl. ‘Sarah’ didn’t say a word, too busy trying her best to not crash down on the floor.

“Nonsense, we can’t have you leaving in such a state, it would look bad on us,” I improvised. “We’ll give her something real quick to help sober her up.” I hastily scanned the room, spotting Hannah, one of my coworkers, a few feet away.

“Hey Hannah,” I shouted, garnering her attention. I gestured for her to come here and she started walking over. When she stood in front of us, I pried ‘Sarah’ out of Mr. Creepy Guy’s hold and gently ushered her into Hannah’s arms.

“This is Sarah and she’s not feeling all that well. Can you tell Manny to give her the Queen’s special?” Hannah instantly knew what was up. The Queen’s special is our code name for helping those who we believe are in an uncomfortable or dangerous situation. Most of the time, the person is coherent enough to ask for help, but for these kinds of scenarios we’ll have to rely on our own wits.

The two walked, or in Sarah’s case, stumbled away. Hannah managed to give Mr. Creepy Guy a glare which he openly returned in my direction. I gave him a small smile, hoping he didn’t get suspicious and try to leave.

“She’ll be right back, would you like that beer while you wait?” I asked.

“No, you did enough,” He jeered, taking slow steps back. I could have sworn he muttered ‘fucking bitch’ as he disappeared in the crowd, no doubt hightailing it out of here.

Crap, I should follow him. At least I’ll be able to tell the cops what direction he went or what his license plate number is. I started walking to the exit, shoving my way through the sweaty mass of people.

Once I got to the door, I pushed it open feeling the cool air hit my face. I looked around, trying to see if I could find Mr. Creepy Guy but to no avail. I walked a few steps down, searching to see if he went down an alley or something.

The place was eerily quiet and my nerves were starting to get the best of me. I suddenly felt a hand roughly grab my shoulder and let out an ear-piercing scream. I whirled around, my hand already in a fist to punch the living daylight out of this person.

Right when my hand was going to make contact, a hand closed around my fist. No problem, I’ll just kick you in the shin. My leg was about to leave the ground when I heard a stern “Calm down (Y/N).”

I know that voice. For the first time, I looked up and saw that it was Spencer behind me. I never realized beforehand how easily he towered over my form. He released my hand and I leaned my body against the wall next to me. The adrenaline from earlier leaving me.

“What the fuck Spencer, a little warning next time,” I angrily shouted at him. “You could have said my name before grabbing me or just tapped my shoulder. I don’t like being manhandled.”

“I severely doubt that,” he whispered. Wait, what. “Is the man still inside?” he asked in a louder voice than before.

“Um no. That’s the reason why I came out here. I was trying to find where he went.”

“And you decided to check an alleyway.” I casted my eyes down, paying attention to a piece of gravel on the floor. The tone of voice he was using made me feel as if I was in trouble. “Do you know what kind of danger you just put yourself in? What if it was him behind you instead of me just now?” he chastised.

“I was fighting back,” I retorted.

“And you were losing that fight. You had no weapon of any kind to help defend yourself. You are no match for a fully grown male who sees girls like you as nothing but property,” Spencer snapped.

I felt miffed that he was scolding me about my safety but a pathetic part of me was turned on as well. I decided to switch this conversation back to what was important. “He’s a Caucasian man. About 5’9 with dirty blonde hair and facial hair. He had a Salem Red Sox cap and a faux black leather jacket. Burgundy henley shirt with black washed jeans and white Adidas,” I recounted from my memory.

He recited everything word for word into his radio. “Go back inside, we’ll take care of it from here.”

“You’re fucking welcome by the way,” I sarcastically stated. Before I could blink, Spencer slammed his hands on either side of my head and was staring intently into my eyes. I felt my heart rate pick up instantly. I didn’t know whether to be scared or horny so my body decided on both.

He had a carnal look in his eyes and I felt a light shiver run down my spine. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. It was as if it happened in slow motion, my eyes hungrily following the movement. He opened his mouth to speak and I was eagerly anticipating his words.

“Reid, come in. We need you for backup.” What the..? It was then that I noticed his comms were still on and one of his team members was trying to get his attention.

“Go back inside,” Spencer repeated, “We’ll continue this later.” Yeah fucking right. This is the third time you’ve told me this in the thirty hours I’ve known you. Nevertheless, I obeyed but it wasn’t because he told me; it was because I got paid by the hour and I was already gone for over fifteen minutes. At least that’s what I kept telling myself as I walked back inside.

I turned around to get a glimpse of his retreating form but he was already gone.

●●●

It was past midnight and I had about forty-five minutes left until my shift ended. The place was a lot emptier right now, which is pretty shocking. However, I’m guessing no one wanted to be around and get wasted when the cops were roaming about barely an hour ago.

I was pouring some shots for this couple when I felt a vibration in my pocket. I finished serving the duo before fishing my phone out, opening my messages straight away. ‘We caught the guy.’

I didn’t bother reading the name, knowing already who it was. Is it wrong of me to be a bit upset? I’m happy there’s one less criminal on the streets but I wanted to see Spencer some more.

Hmmm. There’s still a chance to make something happen, but I can’t mess it up. I quickly typed, ‘I should get a reward. I did help you catch the guy.’

I assumed that I’d have to wait a few minutes for him to respond but that was not the case. ‘And what is it that you want?’ It’s now or never.

‘You.’

I’m guessing he had his phone glued to him right now because his reply was immediate. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

‘I’m not scared Spencer.’ If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he didn’t want me. But all the heated moments we had shared thus far had to have meant something.

‘You should be, I’m not the man that you need.’ was his reply.

I decided to be a bit cheeky, remembering that it gave me some results when I was messaging him earlier today. ‘You’re a man and I am in need, that’s more than enough for me. Save the rest for the pillow talk.’

I didn’t even get to put my phone down before his next text arrived. ‘This isn’t a good idea.’

Damn, this man is a hard nut to crack, but he has made me stubborn for him. I guess I’ll have to use my ultimate weapon.

Taking note of my surroundings, I dimmed the brightness of my phone and made sure to keep it close to my body. I don’t need any of the customers or coworkers to have a sneak peek into my secret album. I opened the app that holds all of my inappropriate photos, pondering on which one I should send to Spencer.

My eyes landed on one I took pretty recently. I’m not trying to sound conceited or anything but I looked fucking hot. It was erotic and sensual, but not overly so.

I was lying on my bed, one hand holding onto my chest while the other held the phone up. My fingers were spread apart, allowing for the taunt nipple of my left breast to peek out. The dim lighting of the lamp helped accentuate the curves of my body. The picture includes the lower half of my face, where I was biting down on my lower lip. I was wearing a white lacy thong that barely left anything for the imagination.

I quickly clicked on the photo and made it so that he’ll have to download the image before seeing it. I added the caption Warning, it’s a bit NSFW, before hitting send. Crossing my fingers, I hoped for a reply soon.

I waited and waited but my phone did not notify me of any new messages. Five minutes have passed and I was shit out of luck. Welp I tried. Now I gotta pick up my pride from the floor.

Suddenly, I felt my phone vibrate and I felt happiness immediately taking over. At first, I thought it was a text message, except the vibrations kept going and going. Realization hit me, it’s an incoming call. I grabbed it quickly, a small squeal leaving my mouth when I saw Spencer’s name appear. I accepted the call and put it towards my ear.

“Hello Dr. Reid, to what do I---“

“When does your shift end?” he interrupted. Well hot damn, no waiting around now huh.

“20 minutes,” came my simple reply.

“I’ll be outside,” and with that, he hung up the phone. Wow, I can’t believe that actually worked.

The next 20 minutes were by far the slowest time has ever went. I kept glancing at the clock, watching as each minute passed at a pain strikingly slow pace. Once it was 12:58 A.M, I already had my bag on my shoulder with my hand on the dividing door.

I made a quick mental check on the inventory I had in my purse. Wallet, check. Phone charger, check. Travel toothbrush, check. Bobby Pins, check. Condom, check. Deodorant, check. Extra panty, check. Yup, I’m ready. I’ve had too many spontaneous sleepovers to not be prepared for evenings like this.

I looked at the time and saw that it was finally 1:00 A.M. I zipped right out of here, making sure to shout my goodbyes as I made my way to the exit. Once out the door, I turned towards the corner and immediately spotted Spencer waiting for me.

I made my way towards him with the biggest smile on my face. “Hi, Spencer.”

“Get in,” he demanded.

“Why the haste?” I asked with a teasing tone behind my words.

“I’ve wasted enough time when it comes to you.” That’s a good enough reason for me. He got in the driver seat while I made my way to the passenger’s side, placing my bag on the floor near my feet.

“My house is a 20-minute drive,” I informed him. “You’ll just have to make a lef—“

“No,” he cut me off. “The hotel I am staying at is 10 minutes away from here.” And this is why I always pack the necessities.

“Alright, you’re in charge, Sir.”

Spencer didn’t respond to my little quip, choosing instead to turn the car on. Fine, play that game of yours. As soon as I put my seat belt on, he pulled out and started driving.

We’ve only been in the car for a couple of minutes before I got a bit antsy. I never did like quiet rides. I turned to him “What took you so long to get Mr. Creepy guy?”

His eyes fleetingly dashed towards my direction before focusing back on the road. “Who?”

“The man that you were looking for,” I clarified.

“We had to be sure it was him,” he stated.

“My description wasn’t enough for you.”

“It was helpful but we had to be certain. He eventually confessed to the crimes while under custody.”

“Oh,” I said. “Umm do you have a girlfriend?” A girl gotta make sure that she wasn’t becoming a homewrecker.

“A. What,” he asked. I’m pretty sure he heard me but I repeated myself anyway.

“A girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Somebody waiting for you at home?”

“I do not. I am not in a committed relationship.”

“That’s cool. Neither am I if you’re wondering,” I said. “So did you like my picture?” Apparently, my mouth does not know when to stop. Although I must admit, I’m curious to know what he thought of it.

We stopped at a red light and he gazed at me before saying “I was with my team when I got your little message. They were wondering why I got quiet all of a sudden.” I would have laughed if he didn’t have such a dark look on his face. “I did not appreciate their curiosity as to what was going on.” The light turned green, and he started driving faster now. Do FBI agents get speedy tickets for booty calls?

“Does that mean you did not like it?”

Spencer didn’t respond and I was about to ask him something else when I realized the car was parked. Oh we’re here, that was fast. He got out and went to open my door for me.

“Wow, what a gentleman.” Still no response from him. I picked up my bag and hopped out while he closed the door behind me. He made sure to lock it before grabbing my hand and leading me to the hotel’s entrance.

I couldn’t even appreciate the interior of the place since Spencer was dragging me to the elevators. He finally spoke after pressing the button for the doors to open. “I’m giving you one more chance to turn back.”

“And miss out on the fun, no way.”

The doors to the lift opened and we stepped inside. They didn’t even close fully before he pushed me against the wall and crashed his lips against mine. Fuck, the moan that left my body was embarrassingly loud; I am sure the receptionists heard it.

I went to put my arms around Spencer’s neck but he grabbed my hands and pinned them to the wall before my fingers could even touch his shoulder. His knee drew my legs apart, resting in between my thighs. A shudder ran through me, which caused him to tighten his hands around my wrists. I liked that he was releasing the wilder side of him; the side that he kept hidden from others.

He sucked my bottom lip between his and bit down on it. Instinctively, I opened my mouth which he took as a green light to plunge his tongue inside. It was sloppy, it was raunchy, but I loved it.

I was about to start grinding my pelvis against his knee when the elevator doors dinged open. As quickly as he came upon me, he pulled apart. Spencer grabbed my hand once again and tugged me down a hallway. After a few steps, we stopped in front of the door and he went to grab his key from his pocket.

I took the moment to admire him. He was still wearing what I assumed to be his work clothes. His hair looked even more messy than usual. I’d like to think that he was running his hands through it while debating on what to do with me. His eyes seemed darker, no longer the honey orbs I was captivated by the day prior. Nonetheless, they were still beautiful. His lips, my god those lips of his. Puffed out and more pink than normal. I just wanted to kiss him again.

Spencer opened the door to his room holding it open for me. Once we were inside, with the door fully closed this time, he pulled me into another hungry kiss. One of his hands held my face as the other landed on my waist. I dropped my purse on the floor, my hands promptly losing themselves in his hair.

My mouth immediately opened up, wanting to feel his tongue pressed alongside mine once more. He used the hand that was holding my waist to pull me closer until I was flushed against his body. I felt hot. Too hot. I wanted to rip off my clothes and his at this very moment.

Suddenly his face pulled away, much to my disappointment. We were trying to catch our breath as we looked at one another.

“I want you on your knees,” he rasped. I’d love nothing more but we wouldn’t be here if I were obedient.

“And if I say no?” I asked.

“Don’t pretend you’re some kind of bad girl because we both know that is far from the truth.”

“Your profiling skills need some work if you think I am a good girl who follows the rules.”

He tightened his grip on my waist. “I never said you were a good girl.”

“Then what am I?”

“You’re a cock hungry dirty whore who is going to get on her knees or be bent over mine. Your choice.” Well, who am I to argue against such logic. Although the idea of being spanked by him is exciting, I rather see him come undone by me. And on me.

I slowly sunk down to my knees as Spencer started removing his belt and unbuttoning his slacks. I helped him drag his pants and boxers down, low enough to unveil his hard dick. My mouth salivated at the sight of him and I pressed my thighs closer together. Maybe I am a cock hungry dirty whore.

I placed one hand on him, feeling the heated skin against my cooler palm. His dick gave a slight twitch at the difference in temperatures. I closed my hand, delighted by the fact that I couldn’t fit my whole first around his cock. Leaning forward, I placed a small tentative kiss on the head. I glanced up, seeing that he had his poker face on.

Now that wouldn’t do, I want to see Spencer Reid lose control because of me.

I pulled my hand back and brought it to my face. I licked the length of my palm before placing it at the base of his cock again. My opposite hand settled on his thigh to help balance myself. I leaned forward once more and lightly licked the tip before placing it inside my mouth. I sucked gently while firmly grasping the base. He rewarded me with a small grunt.

I moved down, slowly taking him inch by inch. I made sure to get him as wet as I can while gliding my lips against him. My hand pumped the remaining length that couldn’t fit in my mouth. He started to become more and more erect.

“You like this don’t you?” Spencer groaned out, “You’re such a filthy slut for me.” How is it possible that the sound of his voice is making me aroused? He placed his hands on my hair, fisting his fingers among the locks.

I moaned at his words, bobbing my head up and down at a faster pace. I moved my hand to cup his sac, giving him a gentle massage between my fingers. He gave out a choked sound as he started to slowly thrust his hips.

I drew back and kissed my way down his cock until my lips met my hand. I placed my mouth on one of his balls and gave one a light suck before running my tongue around it. “Fucking hell,” Spencer loudly exclaimed, as I returned the same ministrations to the neglected one.

I pulled away with a small pop and dragged my tongue from base to tip. My eyes looked up at him, and the sight was sexy as fuck. His mouth was opened as he was trying to catch his breath, his face slightly flushed. There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and the veins on his neck were more prominent.

I made sure Spencer’s eyes landed on mine as I wrapped my lips around his now full length. He started thrusting more earnestly this time as my hand went back to massaging his balls. I continued eye contact as I bobbed my head up and down on his cock.

He tightened his hands on my hair harshly, which made me more wet. Great, on top of being a cock whore, I am a pain whore. This man is bringing the worst out of me and I’m loving it.

I made sure to hollow my cheeks and swirl my tongue around his head every time I returned back up. I didn’t think I’d have this much fun with a cock in my mouth. Once I dipped my tongue against his slit and firmly clasped my hand over his sac, it was over for him.

Spencer took over and held my head in place as he started to thrust within me. I tried my best to maintain eye contact, despite the tears swelling up. My other hand clutched at the skin of his thigh, raking my nails over him. His groans were a sweet symphony to my ears. Just when I thought he was about to release himself, he stopped and pulled away from me.

“Why’d you stop?” I pouted, my lips feeling very sensitive as they moved against each other.

He panted heavily and loudly, “I don’t want to cum yet.” I couldn’t stop myself from smiling at the sight of him. He was a mess and it was all because of me.

“But I wanted to taste you.” My hand went back to grab him but he stopped me with a sharp tug of my hair.

“Behave or you won’t get a reward for sucking my dick so well,” he said flatly.

Ohh, I’m curious as to what a reward from Spencer Reid entails. He pulled me up and I had to place my hands on his chest for balance. As my legs were regaining feeling, he was staring at my face. I can already imagine what he sees. Tear stained face with puffy eyes and swollen lips. Apparently, he liked the sight because he pulled me into another kiss.

This one was much more tender than our previous kisses. His lips were soft, as if afraid they would irritate my already swollen ones. His hands cradled my head, gently tilting it up so he has better access. His tongue swirled against mine and I was surprised he wasn’t repulsed by his taste on me. So many guys would find this to be disturbing.

Spencer slowly pulled away from me. He looked into my eyes as he said, “I want you to strip then bend over the bed.”

“What if I don’t?” His once gentle hands on my face are now gripping my cheeks, making my lips pucker. He continued to stare at me and it took everything within me not to moan at his actions.

“I think you know what would happen if you don’t, do you really want that?” As much as I would have loved to mess with him some more, I did not want it at the expense of my orgasm. I’m too horny to be acting recklessly.

I started stepping away from him, doing as he requested. I would have taken my time removing my clothes, but I was too impatient. As I pulled down my panties, I noticed how damp they were. This man has made me wanton and soaked without even touching me yet.

I went over to the bed, placing myself in the desired position. The bed was tall enough where my feet were still firmly on the floor but I didn’t need to bend my knees to keep my stomach flat against the mattress.

I watched Spencer strip out of his clothes, making note of the mismatched socks he had on. Aww cute. Once he was bare, he walked up behind me and placed his hands on my hips. For a few seconds, he did nothing while I was readily anticipating his next move.

Finally, I felt his hand cup my mound and I gasped at the feeling. “You’re so wet. All of this because you had my cock in that dirty mouth of yours.” I shuddered at his words, the hairs on my arm rising up.

He started rubbing at my lower lips, spreading the arousal that has already formed all over me. “You have nothing to say now that I got my hands on you huh,” he continued, stroking his fingers against my core.

Just when I was about to say something, he sunk a single finger inside me. I inhaled sharply and buried my head into the sheets. I tried my best to move against him but the hand resting on my hip kept me at bay. He was methodical with his actions, pressing his finger against my walls as he moved in and out.

“Your pretty little cunt is taking my finger so well. You think you can handle another one?” I still couldn’t reply to him, too busy trying to even out my breathing. He then entered another finger. I moaned as he started diligently working those dexterous digits inside of me. My pussy was throbbing while he was working wonders.

A loud moan was torn out my body as Spencer’s fingers curled against my G-spot. “Oh you liked that, dirty girl,” he growled out. He curled his fingers once again and I let out an equally loud whine. He continued this every time he returned his fingers back inside of me; my throat releasing a moan whenever he did so. You’d think with all the time I spent staring at his hands that I’d be ready for him but that’s a big no.

My body was warming up and I could feel the heat pooling within me. I was a goner when a third finger entered me. He tightened his hand on my hip and I prayed that it would leave marks. I wanted to admire the bruises when this was all over.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the pleasure racking my body. I was so close to finding my release. The way I was pulsating around his fingers was a telltale sign that I was upon my release.

“You want to come, dirty girl, you want to come all over my hand?” he fiercely whispered. All I could do was nod against the comforters, my voice long gone by now.

I felt myself pulse and tighten around him. With just one more curl of his fingers, I was about to climax. But he suddenly pulled out and released me.

“What the fuck?” I screeched, voice coming back with a vengeance. “You said I was going to get rewarded you teasing bastard.”

“And you are. Now shut up before I change my mind.” For once, I stayed quiet, only because I really wanted an orgasm. It is the least he could do after making me all hot and bothered.

I turned my head back, wanting to see what Spencer would do next. I whimpered when I saw him put his fingers in his mouth, licking my essence off of him. I watched as he took his time, my pussy continuing to throb at the sight.

“You taste pretty good for such a whore,” he remarked once he was done. I saw him walk towards the nightstand and grab a foil packet. Excitement coursed through my veins, my body barely staying still.

He was behind me once again, and I was ready for him. I felt him rub the head against my lips, pressing down when it met my clit. He continued doing this, moving up and down against me, making sure to coat himself in my arousal. I started to wiggle my hips against him, hoping to gain some more friction.

A loud moan was torn out of my throat when Spencer suddenly grabbed my hips and buried himself inside my pussy. He let out a groan as he stilled within me. We had a moment to adjust to one another before he started rocking against me. He was hitting me deep, touching places that I didn't know were possible.

“Spencer, you feel so fucking good,” I mewled out, enjoying the feel of his cock against my walls.

He kept a steady rhythm, making sure to pull halfway out before pushing back in. Small moans left my mouth as I tried my best to return his thrusts. His hands on my hips did not allow for much movement, reminding me that he was the one in charge of my pleasure.

My body moved rhythmically against the bed, my sensitive nipples rubbing against the sheet, adding to this blissful feeling. I was burning up from the sensations wrecking my body.

“I want you to touch yourself,” Spencer growled out. I let my hand trailed down my stomach but paused when they got to my lower abdomen. I felt a bump form at my lower abdomen every time he entered me, which only added to my desire. I tightened around him and he let out a groan before giving me a powerful thrust as a warning.

My hand continued its descent to my clit, fingers rubbing against it once they met. Spencer increased the pace, slamming his hips against my ass. My legs started to tremble, my orgasm looming over my body. My hand continued to play with my clit while the other gripped the sheets tightly. I bit down on the comforter, trying my best to quiet down my moans.

One of Spencer’s hands grabbed my hair and pulled my head up. “None of that, I want to hear you. I want everyone in this hotel to know what a filthy little bitch you are. My filthy little whore,” he grunted out.

It was all too much for me. His voice, his cock, his hands. I felt wave after wave of pleasure as my release washed over me. I cried out his name; submitting to the ecstasy my body was experiencing. My muscles went limp as I attempted to return air into my lungs.

I heard Spencer grunt as my pussy pulsed and creamed around him but that did not stop his relentless pace. “Keep touching the clit of yours, I want you to come one more time.”

“I can’t,” I whimpered. I was still recovering from the powerful orgasm I just had. I won’t be able to have another one so soon.

But Spencer Reid was nothing if not diligent. “You can and you will.”

His hand that was in my hair joined mine between my legs. His fingers were so much better than mine. He pressed firmly against my clit, keeping a steady motion against me. He snapped his hips harder, the slight pain making me feel that familiar coil in my stomach.

“I know you have one more in you for me. I want you to give it to me” he uttered. I’m not sure how he is able to do it, but I felt my body start rising again.

“Sp-Spencer. Please.” I didn’t know what I was begging for as I stammered those words out. His hand between my legs pressed harder and his rhythm against me started wavering. I knew he was close to his release, but I was right there with him.

When he pinched my clit firmly against his fingers, I mewled out his name once more. The coil snapped and I couldn’t help the way I trembled once more. My body quaked against his as the shock waves overcame me. I felt as if lightning was running across my nerves.

Spencer thrusted three more times before tensing against me. I felt him jerk and spill himself inside of me. He dropped down, pressing his chest against my back and whispering my name in my ear. We both tried to catch our breaths as we came down from our high.

After a few minutes, Spencer pulled out of me and walked to a door which I assumed led to the bathroom. I’m guessing he went to dispose of the condom. I continued to lie on the bed, trying my best to catch my breath. My body was still on an all-time high, still reeling from the aftershocks of my climax. I fought against the drowsiness of my eyes, wondering how the hell I am going to stay alert on the cab ride home.

“How are you feeling?” I couldn’t even jump in surprise. I had no idea he returned and was standing right next to me. “I wasn’t too rough?”

“Best. Sex. Ever,” I drowsily responded. Spencer picked me up and maneuvered my body so that I was lying on my back. He grabbed a bottle that was standing on the nightstand; squeezing some cream into the palm of his hand. He rubbed his hands together and started massaging the lotion onto my legs. He focused his attention on my knees and thighs.

“Do you want some water? He asked. I nodded my head and he immediately went to the snack bar area. He grabbed a bottle and what looks to be a granola bar. He uncapped the bottle and gently fed the water to me.

“Do you want some food,” I shook my head at his question. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Cuddles” came my whispered response. Spencer smiled at me before settling on the bed next to me. He draped the blankets over our bodies and wrapped his hand over my waist, pulling me close.

“Goodnight Spencer.”

“Goodnight (Y/N).”

The last thing I felt was the press of his lips against my neck as my body surrendered itself to the sweet bliss of slumber.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #smut #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid reader insert #mgg #reid smut

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nanowrimo · 3 years

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Battling the Blank Page

No matter where you are in your writing journey, sometimes your inspirations just dries up. There are many ways to confront that blank page, and here are a few nuggets of advice from YWP Participant Aamukta Thalluri:

Ye Accursed writer’s blocke!

(...was what Shakespeare thought when he couldn’t figure out what should happen next in Othello.)

A blank page. A blinking insertion point. A frustrated writer. This is a tale as old as time (only replace the insertion point with a pen/quill). We’ve all been here at some point, wishing words could magically appear on the paper. Now, I can’t say for sure that Shakespeare thought exactly those words. But as a writer who churned out plays at a remarkable pace, it stands to reason that he too had days when he’d sit in front of a scroll, his mind blank, ink dripping from the quill, the only blotch on an otherwise unblemished paper.

As a writer, I’ve been in the exact same situation, almost too many times to count. And now, I’ll be sharing some tips that have helped me get past writer’s block.

Before I start, a bit of advice. I learnt this at a writing workshop, and have come to realize that this is the case, more often than not: If you haven’t yet tried to write something, it’s not writer’s block. There’s a difference between daydreaming about the book you want to write and being unable to capture the words when you sit down to do it.

Tips to overcome writer’s block:

For short-term projects, specifically NaNo drafting or writing projects with a deadline:

Take a hike! Or a walk. Commune with nature. Observe people. Take deep breaths. Oftentimes, writer’s block happens because of stress. So give yourself some quality time and let the tension disperse.

Distractions. Watch engaging TV, read a good book, play an instrument, cook, bake…. Do whatever gets your mind off your draft, and get back to it with a clear head.

Work on a different part of your story. Now, you’ve probably heard this before, or even tried it out, but this works! NaNo is about churning out 1667 words a day, not 1667 words written in the exact same order they’ll appear in the final draft. So just let go of a troublesome scene, and get back to it whenever you feel like it.

For long-term projects, which don’t demand a daily word count or have a deadline:

Put it aside. This is probably the best thing you could do. Keep the unfinished manuscript aside, whether for a few days, weeks, or months. You could be on a long boring car ride or in a really boring talk when inspiration suddenly strikes. Eureka! Now go back and finish what you started.

Work on something else. Get to that poem you’ve always wanted to write. Or the short story that you’ve unconsciously been collecting details for. Or just a whimsical fanfic. In the process of doing this, you might find inspiration.

Different scenarios. This is something that works for me every time. If you’re stuck at a particular scene, and you have no idea what to do next, write the most incredible, the wildest thing you can imagine would happen.

For example, say I was writing, “Jack and Jill went up the hill / To fetch a pail of water.”

And I’m stuck. No idea what comes next. So this is what I do.

Scenario 1:

Jack and Jill went up the hill / To fetch a pail of water. / What Jack didn’t know / Was that Jill was a trained assassin / And he was the next target.

Scenario 2.

Jack and Jill went up the hill / To fetch a pail of water./ Only pail of water here / Was code word for / Joining a cult.

In the process of doing this, I generally realize the most realistic course of action the story should take.

If you’re stuck in your writing, I hope this advice helps you out!

Aamukta is a writer, poetess, guitarist, amateur blogger, and a part-time teenager. She spends a lot of her time writing or thinking about writing, hers, or other people's. Her tastes are as weird as they are varied. Her favorite writers range from Louisa May Alcott to Stephen King to Pseudonymous Bosch. She recently began working on her masterpiece, Mage Academy, a YA novel with superheroes, and mythological elements. (Did warn you that she's weird!) In her free time, she binges on a variety of TV series such as Psyche, Supernatural The Walking Dead, Once Upon A Time, Seinfeld, Brooklyn Nine-Nine... And the list goes on.

Top photo by Henry Hustava on Unsplash

#nanowrimo #writing #amwriitng #writers block #ywp #young writers program #by nano guest #Aamukta Thalluri

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rosalind-of-arden · 3 years

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It has occurred to me that you never answered your own header question :p I have my own opinion, but you can have it first, 'Was there a Scholar Shakespeare' in the Library verse? :D

Very fun question, thank you!

So, thanks to Sword and Pen, it’s canon that Shakespeare existed and produced, at a bare minimum, Romeo and Juliet, since the former Archivist quotes Mercutio while dying. Jess seems a bit offended by the old bastard quoting Shakespeare. So Shakespeare is presumably at least famous in England.

The main question, I think, is when Library control extended sufficiently into England to have the Library controlling all written works there. If the Library had a grip on England as of the 1590s, Shakespeare could very well have been a Scholar, presumably with the Litterae department. That actually makes an interesting twist on his real position as employed by nobility/royalty but writing to entertain the common people as well - if he’s a Scholar, he’s keeping the Library happy while also entertaining folks. Most of his work would probably turn out similar enough, although there would be differences in the history plays to reflect differences in alt history. Might he have written plays about famous Archivists instead of kings? Hmm.

Now, if there was less Library influence in England at the time, it’s possible Shakespeare wasn’t a Scholar, and his career proceeded more similarly to the real thing. Again, throw in some necessary adjustments to the history plays, but the fiction and poetry would turn out similar. In this case, the Library has totally claimed the hell out of him retroactively, and England is a bit bitter about it. He’s their genius writer, after all, not the Library’s. Jess’s irritation with the Archivist’s Shakespeare quote fits well with this possibility.

And, of course, it’s possible Shakespeare didn’t work for the Library even if they did have a lot of influence in England. Could be amusing if he got his start more or less the same as in real history, then the Library kept trying to recruit him, because of course they have to have this popular writer. Maybe he eventually takes the gold band they’re offering. Maybe he doesn’t.

Another significant difference, regardless of whether he was a Scholar or not, would be in how his plays were distributed in writing. Obviously, without printing, there are neither quarto nor folio editions going around. Instead, there are hand copies, some of which might be amusingly riddled with errors. But it’s much more likely all of his original scripts were preserved. Between the Library’s knowledge hoarding and its ability to hold onto written materials, there’s really no reason they wouldn’t have a ton of scripts, journals, notes, etc. for interested Scholars to study.

Also, depending on when, exactly, the Library stopped threatening poets for writing about their gay affairs, the sonnets might have turned out even gayer. Or maybe not. Khalila didn’t give us a date on when they Black Archived Murasaki’s distant relative.

Anyway, I lean toward not a Scholar but retroactively claimed by the Library just because that’s more fun.

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jazzicology · 3 years

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JAZZPRING!

This will seem topsy-turvy to those of you in the Northern hemisphere - but in New Zealand, Spring is just around the corner. And here at Jazzicology headquarters in Queenstown, we’re busy preparing for our Spring jazz gigs. Putting together a set on a specific theme is a great incentive to search for and learn new material. Here’s our ‘Jazzpring’ setlist with some notes on each. We’ve aimed for a mix of tempos and contrasting jazz styles. In amongst some old standards are some quirky additions: possibly the only song written from the perspective of a frightened tomato (Hang on Little Tomato); and a wonderful number that perfectly sets Shakespeare’s ‘It was a lover and his lass’ to a catchy melody and jazz chords – it deserves to be in everyone’s Spring set list. I was amazed how many jazz songs there are on topics relating to Spring – far too many to include in just one gig!

Joyspring. 1954 composition by Clifford Brown, jazz trumpeter and a key figure in the Hard Bop movement. The lyrics I use are by Jezra Kay. This is a super-fast-paced, up-beat tune. I discovered, rather too late for this gig, that there are also some wonderfully poetic lyrics by Jon Hendricks, a leading jazz lyricist who is responsible for the lyrics for many well-known jazz songs composed as instrumentals. You can read about Hendrick’s lyrics for JoySpring here.

You must believe in Spring. Composed by Michel LeGrand (1964), this song shares some features with his other, better-known compositions (Windmills of Your Mind; What Are You Doing For The Rest of Your Life). The chords and melody strike a reflective and melancholy, yet hopeful, mood. It is a truly beautiful number that I had not previously been aware of. I have been listening to Bill Evans’s instrumental version of it – it just incredible - and this vocal performance by Sarah McKenzie. It was originally called La Chanson de Maxence and was written for the French film ‘Les Demoiselles de Rochefort’. Looking at the original French lyrics, it is clear the English lyrics are not a translation; the song’s theme of Spring is entirely attributable to the authors of the English language lyricists Bergman and Bergman. Indeed, these lyrics are so well crafted that it is difficult to believe the phrase ‘You Must Believe in Spring’ wasn’t originally in Le Grand’s mind when he wrote it! Listening to various vocal recordings over the last few weeks, I discovered some additional lyrics that, as far as I can tell, appear only in a recording by Barbra Streisand. I don’t know who wrote them (possibly Streisand), but they seem apt for a troubled world, so here they are for other singers who may be interested in using them:

When angry voices drown the music of the spheres

And children face a world that’s far beyond their years

Above the darkest skies, The far horizons lie

With all the reasons why you must believe in Spring.

Spring can really hang you up the most. Composer Tommy Wolf (1955), lyrics Fran Landesman. Spring isn’t all rainbows and daffodils – like all fun times of year, for those who are down or lonely it can serve to underline your own misery. The title of the song is a jazz twist on the opening line of T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land: "April is the cruellest month". My favourite version of this song is by Carmen McCrae – it’s like a masterclass in jazz vocals. I was surprised how difficult this song was to learn – and was relieved to find an entire blog written about it, claiming that the obscene number of verses and lyrics, and wide vocal range and unusual phrasings are clearly the work of someone who hates singers! Fortunately, I love a challenge.

Blue Skies. Irving Berlin (1926). Blue Skies is probably the best-known and certainly the oldest song in this set. Thelonious Monk wrote a Be-Bop number, ‘Suddenly in Walked Bud’, based on the chord progressions in Blue Skies, as a tribute to his friend, the jazz pianist, Bud Powell. The lyrics are a virtual who’s-who list of jazz greats from that time. Monk’s ‘In Walked Bud’ is an example of a jazz ‘contrafact’: where a new melody is laid over existing chords (in this case, Blue Skies). There are lots of examples of this in Bop from the 1940s, because it was a way for jazz musicians to create new pieces “for performance and recording on which they could immediately improvise, without having to seek permission or pay publisher fees for copyrighted materials (while melodies can be copyrighted, the underlying harmonic structure cannot be)”. Since the lyrics and melody for ‘In Walked Bud’ work perfectly well over the chords for ‘Blue Skies’ (apart from the bridge) I’ll incorporate elements of them into our performance.

It might as well be Spring. Composed by Rodgers and Hammerstein (1945) for the movie State Fair, for which it won an Academy Award for best original song. Many people have recorded this, but I’ve been listening to Ella Fitzerald and this lovely French version by (the aptly Spring-named) Blossom Dearie.

They say its Spring. Composers Bob Haymes and Marty Clark (1950s). With a melody and lyrics that are as light and floaty as a feather, this is a quintessential Spring song about being in love. Blossom Dearie appears to have been the first to record it, in 1957.

Nature Boy/Nardis. Composed by Eden Ahbez (1947). Nature boy is on Jazzicology’s set list – but with a twist! We will perform it using the principal motif from Miles Davis’ Nardis in both the Intro and coda. This was an idea developed by me and UK jazz pianist Sid Thomas, and you can listen to Sid and I performing it here. The ‘back story’ to Nature Boy is pretty interesting in its own right and can be found in a previous Jazzicology blog penned by Sid, ‘The one hit wonders of jazz’.

I love Paris in the Springtime. Cole Porter (1954). A classic recording of this by Ella Fitzgerald. However, I very much like this version, which has a Parisian café feel. This is a relatively simple melody to learn, with the chief challenge for the vocalist being the wide vocal range needed to change register.

Timeless Place. Composed by Jimmy Rowles in the 1970s as an instrumental (‘The Peacocks’) and recorded by him and sax legend Stan Getz in the 1975 album of the same name. The wonderful, reflective lyrics were added much later by UK jazz vocalist, Norma Winstone, and included on her 1993 album Well Kept Secret. This song is technically very challenging for a vocalist: the melody over the ‘bridge’ is a little non-intuitive and sits outside the harmony – it creates a tension which resolves into the main refrain. The word Spring appears nowhere in the song, but I’m going to justify its inclusion here because the lyrics include a beautiful formal garden with flowers and trees.

Double Rainbow. Composed by Brazilian jazz maestro, Antonio Jobim in 1970. This is one of his lesser-known numbers. It perfectly captures a spring garden, after a sudden rain-shower, with rainbows, puddles and a little robin hopping about. Actually, because the song is written in Portugese, the little bird in the song is a chico-chico, so robin is used as the equivalent in the English translation (maybe I should use a bellbird instead?). In Portugese, the title is Chovendo na Roseira (the rain is falling on the roses) and I perform it using first the Portugese and then the English lyrics – both are lovely, and the different languages each lend a slightly different feel to song.

Hang on Little Tomato. Music and lyrics by Patrick Abbey, China Forbes and Thomas Lauderdale and released on the Pink Martini album of the same name in 2004. For those who have gotten their tomato seedlings off to an early start, this the song you need to sing to them when they get planted outside. It’s a scary world out there for a little tomato. It’s a seriously cute little song, and a reminder that we all need to keep hanging on to the vine. The song title is apparently a reference to a Hunt's Ketchup ad campaign "Hang On, Little Tomato!" in a 1964 issue of Life magazine. (Is it a coincidence that Pink Martini’s named their own record label Heinz, I wonder?)

Hey Nonny No! Composed by UK jazz composer and pianist Sid Thomas, this up-beat, toe-tappin’ number captures the feel of Spring brilliantly and the melody and chords provide a fabulous setting for Shakespeare’s ‘It was a lover and his lass’ from As you Like it. You’ll be humming this one on the way home.

Seed Leaves. Another Sid Thomas composition, this one setting to music the poem ‘Seed Leaves’ by Poet Laureate and two times Pulitzer Prize winner Richard Wilbur. You can find the poem here. Anyone wishing to request the music for ‘Hey Nonny No’ or ‘Seed Leaves’ can contact Sid Thomas here.

Surrey with the Fringe on top. Rogers and Hammerstein, from Oklahoma (1946). Is it a little bit twee? Maybe, but hey – it is also very sweet. And it was a part of Miles Davis’ repertoire in the 1950s, so there’s no arguing with that!

Up Jumped Spring. Composed by US jazz trumpet player Freddie Hubbard in 1962, and included in his album Backlash. The lyrics were added later by vocalist US jazz vocalist Abbey Lincoln. This clip of the song being sung live by Audrey Silver is really worth listening to - what a confident, flawless performance.

So, there you have it: an eclectic Spring jazz set involving Shakespeare, tomatoes, rainbows, birds, toads, seedlings, melting snow, new love and a little sprinkling of melancholy. The lyrics in this set contain the words ‘isinglass’ and ‘yggdrasil’ – not words you hear every day – come to our gig on September 5th (assuming Queenstown is out of lockdown by then!) and see if you can spot them!

Other suggestions for Spring songs can be found here:

https://jazz.fm/classic-jazz-songs-about-spring/

https://www.wrti.org/post/10-jazz-tunes-remind-you-its-spring

Nance Wilson

Nance Wilson is one half of Queenstown-based jazz duo, Jazzicology, together with pianist Mark Rendall-Wilson.

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/nance-wilson-trio

Facebook: Jazzicology

#jazzmusic #jazz vocals

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bitletsanddrabbles · 3 years

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Writers: May I suggest acting?

Now, this is a very general post. There are many, many great writers who have never taken an acting course or class or workshop or anything of the sort. It’s not hurt their writing one bit. So please, do not take this as something I think will make or break a writer.

However.

A lot of people can’t ‘hear’ their writing and it shows. I’m currently editing a piece for a very dear friend who I love with all my heart, but who learned to write from high school journalism mixed with a steady diet of romance and high fantasy novels. The dialogue frequently needs help and the narrative voice is.....well. Let’s just say that if I were actually using red pen, this thing would look like I murdered someone.

Of course, a common solution to this is to read one’s work out loud so that you can actually hear it. And that’s very useful! ....if you have some idea what sounds good.

I hate it when this friend has a line they like (or I have a line they like!) because they inevitably read it out loud.

As if it were being read by Norma Desmond.

And not original film Norma either. Andrew Lloyd Webber Norma being performed by someone who’s been dared to out Glen Close Glen Close.

This friend does not write melodrama. This friend doesn’t even write romance or high fantasy or period pieces. That’s my shtick.

This friend is currently writing modern fantasy, set in the late 20th century.

So where does acting come in? After all, Norma Desmond was an actress.

Ah, but Norma Desmond was, quite famously, a silent movie actress. She didn’t have lines. Ever. Any acting class you take these days, unless it’s specifically pantomime, is going to cover line delivery and the entire point of that is to teach you to hear. It’s to teach you to sound natural and not like some wanna be reinvented silent movie star. Also, most classes teach you modern stuff rather than focusing entirely on Shakespeare. I mean, the bard might come into it, especially if you take classes through a Shakespeare company, but even there you’re probably going to do something that isn’t in iambic pentameter.

As someone who grew up taking acting summer courses, went into University on a theater ticket, and emerged with a writing degree (also known as big word toilet paper. No, really, don’t trust anyone who throws a BA in Creative Writing down as Why You Should Listen To Them.), it can help. It’s not a guarantee, of course, but I talk out loud when I brain storm so I really can hear the flow of the dialogue and that wouldn’t do me any good if I couldn’t hear properly.

#writing advice #i have a headache

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straynstay · 5 years

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Hyunjin - Hybrid AU!

being popular wasn’t something you looked forward to when entering college, but it happened

now here you were making necks twist to watch you walk down the hallway

that’s what you get for being one of the few humans in a hybrids-inclusive college

most people wouldn’t even consider applying to study here after it became pretty much ruled by hybrids, but you didn’t mind

you like your course, you like your teachers, and your colleagues, even though they follow you around making you look like an idol or something

you entered your classroom already knowing that your favorite seat will be vacant with candies or a snacks on top

“oh, there’s cards too” you smiled reading the cheering words from your admirers

since day one boys and girls go out of their way to please you somehow

need a pen? here’s seven! hungry? let me buy you the entire menu! need a ride? you can have my car!

it’s been a year and a half, but you’re still not completely used to it

they’re so nice to you because you’re human, sometimes you wonder if that’s the only reason for it

hybrids were created to be men’s pets and obey their orders, but after decades of evolving they began conquering their own space

yes, some still prefer to be companions, but others are trying to live life in society like normal human beings

however, their genes still make them bow to human’s will, and it bothers you because you feel like you’re taking advantage of them most of the times

“good morning” your Medieval English Literature teacher entered the classroom and you put your stuff down to start your day

“I’m dead tired” Lia, a sheep hybrid and one of your closest friends, said plopping her head on the library table

you both decided to study together for your Shakespeare on Contemporary Media exam, which would be in two days

“I’m seeing Shakespeare everywhere, I’ll probably won’t even flinch if his ghost shows up in front of me”

“thou comest in such a questionable shape” you quote Hamlet in a funny voice, earning a laugh from Lia

“hopefully he won’t tell me to murder anyone” Lia’s ears were hiding in the curls of her black hair and you knew she was really tired

“go rest, Lia, we can study more tomorrow”

“yeah, guess I’ll do that” Lia gathered her belongings “you’re staying?” she asked

“uhum” you sighed, stretching your arms above your head “I still need to finish my paperwork for Mrs. Ray”

“good luck” Lia raised her eyebrows “see you tomorrow”

“see ya” you smiled seeing Lia leaving the shared study room

you decided to move to the single tables on the common area of the library because they were closer to the bookshelves

you shoved your stuff quickly into your backpack and left

fortunately there was almost no one at the library at night, so you could choose which table was best, setting your backpack on it

not far away from your table, though, someone was thoughtfully observing your every move

Hwang Hyunjin was the librarian’s assistant this semester

he was a shy and awkward alpaca hybrid, but in love with you, like everyone else in this college

although he doubted anyone liked you more than him

he felt his heart beating faster when you walked towards his counter, but you turned right on the English Literature aisle

Hyunjin let out a short breath, running his fingers through his hair to calm him down

you didn’t even notice him, why was he so nervous?

you returned from the aisle with two books and sat down, allowing him to admire your profile

Hyunjin could only stare from afar, wishing one day he’d be bold enough to say hi

you were so beautiful, your skin so smooth without any fur or scales

his fingertips itched to touch you, to feel your warmth, to caress your hair and be intoxicated by your scent

Hyunjin muffled a wail watching you so close yet so far from him

it was slowly killing him inside knowing that it wouldn’t take long for another hybrid to ask you out

and what if you say yes? what if the hybrid asked to be your pet? or even worse, what if you become their partner?

oh, Hyunjin was dying thinking about these things

but there you were, focused on whatever work you had to do, unaware of your effects on the poor boy

you were so smart, so dedicated, Hyunjin felt himself falling harder in love

not too long after, you got up again to adventure yourself on the the same aisle

Hyunjin tried to take a peek at your table to see what you were working on, but his counter was a bit too far for that

he did, however, draw what he could see from the two books you got on a random piece of paper just to check them out later

maybe if he read what you’re studying, he might have a topic of your interest to start conversation someday

he was waiting patiently for you to show up with another book, but that didn’t happen

you were taking too long for a simple task such as grabbing a book, Hyunjin got worried

he got up from his seat and went after you

he entered the English Literature aisle only to see you on your tiptoes, right arm stretched out, struggling to grab a yellow book from the top shelf

the boy let out a funny noise unconsciously, calling your attention to him

“I-I’m sorry” he said looking at his own feet, babbling “I didn’t mean to spy on you, but you’re here for quite some time, so I came to check on you, and, well, you’re short and I’m sorry again but it was really really cute seeing you try to reach that book over there, and I’m really tall, so maybe I should grab it for you?” he moved towards you, still staring down, and easily pulled the book you wanted, handing it to you

Hyunjin was embarrassed, but with your cheeks burning from the proximity, you were even more

“thanks” you replied sweetly, finally being able to see his face because he was brave enough to look at you

“you’re even more adorable up close, oh God, I’m going to die” Hyunjin placed his hand on his heart, closing his eyes and holding his breath

you would laugh at his dramatically cute reaction if it wasn’t for a wild boar hybrid interrupting you two

“yo, llama boy, where’s Kafta’s books?” the guy towered over you two, but you didn’t feel intimidated at all

“i-it’s o-over there in the-the-the German section” Hyunjin stuttered a lot, but pointed to the right direction

“I’m gonna need help with this paperwork, alright?” his words actually meant: you’re doing it for me

Hyunjin only nodded in fear, trying hard to stop shaking and humiliating himself even more in front of you, ruining any tiny chance he ever had with you

that’s when you saw the dude’s smile of satisfaction, and you couldn’t take it anymore, you had to confront him

“hey, idiot, he’s an alpaca, not a llama, can’t you see his small ears and fluffy hair? Besides, it’s Kafka, not kafta, you uncultured swine”

the wild boar hybrid was taken by surprise and lowered his ears in respect to you

“I’m sorry” he said almost whispering

“you better be! now go write your own paperwork and leave Hyunjin alone” your glare made him go away in a blink of an eye

“y-you didn’t have to…”

“it’s okay, I know he’s been an asshole to you, I had to do something about it”

“you know?” Hyunjin’s neck got red “wait, you know my name too?”

“yeah” you replied holding the book tightly against your chest, blushing even more

no one knew, but he was your long time crush and you were getting tired of just stalking him around college, so you thought it was the right time to finally confess your suffocating feelings for him

“is it weird if I say that I sometimes go to the coffee shop at the Arts building just because I know it’s your favorite place to hang out? and that I’m studying at the library almost everyday this semester because you’re here?” you let out an awkward laugh

“aaand that I’ve been trying to find any excuse to talk to you, but I never think of the right thing to say, so I end up giving up? and that maybe I’m dying to go on a date with you if you want to?”

was Hyunjin hearing things right? you were not only saying that you like him, but you’re asking him out?

oh, this is probably the best day of his life!

out of all of the hybrids you liked him? the shy alpaca whose special trick is spitting long distances?

the one who cries every night for being away from his family group?

who whines all the time to himself for being too awkward to have friends?

who dies everyday seeing his crush walking around the campus thinking he’ll never have a chance?

he was nothing special compared to the other hybrids, but here you were in all your adorableness confessing your feelings

he could at least muster up some courage and say something, right?

“how about…” Hyunjin cleared his throat to avoid stuttering, he was so nervous, he felt like his heart would leap out of his chest

“how about we go grab a coffee, then?” as soon the words were spoken, his eyes got sad “oh… nevermind, I forgot I have to close the library tonight”

you wouldn’t let this golden opportunity pass by so easily, so you smiled at him

“it’s fine, I’ll go first and order for us before they close too”

“are you sure? I mean…”

“yeah, don’t worry about it” you smiled again to reassure him

“oh, okay, well, I usually have-”

“a hot chocolate with extra toppings and a slice of quiche” you interrupted him

Hyunjin’s eyes were wide

“I notice you, Hyunjin” you shook your head “I’ve been noticing you for a long time… too long, to be honest” you admitted

the boy was at loss for words

how was this happening? was he dreaming? the person he likes likes him back? what? what was he supposed to do now? he never thought his biggest wish would come true

“can you wait a bit?” Hyunjin left the aisle quickly, running back to his counter and screaming at the top of his lungs that the library night shift was over

you couldn’t believe Hyunjin was kicking everyone out thirty minutes earlier

you laughed seeing him smiling so brightly for the first time, and your heart was filled with joy for you were the reason behind it

Hyunjin was exultant, barely able to contain his long awaited happiness

he was on cloud nine, over the moon, on top of the world, on seventh heaven… he was feeling it all!

you not only notice him, but want to be with him, the shy, awkward alpaca hybrid

what else would Hyunjin wish for besides being loved by you?

#i almost didnt post this today #my wifi sucks #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids blurbs #stray kids drabbles #stray kids AU #stray kids hybrid #stray kids #skz #hyunjin #5/9 #190518 #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop AU #kpop hybrid

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sprnklersplashes · 4 years

Text

not beyond repair (16/20)

AO3

As March goes on, the clouds finally give way to the sunshine, painting the pavements golden and staying long enough to make the Westerberg faculty give way and allow their students-senior only, of course-to have their lunch outside, much to the delight of the students. Gone is the crowded, claustrophobic cafeteria, traded for sprawling across green lawns and chasing each other around the parking lot with water bottles in hand. There are outside tables, but they sit abandoned and alone, the sun glinting off their plastic. Even if they weren’t in dire need of a good cleaning, the students avoid them and trip over each other to get to the long stretch of grass out front instead, where four years ago they practised handstands and blushed when their skirts fell down. There’s a degree of freedom here that’s unlike anywhere inside, and certainly wouldn’t be found amongst the cafeteria tables. The social hierarchy isn’t completely invisible, the lines still clear when Heather Chandler perches on the wall and only her select few sit around her, but they blur when the rest of the student body are sprawled around her and walking on the walls and leaning back to share candy with classmates. And even Heather herself is too busy enjoying the change of scenery and fresh air to muster up a damn.

In the middle of the grass, Veronica stifles a laugh at Heather Mac, who frowns down at her legs, her skirt rolled up as much as she can while maintaining her dignity and her socks scrunched down.

“I really want a good tan,” she explains, taking her blazer off as well.

“Yeah, you’re bound to get it,” JD says flatly. Heather, unsure of his intent, as always, chooses to take it as an encouragement and beams at him.

“At least you don’t have that big trench coat anymore,” she points out, gesturing to the blue jacket that he’s using as a sort of tablecloth. “That would have cooked you alive. And it just wasn’t trendy.”

“They were the height of fashion in Indiana,” he says. Heather hums nonchalantly before being distracted by Martha offering her a cookie. She accepts with a grin and, after a look around to make sure no-one’s watching them, a kiss on her cheek.

“Aw, what a beautiful display of friendship,” JD remarks, sarcasm dripping off him like honey off a honeycomb. Heather sticks her tongue out at him, but what little malice there was in the gesture is gone when they start laughing together. Even if Veronica does slap his shoulder.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Veronica asks, nudging Martha lightly with her foot. Her half-eaten lunch caught Veronica’s eye, but her panic was subdued immediately when she saw the reason; her head bent over, focussing on a task that had her hands moving quickly and delicately. Martha looks up with a smile on her face. Veronica leans over a little and it falls into place in a second; it’s what they’ve done every year the minute the flowers started blooming. And it’s probably the reason for the distinct lack of flowers around Martha.

“Daisy chain,” she says proudly, holding up her handiwork, both ends falling over her hands and hanging above the ground. Heather gasps as though she’s held up a chain of pure gold rather than the most common flowers.

“Hey, show me how to do it,” she squeaks, giving Martha her full attention. Laughing, Veronica shares a knowing look with JD while her own hands pick daisies from the ground without ever looking down. She falls into an easy rhythm of opening the flower and threading the stem through it, even if she pokes herself more than a few times.

“Come on, J,” she teases, nudging him. “Don’t tell me you’re too manly to make daisy chains.

“Um, I am very secure in my masculinity thank you very much,” he says, pulling a notebook out of his bag and showing the pages to her. “Look. Glitter pen. Courtesy of MacNamara.”

“Wow you’re the pinnacle of progression,” she replies flatly. Grinning, he puts the notebook back in his bag and begins plucking a bunch of daisies for himself.

“Okay. So how do I do this?” he asks, watching Veronica. “Just rip the stem open and put the other on in there?”

“That was violent,” Martha says, looking up from her work, which Heather is watching with wide eyes.

“I prefer passionate,” he says. “It’s a metaphor for the harsh nature of life and how it tears apart innocence.”

“Calm down there Shakespeare it’s a flower necklace,” Veronica says. “Come here, let the pro show you how it’s done.” He turns to face her and she takes two of the flowers out of his lap, digging her thumbnail into the stem. “Okay, here, so you make a slit in the stem like that… and then you thread the other one through like that. And then you keep going until you make… whatever you want. Crown, necklace, bracelet-”

“Scarf?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That’d be an achievement,” she remarks, handing the beginnings of his chain to him. She spends a few minutes just watching him. “Or, you could always make a weird ear thing to dangle from your boyfriend’s ear while he’s distracted.”

He blinks adorably at her for a moment, bewildered, before his hand slowly comes up to his ear and finds the flowers hanging from there. Veronica erupts into giggles behind her hands and even Martha has to chuckle at him.

“Jokes on you losers, I’m keeping it,” he declares with a toss of his head. “I look fabulous.”

“Yeah you do,” Veronica agrees, resting her cheek on his shoulder, daisy stems tickling her face.

“Oh my gosh!” Heather pipes up, sitting back on her heels. As their eyes fall on her with confused expectation, she clears her throat and lowers her voice, subtly gesturing over Veronica’s shoulder. “Look. I think Betty’s college letter might have come in.”

“Not our business,” Veronica says, despite the quick glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, Betty is sitting cross-legged on the grass opposite her friend Amber, a brown envelope in her hand. “She brought it to school?”

“Maybe she was nervous,” JD says softly.

“Or maybe it’s a superstitious thing,” Heather says. “My dad said when he got his letter he brought it to his school to open to the school spirits would bless him.”

“My mom opened hers in a church when she got it,” Martha adds, looking from one friend to the next anxiously. “Has anything come in for you guys yet?”

“Not a thing,” Heather sighs, her shoulders slumping and her whole body deflating in a way that almost makes her look unrecognisable. Martha puts an arm around her and pulls her closer.

“Neither have I, and that doesn’t mean anything yet,” she tells her.

“I haven’t heard anything,” Veronica adds. “Not Harvard, not Duke, not Brown. Not even my reserves.” She hopes she sounds more casual than she feels. Like she doesn’t check the mail twice every morning and isn’t one step away from standing outside and getting it from the mailman herself to make sure he’s not leaving it in his bag.

Breathe. That’s what she tells herself every day.

“How many colleges did you apply to?” JD asks, continuing with his daisy chain.

“Just five,” she says. “I don’t really care about the other two. Just wanted my mom not to worry.”

“Oh well I haven’t heard anything either,” he remarks. “They probably didn’t get the application I never sent.”

“My dad will kill me if I don’t get into college,” Heather says, her words getting faster and faster. “And it means all the work would have been for nothing.”

“Nothing?” Martha echoes, running a hand up her arm. Heather smiles, even if it’s weak.

“Okay, not entirely nothing. I did get to spend a lot of time with my favourite tutor,” she remarks. But she pulls her knees close to her chest. “But my dad’s been telling everyone how good I’ve been at school. How I’m definitely getting into a good college.” She picks at her knee-length white socks and pulls at the yellow ribbon on them. “I think he’s about to buy me one just to get me into one.”

“If he does can we all share it?” JD asks. “Can we have sleepovers.”

“Um, I don’t know,” Heather says, chuckling. “My mom doesn’t let me have sleepovers with boys. She thinks I’m going to do stuff with them.”

“Like what, glitter art?” JD asks, reaching into his bag and pulling out a packet of red liquorice. “Okay, who wants one? Just don’t tell Claire I had them. She’s on my case about my sugar levels again.”

Heather and Martha take one each, the conversation taking an easy turn away from college anxiety and possibly more importantly, takes Heather away from the cliff edge. Veronica doesn’t miss the grateful look Martha shoots JD as she idly rubs Heather’s back.

“Nice save,” Veronica whispers. He pokes her cheek with his liquorice. Without a word, he gently lifts up the daisy crown he made and sets it on her head, his touch so light she can barely feel his fingers in her hair.

“You look pretty,” he says, making her grin. That alone earns him a kiss on the cheek.

Martha walks home with her after school, courtesy of both her parents working late tonight. It’s become such a common occurrence between them that even Martha, who thanks bus drivers twice, has managed to stop thanking Veronica and her parents for letting her stay there. At this point, Martha knows every creak and groan of Veronica’s house as well as she does her own.

“This whole college thing has Heather really shaken up,” she tells her as they walk. “She’s started chewing her nails now.”

“That’s bad?” Veronica looks down at her own nails, two close to non-existent, she’s worn them down so much.

“It is when you’re her. It just hurts, seeing her like this, you know?”

“Yeah, I do,” Veronica sighs, thinking about JD and his terrified eyes and him curled up unmoving in his bed. “Just makes you feel useless.”

“Exactly!” Martha agrees. “All I want to do is help her. But I don’t know how.” Despite the seriousness she feels, Veronica can’t help smiling, one of those proud smiles she hates on her own mom. She hopes to God she’s not turning into her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she squeaks. “Only… you really like her, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. She’s my girlfriend.”

“Yeah but you really, really like her,” Veronica points out. Martha’s cheeks turn pink, her smile growing by the second.

“Yeah,” she admits, her eyes soft. She reaches up and plays with the star charm around her neck, the one Heather got her for Valentine’s day. “I just want her to be happy. Like, really happy. Not just happy when we’re cuddling in her bedroom.”

“Trust me,” Veronica says, turning her key in her front door. “That girl is way happier with you than she would be in any college.” Martha blushes again as they step inside, her face the same colour as her sweater.

“Mom, we’re home!” Veronica calls, heading to the kitchen and tossing Martha a Twix before grabbing one for herself. Her mom’s footsteps can be heard from the top of the stairs and she appears in the kitchen in no time at all, beaming more at Martha than at her.

“Martha, it’s so nice to see you,” she says, as if she doesn’t see her at least twice a month.

“You too, Aunt Ella,” she says.

“We’re going to go do homework upstairs,” Veronica says, even though she’s leaning against the counter and grabbing two mugs and flicking on the kettle, rather than grabbing Martha by the arm and pulling her upstairs before her mom can say anything else. Which is what she had done with the Heathers and only just stopped doing with JD. But being self-conscious in front of Martha would be like being shocked that you failed a test you didn’t study for.

“Oh, Ronnie some mail came for you while you were at school,” her mom says, gesturing to the two brown envelopes on the kitchen table.

The word ‘mail’ comes with its own siren. And a flashing light. Big, red light that blinds her even from behind her eyelids. She only just manages to save the mugs from being dropped. Martha’s eyes meet hers and she finds the same wide-eyed anxiety reflected back at her.

“Ronnie?” her mom asks. “Everything okay? I didn’t open them. They just seem important.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” she says, pushing her hair away from her face with a shaking hand. “I’ll-I’ll get them thanks.” She crosses over to the table as normally as she can and picks them up.

The seals of Duke and Brown are looking back up at her.

“Are you going to open them?” Martha asks, taking a sip from her mug before putting it on the desk. Veronica sits cross-legged on her bed, forgetting about her nails and biting her knuckles instead. “I can wait in the bathroom if you want.”

“No. I don’t know,” she says, not sure which part of Martha’s question she’s answering. She falls back onto her bed, holding the two envelopes above her. They’re thinner than she thought they’d be. Maybe that’s a good thing. Or not. Maybe they’re thin because all they need to say is “you got in”. But if she got in they’d have sent orientation packs and welcome brochures and a schedule. Or maybe they send them later. Or maybe they’re thin because all they need to say is ‘no’.

“Veronica,” Martha says gently. “I don’t know if you know, but it’s been seventy five seconds and you haven’t moved.” She turns onto her side, Martha half-visible behind the Duke envelope. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sorry,” she sighs, putting them on her table and shaking out her arms. “It’s just… my whole future is in those two envelopes.”

“Whole future?” Martha echoes, pulling her hands over her sleeves. “You really think that?”

“Kind of. A bit. Yeah.” She heaves a sigh, her chest pressing into the mattress. “Completely.” She turns onto her back, holding the letter in slightly-shaking hands. How long would it take to read? A minute? Maybe less. Everything she’s been dreaming about since she set foot in Westerberg high school is in that letter.

“That’s pretty fatalistic,” Martha comments weakly. Veronica hums in agreement, putting the envelopes on her table and sitting back up, facing Martha and her raised eyebrows. “So you’re not opening them?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“Hey,” Martha says, coming over to her side and taking her hand. “If you don’t get in… you know it’s not the end of the world, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” she replies. Her mom and even her teachers have said that, in between their lectures about how important getting into a good college is. It’s given her whiplash. She squeezes Martha’s hand tighter. The one thing that’s never changed as she got older, or at least kept changing with her. They used to think they were going to do everything together, go to the same college and work in the same town and marry best friends and their kids would be best friends and they’d live next door to each other. They don’t think that now, of course. They know better. Doesn’t mean she can’t wish they would. Veronica swallows past the lump in her tight throat. “We won’t change right? If-when we go to college?” She squeezes Martha’s hand tighter. “We’ll still be best friends, right?” The question feels stupid, the idea of a world where Martha isn’t her friend alien to her, but it pushed itself out of her, fuelled by a bout of insecurity and the lingering fear of opening the envelope.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” she asks, a slight laugh in her voice. She turns Veronica around so that she faces her head-on, a determined belief shining in her eyes, the kind that makes Veronica remember how much she loves her. How could she ever have traded that unwavering faith for popularity and parties? “Look, I’m always going to love you. Even when you’re off in North Carolina drinking tea with your professors. Always.” She holds up her hand, little finger stuck out. Shoulders shaking with laughter, Veronica wraps her own baby finger around hers.

“And you can never break a pinky promise,” she says.

“Never.” Martha raises her right hand in a three fingered salute. “Girl Scout’s honour for good measure.” Veronica once again mirrors her friend, their friendship solidified in the two most ironclad agreements known to man. “Now that we’ve cleared that, can you please open that envelope so I can stop waiting? You’re giving me heart palpitations over here.” Nodding and half-laughing, Veronica lifts the two envelopes from her table.

Two letters, two minutes, right?

Dear Miss Veronica Sawyer, she reads, the words just underneath the Dule University Seal. We are pleased to offer you a place in our undergraduate program for law-

“OH MY FREAKING GOD!”

Veronica throws her arms around Martha, sagging against her in a combination of relief and… well, shock. Shock that her dreams are now in her hand-literally, in her hand-and she doesn’t have to keep daydreaming about the smoky cafes and leaving Sherwood, Ohio in the dust.

In the back of her mind, she wonders why she isn’t as happy about that as she expected.

Still, she and Martha fall back onto the bed together, all giggles and flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Every time one calms down, the other is set off, the light, musical sound erupting from both of them until they seem to exhaust themselves and are laying on the backs in a cloud of their own joy. Veronica holds the letter against her chest, panting weakly, and she grabs Martha’s hand with the other.

“Should go without saying,” Martha says breathlessly. “But I’m so proud of you.” She squeezes her hand warmly. “All that studying finally paid off.”

“Yeah,” she breathes, the letter still folded in half and clutched between her hands. She opens it up and smooths out the wrinkles and tries to read it in full, even if her eyes keep snapping back up to the opening sentences. Her brain vaguely registers start dates and dorm rooms and the long proud history of blah blah blah… She can read over all that later. Right now she’s punching the air, drumming her legs on the bed and humming a nonsensical song under her breath, her body squirming like the happiness is going to burst out of her in an explosion of rainbow coloured glitter and cover her walls.

Beside her, Martha lays her head on her cheek on her shoulder. Despite the smile on her face, Veronica feels her stiffen and it brings her right back down to Earth. A cold sensation creeps over her, beginning in her chest, not so much that she panics, but enough to cover up the clouds she was dancing on.

“Hey,” she says, poking Martha’s cheek. “You good?”

“Of course,” she says in false confusion. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because of your face,” she replies, tapping Martha’s nose. “Hey, what is it?” Her hair ruffles as Martha sighs deeply.

“It’s just… now you’ve got yours… it’s making this all real.” She closes her eyes and lets out a sigh. “Reminds me how haven’t got mine yet.” She shakes her head, giving a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching her eyes. “I’ll probably get mine soon anyway.”

“And there will be a big fat yes when you do,” Veronica says. She wraps her hand around Martha’s hand and squeezes tightly. “You’ve been in that library more than me.”

“Mainly because you and JD took quite a few breaks.” She wiggles her eyebrows, one word loaded with implication that’s not entirely untrue. At least she’s past the stage where she blushes at those.

“Oh, and your and Heather’s tutoring sessions were strictly schoolwork-only?” she teases. Unlike herself, Martha’s cheeks flush red, her mouth opening and closing. Veronica giggles into her bedsheets. “Trust me. Colleges are going to be tripping over themselves to let you in. And hand you scholarships.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling softly and rubbing her thumb against Veronica’s hand. “Can we go back to being happy for you?”

“Just a little bit,” she says. “We’ll be fully happy when you get yours.”

And there’s that feeling again, right in the back of her mind. If nothing else, this is a convenient excuse. She’s not as happy as she should be, only because her best friend is still waiting for hers. Nothing else outside of that she tells herself, the acceptance letter still folded between her fingers and poking slightly at her wrist.

*****

When she wakes up the next morning, that feeling is almost forgotten. The letter sits on her bedside table, placed back inside the envelope, the slight rip and crumpled edge the only giveaway that it was ever opened to begin with.

Her parents’ joy is tangible as she enters the kitchen, her mother’s pride buzzing in her fingers as she squeezes Veronica’s shoulders and her father’s delight evident in the way his eyes light up as he hands her her breakfast. As for Veronica, she fights between the growing pride in herself and her own well-worn and familiar modesty, if she can call it that. Still, she lets herself smiles at the praise and embrace the proud, shining gaze of her parents before leaving. Her dad even puts in a pat in her head before she manages to sneak out the door, something she hasn’t felt since she was single digits. She laughs it off, not bothering to fix any damage done to her hair.

As per usual, JD is sitting on the wall in the front yard when she gets to school, one leg up on either side of it and a book in his hands. She comes up behind him in a similar way, her body pressed against him. Months ago he may have jumped, now her touch is so familiar to him that he shifts forwards to make room for her once he feels it. She presses against his back and reaches forwards to trace the outline of the page he’s on.

Truth be told, she’s unexpectedly anxious, a small flame slowly but steadily building in her chest since she spotted him. Behind him, she grabs the butterfly pendant around her neck, the cool metal calming her. It’s weird; they’ve been through more than she thought they would be as a couple. She spent more time than she would care to admit daydreaming about her future romance one day, especially in the first few months of high school. And she knew from TV and from her own life that it wouldn’t be all butterflies and rainbows and sunshine, and thought herself well-prepared for those days, ready for fights and disagreements. She hadn’t prepared herself for the hard talks in the courtyard that she and JD had had, about therapy and his mom and things she had only read in books. But they had them, and she likes to think she came out of them the better person, however difficult and scary they were in the moment.

And yet she is still nervous about this. Something every other half-of-a-couple in her school has had to deal with or will at some point. She can’t tell if she’s more excited to share or more anxious about… well she’s not quite sure. Of something changing, she guesses

“Hey,” she whispers, her cold fingers creating circles in the fabric of his shirt. “So… something happened yesterday.”

“Something?” he repeats, sliding his bookmark in and closing the book. “That’s cryptic.”

“It was… fairly big.” He nods and swings his leg around so he can face her. She feels like the butterfly from her necklace is sitting in her heart and flapping its little wings as hard and fast as it possibly can. And despite the mounting nerves, she’s smiling, and he is too.

“What was it?” he asks.

“JD… I got into college.” Her smile grows over her face like an external force is tugging on the corners of her face. JD’s mouth falls open ad he lets out a delighted gasp. “It was Duke. Duke and Brown, but Duke was my first choice.”

“Ronnie,” he says. “That’s amazing.” He takes her with him as he stands and pulls her into a tight hug, a kiss pressed to the side of her temple. Her legs go weak in his embrace and it’s she melts into him, sighing. Stupidly happy, that’s what she feels right now. Kind of an oxymoron, but hey, a lot of great stories are built on contradiction. “I am so proud of you.” He rubs their noses together playfully. “I knew you’d do it.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I’m just so glad all this is over. All the stupid waiting around.”

“So a few months from now, can I brag to people that my girlfriend is a super genius who goes to Duke?” he asks as their hands clasp together and start walking into a building.

“Brag to who?” she replies. “You can’t brag to Martha because I already told her, so that only leaves Heather.”

“I can brag to people in the store. And to Claire,” he tells her. “Oh God she’s probably going to be even prouder than I am.”

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted by that.”

“Hey, I couldn’t be prouder that you if I tried,” he says, punctuating his point with a kiss to her cheekbone. “But Claire has a lot of proud parent energy she can’t always channel into me.” He swings their hands between them as he bits his lip slightly, an idea springing to life in his head. “I’m going to buy you a victory cupcake at lunch.”

“You don’t need to buy me a cupcake,” she sighs.

“It’s not just a cupcake,” he replies. “It’s a victory cupcake.” Veronica rolls her eyes, but the gesture doesn’t go any deeper than her face. This boy is a contradiction himself, the troubled bad boy/poetry lover who buys her cupcakes when she gets into college. “Or donut. Or cookie. Whatever you want and whatever the cafeteria has in stock.”

“If it’s a donut that shit better have sprinkles,” she tells him seriously. He laughs, plugging in his combination and opening his locker. Before he moves to take anything out or put anything in, he moves in and kisses her forehead with just a little more strength than they normally allow in the middle of the hallway. “Be proud of yourself.”

“I am proud,” she says indignantly. “More relieved than proud, but I’m proud.” He nods, taking her hand and walking her to her homeroom, grin never once leaving his face and his fingers moving minutely as he strokes the back of her hand. He rubs his cheek against her hair and tells her about his English essay and when they run into Heather he rather affectionately calls her ‘buttercup’. He and Veronica share a knowing look when Heather mentions that she was hoping to run into Martha earlier, and she groans at a dumb joke he makes,

It’s only when he opens the door that Veronica realises that one day, not too far away, she’ll be missing mornings like this.

******

“Hey, JD?” A flash of yellow appears in his peripheral vision as Heather takes her place next to him at the very back of American history. At her arrival, he places his bookmark in between the pages and slips the book into his bag. Despite this being his second reading of, it’s taking him longer to get through it this time around. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” he says, only for Heather’s face to fall slightly. She’s almost constantly smiling, must be a cheerleader thing, but the way it falls and rises like a puppy’s ears is almost a clearer indication of her feelings than when she isn’t. “What’s up?”

“I just… how are you and Veronica going to do college?”

His first thought is that the question is way too deep for first period. He’s all for a good discussion (especially when it comes to his relationship, since it turns out the only things keeping him from rambling out his thoughts to Claire are self-preservation, a small shred of dignity and some compassion for her) but the question Heather posed is a little too much too soon. And if he’s honest...

“I… we haven’t talk about it,” he decides is the right way to put it. It’s not incorrect and is certainly much better than ‘well I don’t know, we never really thought about it’.

Except now he is.

Thanks, Heather, he thinks.

“Oh…” she says. “Sorry, I was just asking because… see me and Martha don’t know what we’re going to do when she goes away to college and I go wherever I go.”

“Still not convinced you’re getting in?” She shakes her head, lips rolled into a tight line. Despite the B+ quiz tucked in the back of her folder. “I wouldn’t count you out yet, Mac.”

“Thanks. I just want to be ready for whatever,” she says with feigned nonchalance. “And you’re not planning on going anywhere, right?”

“Right,” he says, even if the word feels clumsy and uncomfortable in his mouth. It’s more of a habitual answer than a truthful one.

“Do-do you ever worry about the long distance stuff?” Heather asks him. “I mean, I don’t really worry. I just think about it a lot sometimes.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I-I guess not. I didn’t really-” He bites his lip, drumming his fingers on the table. He didn’t really think he’d be around post-graduation. That’s what he means. He never expected any of this to last, Claire, Sherwood, Veronica, anything. He assumed he’d be sent off to another placement after his time here was up. This degree of certainty is alien to him, however much it might mean to him. This is the adjustment period. Still, he won’t say that. Too deep for this hour, and, much as he likes her, for Heather. So he shrugs his shoulders instead. “I didn’t really think about it before now.”

“Oh,” Heather says, disappointment evident. She tugs on the sleeve of her jacket as she looks away from him. Rows in front of them her old friends sit on their desks, heads clustered together in conversation.

“I hope we can do it though,” he adds, grabbing her attention again. “The long distance thing. I want to do it. I think we can.” It’s not an empty thought. He’s grown used to communicating by letters and long distance phone calls or even emails, even if it’s just correspondence with old foster siblings or his social workers. He grins to himself as it grows clearer in his mind, the two of them on opposite sides of a phone, drinking in the details of each other’s day, her in a college sweater and him in his pyjamas back in his room.

“You do?” she asks, the corners of her own mouth turning up.

“Of course I do,” he replies.

“Me too,” she says. “Not with Veronica. With Martha. But I still want to do like… long distance friendships too. With you too.” He huffs out a laugh but understands. For the first time, the crap teachers have spewed at every school he’s been to about ‘you’ll miss it when you’re gone’ resonate with him. Even if it’s just about three people. But he’s also grown used to missing people and that’s definitely a habit he wants to break.

*****

The new outside activities aren’t just confined to lunch. The sunshine and dry ground means the after school cheerleading practice is moved outside too. According to her girlfriend, Coach thinks that the jocks, practicing just across the field, will be the happiest kids in the state right about now. And while they certainly do seem to appreciate it, Martha suspects she might just take that title. How can she not be, sitting on in the bleachers with a book in her hands and the sun on her face while she waits for Heather to finish, and sneaking glances at her every now and then, watching her flip perfectly and kick her legs in that little skirt and her golden curls being lit up by the sun and flying behind her like a flag.

Sometimes she’s amazed that she never noticed Heather in that way before.

The girl in question bounds up to her almost the minute the Coach dismisses them, resting her chin on her shoulder, the rest of the student body too wrapped up in each other to notice how Martha’s hand wraps around hers.

“You did great today,” she tells her.

“You think so?” she asks.

“Definitely.” Heather grins and takes a look out over the emptying sports field. Martha used to hate this place and part of her still does, the ghosts of ‘Dumptruck’ echoing in her mind from when she ran laps around the field. But now she can tune those out, even if it takes some effort sometimes, as long as she’s with the right people. Two people to be exact and one of them is lazily rubbing her back.

“Coach likes you,” Heather says. “She likes when you come down to watch practice.”

“She said that?” Martha asks sceptically.

“Yeah,” she says. “Well, no. Well, sort of. She said she likes when people watch us. And she thinks you’re sweet for supporting me.”

“So she knows I’m watching?” she asks. “Guess I’m not as subtle as I thought.” She turns to face her, half-laughing. “Well, I’ll always support my special friend.” They chuckle together; ‘special friends’ is apparently what Heather’s mom refers to gay couples as, and they’ve since turned it into both a cover story and a private joke. The first word, at least, Martha would definitely apply to Heather.

Heather heaves a sigh next to her, the motion on her back drifting away from nonchalant and towards anxious.

“Are you okay?” she asks, running her thumb over her knuckles. She nods quickly, her hair bobbing with her, and it indicates the opposite of what it intends. Still, Martha doesn’t press, instead she presses a quick kiss to her head, thankful the field is deserted, and traces circles on the back of her hand, changing direction every once in a while as Heather’s breathing evens out beside her. Just as she begins to maybe pry a little, it’s Heather who opens her mouth, and what she says nearly knocks her off the bleachers.

“Are we going to do the whole long distance thing?”

“Long distance thing?”

“When you go off to college,” she explains. “And I go… somewhere. Is that what we’re going to do or should we break up before college?” She winces at the last part. “I-that’s what my cousin did with her high school boyfriend.”

“Is that what you want?” she asks tentatively. Insecurity comes to her like an old friend, a friend she no longer wants around, but whose presence is so familiar she’s already listening to it.

“Oh my God, no!” Heather gasps, eyes going wide. She grasps Martha’s shoulders, tension burning in her fingers. “No I do not want to break up before college. Or after college!”

“O… Okay,” she sighs, a little relieved and a little startled. “Then we won’t. Break up I mean.”

“Really?” she squeaks, biting her lip as a smile takes over her face. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” she promises. “I mean, if you want to, I want to.”

“I do,” she replies firmly. “I really, really do.”

“Okay.” Grinning, Heather nuzzles into her shoulder as they look out on the expanse of grass and track in front of them, leading out to the doll-sized houses and stores beyond. Up this high, they’re not just students, they’re giants. Heather’s hand slides into hers and she gives it a gentle squeeze.

“I wonder what would have happened if we’d figured this… us out before now,” Heather remarks.

“Yeah,” she agrees a little sadly. She tries not to dwell on wishes too much anymore, but if she did have a fairy godmother who could grant them, she’d ask for more time with Heather. More time being herself, this version of herself. Maybe if she had known a year ago, maybe if Heather had been different a year ago. Who knows where they’d be now?

They only go inside when the parking lot starts emptying, knowing someone was coming soon enough to lock the gate. While the prospect of having Heather all to herself with a view like this and all this space isn’t unappealing, the heart attack she’d give her mother and the explanations she’d eventually have to give do. They end up sitting on the front steps, not quite the same feeling as being on top of the bleachers. Up there everything looks perfect, picturesque emerald grass and the town looks painted in. Here she can see the trash blowing around in the gentle breeze and knows the graffiti that’s scrawled just around the corner. It’s too real.

Still, Heather is stroking her hair as they talk nonsense and that’s more than enough to make this place work for her.

Her hand brushes against Martha’s just as the door opens and then it drop like a stone in a lake. Two people clad in heels come down the stairs, slowing down as they pass them, the red and the green coming into their vision.

“Heather,” Duke greets coldly. Moments pass without so much as an acknowledgement of Martha. It’s fair, she supposes. All else aside, they were friends, which isn’t a claim Martha has. Not since kindergarten anyway.

“Heather,” she replies, her voice so steady that Martha’s not sure the trembling hand on her leg could belong to the same body.

Behind Duke, Chandler looks down, her arms crossed over her chest. From the neck down, she’s every inch the iron queen of their school, clad in her red blazer, her shadow falling over them and the red scrunchie peeking on her wrist. However, her face is a carefully constructed snarl that’s nearly convincing… except for the way she bites her cheek and how her eyes jump from Heather to Martha to the ground. And how her mouth seems to be on the verge of opening, only to be sealed up again at the last moment. Despite having gone to school with her every day for thirteen years, she doesn’t look familiar at all. Despite her height, despite the way she looms over the two of them, she looks small.

“Come on,” Chandler says, shaking Duke’s shoulder a little. Up until now, Duke’s face had been the opposite of Chandler’s, a hardened mask fixed in one slightly annoyed grimace that’s a staple of their school life at this point. But at Chandler’s command, the cracks appear and she looks as foreign as Heather Chandler did. She obeys and follows at Chandler’s heels down the steps, but not before stalling for a moment, eyes landing on her Heather. Ten years seems to disappear from her for that one moment, and suddenly she’s Heather who clutched a Barbie doll and inched closer to Martha to ask to play.

“Hey,” Chandler snaps, waiting for Duke at the bottom of the steps. “Let’s go. They’re not worth it.”

“Agreed,” Duke replies and she quickens her pace to meet her, neither one of them looking back.

Heather’s looking after them though, her hand fidgeting in her lap. There’s a wistfulness in her gaze that Martha’s making a conscious effort not to be jealous of. Instead she reaches out and takes her restless hand in hers, pulling her back from wherever she is.

“Can I ask you something?” she asks quietly, before she can lose nerve.

“Sure.”

“Do you… do you ever miss them?” she asks, nodding in the direction of their disappearing classmates. Heather blinks, a little unsettled by her question, but despite the apologetic look she gives her, Martha can’t really bring herself to regret asking it. Even if she wishes she’d maybe saved it for later.

“I… don’t know,” she says after a while. “I mean I was friends with them for a really long time. Maybe not friends, okay no. See, I don’t really know.”

“It’s okay,” she says, running her hand through her hair. “I get it. It’s complicated.”

“I think… I don’t like the Heather I was with them,” she admits, turning to Martha. The setting sun bathes her in a delicate golden glow, but even without it, she’d still glow in her own right. Especially now with the way her eyes shine with sincerity and the smile that says so much despite being so small. She cups Martha’s cheek with her hand, her fingertips just meeting her hair. “I like the Heather I am with you. And Veronica. Even JD. That’s what I know.”

Martha hugs Heather tightly, guiding her head to the crook of her neck and squeezing her shoulders carefully. She could tell her that she feels the same, that she knows Heather made her better, that she’s braver and wiser because of her love. She could do that, and she will, one day, hopefully soon. But she doesn’t need to now and it’s beautiful. Now, all she needs and wants to do is hold her girlfriend and silently agree with her; she really likes this Heather.

*****

On Friday evening, Veronica is curled in the biggest chair in the living room, hands gripping the wides and legs poised to jump out. Her body twitches involuntarily each time a car that is even remotely close to silver comes into view, only for them to pass by without a glance. Taking advantage of the good weather, longer days and break in the school work, she and JD plan to take a walk around the park to let off steam.

“What’s this thing he had after school?” her mom asks.

“Just a doctor’s appointment,” she replies, crossing her fingers behind her back. She’s not ashamed, not of anything about him, but it’s also not her story to tell and she notices how he stiffens when Heather or Martha ask what he has planned the occasional Friday. She taps her knuckles against the change in her jacket pocket, she and JD intending to hit the small candy store on the corner before the park.

Another silver car comes around the corner and she slowly unfolds herself as it steadily drives down the road before bursting into a relieved grin when it stop outside her house, the passenger door opening.

“Okay I’m out!” she announces, swinging around the living room door.

“Are you sure he doesn’t want to come in for a minute?” her mom asks, following her out of the living room and leaning against the wall. “I’m making a pot roast.”

“Yep, we’re good,” she replies hastily, opening the front door. Down at the car, JD is probably having a similar conversation, only with far less withheld smothering. The sight of him talking to her so easily makes her slow down a little, a prickle of guilt in her chest, small, but present. She turns around and gives her own mom a smile. “Thanks Mom, but we just want to get out for a bit. I won’t be late, see you later.”

“Okay.” Her mom’s shoulders relax and she nods, smiling back at her. “Have fun, honey.”

Even though she saw him mere hours ago, she gives JD a light hug just as Claire is pulling out away from the kerb, and he responds in kind, adding in a kiss to her hair. She didn’t quite miss him, they’re not like that, but they’re far more free outside school, even with their moderate disregard for the PDA rules.

“Come on,” she says, lacing her fingers through his and pulling him along, making him laugh softly. His lose curls fall forwards over his forehead and dance in the light breeze. He twirls her around under his arm and pulls her closer to wrap his arm around her as they head to the store.

With candy in hand and miniature soda bottles in pockets, they stroll through the park together, Veronica’s arm linking through his and her cheek resting on his shoulder. While the park isn’t quite as full as it would be in the height of summer, they are fairly far from alone too, small kids running past them or wobbling on bikes with parents chasing after them, panic in their eyes despite their fond smiles. The pond glitters golden in the setting sun, families of ducks and ducklings splashing and flapping and creating ripples on the otherwise still water.

They find a spot on a grassy slope where they can looking over everything with the sun at their backs. Ever the gentleman, he even spreads his jacket out for her to sit on. They sit hip to hip, their little candy stash poised carefully between them and their drinks, lemonade for her, cherry Coke for him, cooling their legs.

She leans back on her elbows to stretch out her back tilts her head back, eyes closed, letting the sun warm her face. JD spies an opportunity and sneaks in, dropping a kiss on her lips without warning, not that he would need one, and sneaks an apple flavoured lace from her.

“Jerk,” she says with feigned annoyance, even if she’s giggling. “You owe me.”

“M&M or chocolate?” he asks.

“M&M.” She pulls herself forwards and kneels up to find him on one knee, green candy between his thumb and index finger and face screwed up in concentration. “You will not get that.”

“Want to bet?” he teases. “I bet you a cheek smooch that I can get this in your mouth on the first try.”

“Deal,” she agrees, rolling her eyes. She opens her mouth, only to let out an annoyed squeak when he moves over and lowers her head. “Cheat.”

“I’m making it more fair. Now come on, stay still.”

The candy bounces off her cheekbone and rolls across the grass, the impact just a step above nothing. Still, she laughs, falling back onto the grass and looking at him

“Pay up,” she sings.

“With pleasure,” he says dropping a swift kiss to her cheek. Giggling smugly, she lets him pull her up into a sit, her fingers stroking the inside of his arm, their foreheads close to touching. There’s a warm, slightly breathless feeling in her chest, one that she’s grown slightly used to and would like to get more used to. Butterflies, maybe, but they’re calm now. Like they’re flapping their little wings slowly and serenely in her chest. Breathless, but the good kind.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, looking down at his hands. She looks at him, listening and expectant, but his voice just trails off.

“You going to tell me what you were thinking of?” she asks, hoping to bring him back on track. “Or am I just going to have to guess.”

“Sorry,” he says, laughing a little. “Just… still thinking about it, I guess.” She runs her hand down his arm and takes his, lacing their fingers together.

“Want to let me in?” He nods, dimples forming in his cheeks as he grins. His free hand taps on his knee, his fingers moving in an agitated rhythm.

“It’s a little crazy.”

“I’m all for crazy,” she tells him.

“But… you know how I always said I don’t want to go to college? How I don’t see the point in it and all that crap?” She nods and he takes a deep breath in, his eyes lighting up as they meet her. His excitement passes from him to her as she slowly starts to see where he’s going. “Well, just you and your getting in and Martha and Heather, it all got me thinking… what if I actually went? Not this year, I mean I can’t, but next year. Do some volunteering and maybe retake a test or two and start applications and give it a real try.” He bites his lip sheepishly. “Is that dumb?”

“Dumb?” she echoes. “J, that’d be amazing!”

“Really?”

“Really!” she squeaks.

“I was thinking about majoring in English,” he explains, kneeling up, one hand gesturing wildly and the other holding onto her with a tight grip, his hand shaking a little, like his blood is buzzing. The words flow out of him one after the other with no break, almost leaving him panting. “You know? I mean, I’m good at it, according to all my assignments. I don’t think I want to be a writer or anything like that and definitely not a teacher, but maybe like a Professor or something. Or an editor.”

“You’d be amazing at that,” she tells him, cupping the side of his face. She touches her forehead to his, nuzzling into him, his shoulders shaking under him as he laughs. “When did you figure all this out?”

“Well…” He scratches behind his ear. “I sort of… I guess I always knew I wanted it. To go study poetry somewhere. But I never thought I could. I never thought I’d have some sort of permanent place with someone to get me through it.” He sighs, his eyes shining. “But now I do.”

Claire Veronica thinks. The woman who isn’t his mother but is the next best thing. He told her the next day at school with wide, slightly red eyes and an expression that was half-joy, half-disbelief, like he was expecting to wake up from this. All she could do was hug him as tight as she knew how to and tell him how happy she was for him, even if she could never understand how huge this is. And that’s okay with her. All she needs to know is that this means pretty much everything to him.

Veronica doesn’t really like thinking about what would have happened if she hadn’t adopted him, and he doesn’t like talking about it, so it had worked out well. Losing him once was bad enough, and that was when she was a kid and only loved him half as much as she does now. Now all she can do is be grateful she never has to think about that again. And be glad that he has someone forever now.

She leans in and kisses him, tasting cherry Coke and sugar on his lip, his joy infectious and making her dizzy. He pecks at her lips playfully until she tilts her head and slides her hand into his hair, murmuring contended nothings against him.

“Hey, Ronnie?” he asks.

“Mm-hm?”

“About college…” The initial bliss fades a little, not enough to disappear completely, but she feels the change in the air. She delicate touches the dimple on his cheek with her fingertip. “I just… are we going to do that long distance thing?”

“Long distance?” she echoes.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean… you’re going to be in North Carolina, and much as I’d like to I doubt the Dean would let me come with you. I know some high school couples break up before college, but I don’t-I want to do it long distance. I think we can.” He shrugs, his eyes meeting hers with an unfamiliar insecurity in them. “I’m up for it if you are.”

She shakes her head at him, huffing out a laugh and pushes his hair away from his face, looking right into his eyes and making him do the same. Truthfully, she had thought about them post-high school, and she had worried up until a few days ago, when Martha calmed her fears about them. Now she just looks back in embarrassment, as if she’d ever let 600 miles shake the two things she loves most.

“Jason Dean,” she sighs, enjoying the taste of his name, his real name, on her lips. “I could go to college in Mars and still want to be with you.” His cheek shifts against her hand as he breaks out into a grin. “So yes, dumbass. I want to do the long distance thing with you. I always thought I would. Even if it means staying up to 2am to talk to you and racking up Claire’s phone bill beyond all recognition.”

“You might want to talk to her about that,” he whispers, laughter lacing the edges of his voice. He pulls her into another kiss, longer and deeper than the last one, occasionally interrupted by their contented chuckling. They fall back onto the ground, the soft grass tickling their faces, their hands clasped between them. JD looks at her, his mouth half open and his eyes bright. He pushes her hair back and traces her jaw, his thumb poking at her cheek.

“I’m so glad I met you,” he tells her quietly, his voice shaking a little. She presses a kitten-like kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“First or second time?” she teases.

Grinning, he takes her clasped hand and brings to her fingers to his lips to kiss it. A warm current sweeps through her body and her hands tingle, reminding her of the fairies weaving magic in her old picture books. Like there’s magic in his touch that can make her glimmer and shine.

“First,” he replies with more certainty in his voice than she’s ever heard before.

#heathers the musical #heathers fanfic #jdronica #pure au jdronica #veronica sawyer #jason dean #fic: not beyond repair #this was one of the hardest chapters to write and idk why #i proofread this twice #anyway everyone's favourite soft girls (marthaxmac) have returned pls enjoy

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ladybugsfanfics · 5 years

Text

Worth The Wait | Tom Hiddleston x Indian!reader

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Indian!reader

Style: One Shot

WC: 2.6k

Warnings: uhh, curse words, i dont thinkt there is anything in this??

Summary: @thelowkeydetective said: “Hey, I wanted to request a soulmate au (with Hiddleston) and take your time, no hurry:if you're on separate time zones, when you sleep, you see the world in the eyes of your soulmate at present and when they look into a reflective surface/mirror the image is blurred. Hope you got which one. I'm sorry for bugging you again but maybe you could make that one shot I requested to be Tom Hiddleston x Indian reader( that way you can get the time difference too and I'm Indian). Thank you😄” - soulmate au post also, to help the story i added another of the aus “Because the universe is sadistic af, it only gave you the first letter of your soulmate’s name.”

A/N: this was so much fun to write and I hope i did good. I havent specified that anything about the reader so you can imagine being anything only you live in Chennai, India (it works so well since Tom’s older sister lives there). Thank you so much for the request and so sorry it took so long ^_^ italics are the dream she has btw

if you want to be added to my taglist, please send an ask ^_^ | requests are open, too.

Drying your hands after washing your face, your thumb swipes over the tattoo on your left wrist. The T stares at you, has your heart fall a little as the rope that holds it in place slowly rips―how much is left of that rope, you’re not sure.

The tattoo appeared when you were 18. All over the world, people wake up to a new tattoo on their 18th birthday, except, most people get the whole name (the first name), and you woke up to only a stupid letter. When you turned twenty, that’s when the probability of finding your soulmate comes. If soulmates are on different time zones, you see their daily life when you sleep.

For most, this never happens and is only something people use to test that they’ve found the right person. Most of your friends have gone on trips just to make sure the person they met is actually the person they’re meant to be with.

You’re not one of the lucky. You’re one of the unlucky who has had dreams of their soulmate’s lives since the day you turned twenty. It has been a quiet ride so far, seeing as it’s impossible for you to find out who he is―the dude travels so much you can’t pinpoint where in the world he is from. A lot of the time, you see manuscripts though, late night readings―Shakespeare seems to be a favorite.

It doesn’t help that your parents want you to get married, have children and have been talking about this forever. Since you were twenty-five (about eight years), they’ve been going on about forgetting your soulmate and finding someone eligible in India, in Chennai. But you can’t find anyone you get along with, and believe it, they’ve tried hard.

The T prompts a deep sigh, knowing if you don’t meet him, you will end up spending the rest of your life alone. Through the years you’ve seen him, you’ve noticed things, picked up on habits he has. Also, from time to time, when you believe he dreams, you’ve left notes, tried to speak with him.

And he replied.

Steadily, you’ve been having a conversation. You still don’t know his name, or where he is from, because you’re afraid to ask certain questions. The first question was a boring yet sweet, how are you? To which he replied, fine, and you?

It became more prying after a while, but it’s only been going on for a year and it isn’t always easy knowing if he’s gotten your messages or not. Though he seems to have figured out when his will reach you.

With a harsh scrub at the T, which does nothing but redden your skin, you let go of the hand towel. One final look in the mirror. Tired eyes look back at you. You sigh once more and get out of the bathroom. In your bedroom, you get into bed and pull the blanket completely over your head, hoping slumber takes you easily and that maybe, just maybe, you get a new message.

People are everywhere, filing to and fro in every direction. They lug suitcases after them. Children screams at their parents. The woman who accepts the passport smiles warmly, raven-black hair tied into a ponytail that waves as she moves her head. She hands the passport back, with a tucked in boarding pass and reaches to tie a piece of paper around the handle of the suitcase. Her mouth moves, showing of a set of white teeth.

Moving, the gaze lands on the boarding pass. It covers the passport, hiding away any information on it. But the pass says it all. From Heathrow to Chennai International Airport. The passport closes shut and is filed into a pocket as the moving stops.

The security check is lined with people. The long line goes easily forward, stopping only a few minutes every now and then. Long, slender fingers grabs a gray box and pulls out some belongings. A belt, phone and keys land in one corner. So does a wristwatch. A black backpack gets its own box. The line through isn’t long. Green tells to go through. The security people smile and nod, and gestures to keep going.

Big hands grab the backpack and puts away the other belongings. People everywhere, walking past in a slow tempo. The big screen that tells the gates shows the gate for the flight to Chennai. Increased tempo.

By the gate, there are few free seats. There is one by the corner. From the backpack, slender fingers drag out a book and a notebook. A pen sits in the spine. Opening the notebook, pages file past with previous notes. Scrambling a date in uneligible handwriting, and then, in block letters, where are you from? The gaze lies there for a full minute, and the book closes, the pen reattached to the spine. And the other book opens, a bookmark placed at the back and a hand holding it by the spine as the other scrolls to the next page.

---

Are you allowed to freak out? Are you allowed to keep going over the words you wrote, desperately hoping he saw them? Are you allowed to have your heart beat its way out of your rib cage because you know your soulmate is coming to Chennai?

You pace back and forth in your office, feeling the eyes of your office-roommate burn on you. He raises a brow as you stop, turn to face him and cross your arms over your chest.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Uhh,” you say, “it’s complicated.” You drag a hand through your hair. Again, again, again. It grows annoying and you tie it up in a bun with the hairbands on your wrist.

Advik pushes himself from his desk, his chair rolling closer to you. He pulls on you to sit down in your own chair, and as you slump against it, he takes one of your hands in his. “You can tell me, I won’t…” He tries for a smile instead of finishing the sentence―nothing you find very comforting.

“It’s my soulmate.” It sounds weird saying out loud.

Your coworker cocks a brow. “Soulmate, huh?” His face gets a playful smirk and he turns your hand in his, but there is no tattoo on that one. Nor can you see the tattoo on your left wrist as you’ve perfected how to cover up the T.

“Yeah, soulmate.” Something tugs at your stomach. Advik moves to check your other wrist. Deep brown eyes look up at you, a frown thrown across it, mixed with something akin to fondness.

“You don’t have one, do you?” he asks, eyes glances down at your wrist again. His thumb strokes where the T hides underneath make-up. “That’s great news.”

Lips pressed together, and knowing people have been talking about you not having a soulmate for some time now, you don’t say anything. You let him stroke over your tattoo, even though he can’t see it.

He pulls back his sleeves and shows his wrists to you. “See, no soulmate.” The lopsided grin that accompanies makes you feel guilty, a stab of pain in your stomach and the far away feeling of impending sweat. “Isn’t that great?”

You shake your head. “That’s not…” The words feel wrong. But how else do you say it? “That’s not true. I have a soulmate.”

Advik frowns, his expression giving away what he says next, “but you have no tattoo?”

“Wrong,�� you say and find a wet wipe in your purse. You rub it against your wrist, taking the time to get everything off. As the T is visible, you show it to him.

“Who is this T, then?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

You take a deep breath. “I don’t know. I know he’s an actor, and that he likes shakespeare. Uhh, he travels a lot and reads a lot. Probably from the west, I think because he’s usually awake when I go to sleep.”

“So, he’s in another time zone.” Advik shrugs, though a small smile plays on his lips, as if he’s happy with that. “Doesn’t that open up to, maybe, trying someone else?”

“I dreamt it tonight.” You take a deep breath. “He’s here. In Chennai. I saw his boarding pass.”

Advik raises a brow, his smile falling. “Well, then we’ll have to see if we can find him, right?”

“You’re gonna help me?”

He nods. “Totally. I might not have a soulmate, and have hoped you haven’t had one either, but you seem to want to find him. Why not help you?”

You shake your head, unsure what to think but your heart flips at the thought. A grin spreads across you face and the anticipation of finding him has your gut churn. Maybe things will go your way?

---

The bookstore you’re in feels like a dead end, just as every other bookstore you’ve been to. It’s not like you know he’ll even stop by one, you just know he likes to read.

Advik smiles tightly, his eyes glancing to the door every now and then as the bell above it rings. It signals new customers, but so far, you haven’t seen anyone that could be from the west. After all, you’re looking for what you believe to be a white male, and the people coming in... aren’t that.

“I don’t think we’re gonna find him,” you say and slide down the wall you’re leaning against. “How are we supposed to know he’ll come here?”

“Because he likes to read,” says Advik, “and this is the biggest bookstore in Chennai.”

You roll your eyes. “What has that got to do with it? He probably won’t come here, he’ll go to one of the small ones that are way cozier.”

“Y/N, he speaks English, how many bookstores here sells English books?”

“Uhh, all of them?”

Advik purses his lips, but glances at the door again. To your lovely surprise, someone white does come in. A woman with long blonde hair and a pretty face. Behind her, a white man―probably not who you’re looking for though―with more ginger hair. It curls at the ends, slicked back behind his ears and a little messy, but it goes great with the beard he’s sporting.

“Can it be him?” Advik arches a brow and looks at you.

You shake your head. “Probably not, he’s way too hot to be my soulmate.”

Advik chuckles. “Nah, he’s definitely within your league. Maybe check somehow?”

Answering that with a resounding ‘no’ doesn’t work because Advik grabs your wrist and drags you with him to a shelf near the two white people. You’re certain they’re a couple, as it seems unlikely to think anything else. Though they’re not as handsy at the couples you’ve seen on TV in most American shows.

You act as if you’re browsing―which you end up doing―and glance at the male every now and then. The book you pull out has an interesting title, but other than that you don’t really read what it’s about.

“Tom,” the woman says, voice low but not low enough for you not to hear it. “Do you really think this is the place?” Her accent is British, and how the male’s name starts with a T has you glance down at your wrist.

Advik wiggles his brows your way, nodding a little in the direction of the male. It works, he mouths. You roll your eyes, but still glance the stranger’s way. If it is him, you have to admit that’s not something you’re opposed to.

“What better place? A bookstore is the perfect―”

Whatever the end of the sentence is, you don’t get it as he speaks too low. His accent is British, which works well with the soothing deep tone of his voice, which again does have an effect on the feelings flowing through your veins.

You swallow the lump in your throat. The side-eyeing of him seems to go unnoticed, however, still scared of getting caught, you turn your caze back to Advik.

But your coworker isn’t where he was moments before. No, he’s… your gaze lands on him a meter away. The man is stumbling onto the male―Tom―with a book. Wide-eyed you go to him and decide to help. Which doesn’t work and instead you eye a clumsy mess together with the woman Tom’s with.

“Boys, huh?” she asks, rolling her eyes.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say. “That was on purpose, too.” Immediately after saying the words, you want to hide.

The woman smiles. “Oh, so a friend of yours then?”

“You can say that. Only I didn’t know he was going to do that.” You shake your head, eyes on the two men who both laugh awkwardly at each other.

“No, why did he do it?”

“He believes the guy is my soulmate.” You’re surprised at how casual it comes out.

Something lights up in the woman’s face. “Well, let’s find out then? I’m Sarah, by the way. His sister.” She holds out a hand, and you take it.

“Y/N,” you reply. “But I don’t understand how we’re supposed to find out.”

Sarah shrugs and takes your left hand in hers. She twists it to see your wrist. The T isn’t covered up today, and you’re almost relieved it isn’t. “That’s something, right? You know, he only has the initial, too. Maybe he is your soulmate?”

You nod. The prospect of being so close to figuring it out is overwhelming. It tugs at your gut, in a good and bad way. What if it turns out to be nothing like you want? Or to be completely awful? Or what if it’s everything you want? What if it actually brightens your days? And it will stop the nagging from your parents...

“Okay, how do we check?” you ask.

Sarah smiles. “You have to talk, and touch. The touch is important.”

“Have you met your soulmate?” you ask.

“Yeah,” she says and her smile brightens, “it’s worth everything.”

You mirror her smile and let out a deep breath. “Then let’s try this.”

Sarah waves her brother over to you, who seems deep in conversation with Advik. The two men walk over, and the glance over Tom gives you stirs something in your stomach. You press your lips together, and swallow. Only your throat stays dry.

God, is this really how I’m supposed to feel?

Sarah smiles. “Tom, this is Y/N.”

You extend a hand for him to shake, and he takes it in a firm grip that shoots electricity up your arm. She was right about the touch. But she hadn’t warned you about those ocean eyes that rip your soul out and tug at your heart.

“Hi,” you say, voice soft. You bite down on your bottom lip, afraid you’re gonna let something slip. And remembering you’re still holding his hand, you let go. The absence feels wrong, and that alone seems like all the answers you need.

He smiles at you. “Hi.”

“It’s official,” says Advik, “you are most definitely soulmates.”

Sarah nods in agreement.

You just shake your head with an embarrassed smile. “I guess? Wanna go on a date?” where did this confidence come from?

“I would love to.” Your heart flips, does that one-two beat.

So long, the nagging and rumours had scared you. Now that you’ve met your soulmate, you know it was worth the wait.

permanent: @devilbat @adefectivedetective @gamillian

tom: @inlovewith3 @bookgirlunicorn @mindlesschicca @justawriterinprogress @wolfsmom1 @loser-alert

bold in the taglist are people tumblr wont let me mention

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #twh #thomas william hiddleston #reader insert #soulmate au #tom hiddleston soulmate au #indian reader #sarah hiddleston

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sophieakatz · 4 years

Text

Thursday Thoughts: Writing Advice (Part 3 of 3)

And here is the final part!

I recently stumbled across this writer ask meme about pieces of writing advice, and I was having so much fun thinking about it that I decided to just respond to them all!

33. Embrace structure

Yes, yes, yes. Embrace structure. This is not the same thing as being limited by structure. It’s easy to mistake the two.

I spoke before about the importance of familiarity. People enjoy and respond to familiar structures. “Once upon a time” and “happily ever after” are still common phrases for a reason. They work. They’re familiar. People like them. Structure means that you don’t have to reinvent the wheel.

I also spoke before about leaning into the limitations of a medium. Having a structure to follow gives you something to lean on, while at the same time it forces you to be creative! Structure is yet another example of rules to learn so that you can know when to break them.

34. Dialogue should be purposeful

I like this rule, but I think it’s easily misunderstood.

When people hear “purposeful,” they think “plot important.” So, they end up writing something in which everyone says exactly what they mean all the time, with perfect bluntness.

But people don’t always talk like that. People beat around the bush. People make jokes. People run out of things to say and point out funny-shaped cracks in the sidewalk.

A line of dialogue can have purpose other than furthering the plot. It can set the mood. It can establish a character as a bit scatterbrained. It can demonstrate that two characters are not comfortable or open with each other. (“How are you?” “Fine. You?” “Fine.” “Right.”) It can give your audience a break from the tension.

Write with purpose, yes, but don’t feel obligated for every word to be “purposeful.”

35. Be empathetic

Empathy is at the heart of storytelling. Through writing, you can create an experience for your readers which did not actually happen to them, but it means as much to them as if it had. This can be an immensely powerful exercise in empathy.

Creating a character is another great exercise in empathy. Have you created a person for your readers to connect with, or a stereotype to drive marginalized readers away?

Your readers are people. Your fellow writers are people. Your characters are also people. Treat them all with empathy.

36. Never use a verb other than ‘said’ to tag dialogue

Only a Sith deals in absolutes.

Again, all words are tools, and all words have a purpose. “Said” is a perfectly nice word; don’t be afraid to use it. But other words can convey different things to the scene.

“What did you do?” she said. (Neutral – we know she’s curious, but that’s it.)

“What did you do?” she shouted. (Wow, okay, this person is upset about whatever happened.)

“What did you do?” she whispered. (Ooh, it must be a secret!)

“What did you do?” she muttered. (She may be asking reluctantly – probably rolling her eyes, too.)

Use whatever word conveys what you need the moment to convey.

37. Do not start a sentence with a conjunction

Conjunctions are tools. Use them wisely.

Consider the medium, the audience, and the pacing. And then decide whether to start a sentence with a conjunction.

See, I just did so there – “and” is a conjunction. It works very well for the kind of train of thought writing I use in these blog posts. In more formal writing, you will want to avoid starting sentences with conjunctions.

But starting with a conjunction (oops, I did it again) is a good way to put your readers right into a character’s mind, to speed things up and make things feel urgent.

Learn the rules of grammar, and then you will know how and when you can break them.

38. A new speaker always gets a new paragraph

According to most structures, yes. Are there contexts in which you might break this rule? Sure.

But keep in mind that people expect new paragraphs for clarity. If you’re going to break a rule, break it with purpose, not just ‘cause you wanna.

39. If there’s a story you want to read but it hasn’t been written yet, you must write it

“Must,” huh? I don’t like the word “must,” as much as I like the general sentiment here.

A lot of what I write are stories which I wish I had had when I was little. This is especially true when I write about asexuality. I wish it hadn’t taken me until college to learn that it was an option. All I needed was one explicitly ace character.

Practically speaking, though, I’m not only writing these stories for my past self. I’m writing for other people.

When I write fanfiction about characters figuring out that they are asexual, readers leave comments thanking me for it – because they needed the story as much as my past self did.

I don’t see the point of telling people that they “must” write the stories they want to read, because not everyone is a writer. More people are readers than writers. And these readers absolutely have a right to get up and say, “I want more stories about people like me!”

40. The ending is just the place where you stop your story

Yes and no. The ending is where things resolve. You might have multiple options, but one will be better than the others, depending on the experience you want your readers to have.

41. The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read

No, I don’t think so.

I mean, if it helps you to pretend like you’re never going to show someone your writing, then you might feel freer to be honest in your writing.

But writing is meant to be read, and true things are meant to be heard.

42. Write your first draft by hand

Dictating what kind of writing utensils people should use, and when, is the road to ableism paved with good intentions. I consider a computer keyboard a writing utensil.

Use the tool that works for you. If it isn’t working, change it up. Sometimes switching between pen and pencil, or between pencil and keyboard, can shake yourself out of a writing block.

43. Challenge yourself

If you want to improve? Yes.

44. Everyone has a book in them

I think everyone has a story worth telling. I don’t think that literally everyone will write a book. But everyone has a story and a way to tell it.

45. Dialogue should be rhythmic and 46. Dialogue should be natural

I’m gonna answer these two together because, once again, we’re using absolutes where there are two perfectly valid options with different purposes.

What kind of effect are you trying to create? Are you going for realism or poetry? Do what fits the work! Do what fits the scene!

There are rules to writing, yes, but they are rarely cut and dry. That’s the note I want to end on here – different writing advice is valuable for different moments of writing. It’s okay to pick and choose which rules you listen to, and to change your mind later.

And sometimes two pieces of advice that sound like they conflict – like this distinction between rhythmic and natural dialogue – are actually not that different. Rhythmic dialogue and natural dialogue can be one and the same.

If you take a class on Shakespeare plays, the most common rhythm you’ll talk about is iambic pentameter. “Pentameter” just means that there are five beats in a line. “Iambic” is what kinds of beats we’re talking about. An iambic beat has a soft syllable and a hard syllable – it’s all in where we put emphasis in our words.

My name – Sophie – is not an iambic word, because you put the hard syllable first: SO-phie. But the sentence “My name is Sophie Katz” is iambic – “my NAME is SO-phie KATZ.”

For the sake of the screen readers, I won’t keep typing like that. Here are a couple more examples of iambic sentences:

In Romeo and Juliet: “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?”

In an acting warmup I learned once: “Around the rock the ragged rascal ran.”

These sentences are rhythmic. But they are also natural, and that’s why we like to hear them. Now, where do you find a rhythm like this in nature?

Put your hand on your chest and wait a bit.

What could be more natural than your own heartbeat?

#writing advice #writing #advice #shakespeare #iambic #endings #truth #first drafts #thursday thoughts #listicles #conjunctions #said #word choice #empathy #dialogue #structure

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companionjones · 5 years

Text

Friends Made Along The Way

Requested by: @damedevon

Request: This is the second request in case you don't want to do the first one :) NCIS universe: Reader, genius level IQ that is a talented artist (painting, sculpting, all the things) is brought in to consult on a case. (S)he meets Spencer and they hit it off, talking about cultured literature and time period specific art and history.

Fandoms: NCIS, Criminal Minds

Pairings: Spencer Reid x NCISAgent!Reader, Platonic!BAU Team x NCISAgent!Reader, Platonic!NCIS Team x NCISAgent!Reader, Specifically Platonic!Gibbs x NCISAgent!Reader

Warnings: Extreme descriptions of blood and gore

Author’s Note: This takes place around season 5 for both NCIS and Criminal Minds. Idk if that lines up chronologically, sorry if it doesn’t.

*******

“We got a case,” informed Gibbs as he headed to his desk for his gun and badge.

Yourself and the rest of your team moved to gather your individual things and meet in the elevator.

Gibbs gave more details about the case. “A former marine was found dead outside a Cheesy Cheese.”

Timothy McGee asked, awkwardly, “Uh, Boss? Don’t you mean Chuck E. Cheese?”

“Does it look like I know the difference, McGee?” Gibbs returned.

The younger agent was clearly uncomfortable. “No, Boss. It’s just...I didn’t--”

Ziva’s voice was as sly as ever. “It’s best to stop now, McGee.”

As you headed out of the bull-pen, you opened your mouth to say something.

DiNozzo cut you off instead. “L/n, I swear to God, if you make one more Shakespeare reference today, Ziva’s driving to the crime scene.”

“Tony,” you rolled your eyes, “How could I possibly make a reference to the Bard from this?”

All DiNozzo had to do was give you a look.

“Fine, I’ll shut up,” you sighed, exiting your team’s area.

Abruptly, Gibbs turned and stopped you. “Not you.”

“What?” You were shocked.

Gibbs gruffly explained, “Fornell called. Apparently, a friend of his wants you on his case. It’s ten miles out.”

Forgetting your usual respect for your superior, you groaned.

Again, all it took was a look.

“Yes, sir,” you childishly agreed.

***

“Excuse me, Agent Aaron Hotchner?” I’m Agent Y/n L/n, from NCIS.” You stuck your hand out when the man confirmed his name.

He took your offer, and shook your hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.” The senior FBI agent spent the following few minutes explaining the details of the case to you.

So far, three murders had been committed. The odd thing about the murders was that the killer was recreating paintings by an artist from the 1800s by posing the victims how the muses were posed in certain paintings. You had read about the strange murders in the paper.

“Gustave Courbet,” you named the original artist. “I realized that after the first murder. I didn’t think it was going to take you guys this long to figure it out.”

Hotchner knew not to take your words personally. “That’s why we called you in. We need an expert on Courbet on this case.” He noticed an agent from his team walking up to where the two of you were in the living room of the apartment/crime scene. “This is Dr. Reid. He’s the one on our team who recognized the pattern in the first place.”

The younger man greeted you by giving you his first name. “Spencer.” He then admitted, “I don't shake hands.”

“Oh, okay. Call me Y/n,” you politely offered.

Another agent was making his way to the three of you. Two female agents and an older male agent were trailing behind him.

The darker-skinned agent smiled. “We’re very proud of our Dr. Reid, here. Kid has an IQ of 187.”

“You’ve got me beat, then,” you admitted, turning back to Dr. Reid. “My score is 186.”

Everyone seemed pretty blown away by that. You could tell it was rare that the team came across anyone that was as smart as their resident genius.

You never liked the term ‘genius,’ especially when it was used on you. On the contrary, you mostly kept your skills under the radar. Except for a few literary references here and there, you rarely talked about your smarts. Actually, you never really got the chance to.

The rest of the agents on the team introduced themselves, and Hotch explained, “We’re the BAU at the FBI. It stands for--”

“Behavioral Analysis Unit. I know. But here’s an acronym you guys probably don’t know-NCIS. It’s where I work.”

Hotch obviously knew what it meant. He was the one who called you in. You got a marine vibe from Rossi, so he probably knew, too. They weren’t the kind of men to just blurt out the answer, however. The rest of the team seemed to be having trouble with the acronym.

Spencer was different. “Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” he said almost immediately.

“Good! It’s rare someone just knows that. I’m assuming you don’t have any prior connections...Maybe you do know what you’re talking about.”

You noticed a prolonged look Agent Morgan gave Spencer. Spencer furrowed his eyebrows, and moved his gaze elsewhere. You didn’t understand the exchange.

Hotchner began, “Okay,. Now that introductions are out of the way, we were hoping you could take a look at this crime scene.”

Two minutes later, you were two inches away from a body. The poor woman was a hunched over in a chair. She was a brunette, and looked to weigh about 200 pounds. Like the other victims, she was dressed in middle class mid-1800s clothing. The chair she was in was next to a spindle. She had some raw wool wrapped around a distaff sitting on her lap. You swallowed hard when the thought crossed your mind that it almost seemed like she was sleeping.

Agent Jareau (she preferred the nickname JJ) informed you, “She was found early this morning by a mother and daughter returning from a trip. This apartment is theirs. They don’t own a spinning wheel.”

Rossi continued, “We got a positive I.D., her name is Suzanne Welling. No relation to the family that live here.”

“I hope the daughter is young. There’s more of a chance of her forgetting this tragedy when she gets older,” you quickly added that last part when you realized how harsh you sounded. You never broke your studying of the remains.

JJ confirmed, “The girl’s 4 years old.” It was a tone you could tell clearly was a mother’s. You wondered how many kids she had. You also hoped your words weren’t too harsh.

“The painting this is based on is The Sleeping Spinner, painted in 1853. It looks like he’s going in chronological order.” You dragged your index finger over your bottom lip. It was a thinking habit you had.

Emily Prentiss, the other female agent on the team, inquired, “Why do you think he’s male?”

“The first painting--er...murder.” You straightened up onto your feet. “The Wounded Man, originally painted in 1844. It’s a self-portrait. A lot of Courbet’s early works were. The killer sees himself as Courbet. The first muse--victim probably looks like the murderer.”

A new voice entered the room. “Unsub.” It was Spencer. “Unknown suspect. We call our suspects unsubs. You can, too...if you want to.”

“...Unsub.” You smiled slightly while you tested out the name for Spencer.

He expressed the same sentiment to you.

The rest of the day was spent working the case. It was explained to you that the team would usually split up with some of them heading to the local police department when first arriving for an assignment. It was just how things worked out in that particular instance that the whole team went straight to the crime scene.

Soon enough, you found out Spencer was the agent who spent most of his time in the local police stations. You were the agent who spent most of your time with Spencer.

“What’re you up to, Agent Reid?” you asked with a somewhat playful tone.

He had been pinning a map to the board you and the BAU team had borrowed for the case. He started marking it up. “I’m making a geological profile of the area. We usually see if the locations of the crime scenes give us any clues to where the unsub is living or where he might kill next.”

“At NCIS, we do the same thing to see if we can find out where the killer lives--”

Spencer distractedly corrected you, “Unsub.”

“Unsub. But we don’t really have cases where we have to predict where the unsub may strike next.”

The young FBI agent reasoned, “It’s crazy, but you get used to it. Soon, it’s just another part of life.”

“I don’t think I would want to get used to this kind of stuff.” You couldn’t help your mind from drifting to the deceivingly peaceful form you had observed earlier that day.

For a moment, Spencer stopped his efficient actions. He was thinking. “... ‘Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me. The Carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.’ Emily Dickinson.”

“She looked at death like it was such a peaceful thing. Like it was a new beginning.” Your tone was more bittersweet than you had ever heard it sound.

He turned toward you. Spencer headed for a seat next to yours at the conference room table. “Maybe that’s what it is: just another part of life.”

“We investigate death everyday...but we never talk about what comes after.”

The young man smirked slightly, “They obsessed over it enough in the 1800s. Is there even a need to think too much about it anymore?”

Surprisingly, that got you to laugh. You and Spencer Reid sat there in the conference room, laughing about your elders’ morbid curiosities.

***

“Happy Monday,” you greeted as you descended the stairs into the basement.

Gibbs looked up from his fifth boat-in-progress. “Happy Monday, L/n.”

Similar to everyone else on the team, Gibbs had a unique relationship with you. You hadn’t known Gibbs as long as he’d known Ducky, but the two of you were very close. However, you didn’t think you’d ever be as important to him as Abby.

Anyway, you and Gibbs had a standing arrangement for dinner every Monday night. It was never anything fancy, nothing with Gibbs ever was. Dinner with the senior agent usually consisted of two orders of Chinese food in his basement.

“Making slow progress with this one, aren’t you?” you questioned, referring to Gibbs’ latest woodwork.

He responded, “Doesn’t matter how long it takes, as long as it’s done right.”

“Yes, sir,” you chuckled. You pulled out the meals while Gibbs set up a makeshift table and chairs.

About ten minutes later, your boss interrupted what you though was your usual, comfortable silence. “You seem preoccupied.”

“I am,” you admitted, “It’s the FBI case.”

He looked you over, then went back to eating. Then, Gibbs easily stated, “It’s not just that.”

You stared at him hard, trying to come up with something else to say besides the truth. You sighed and repeated him, “It’s not just that, but this isn’t your area of expertise.”

Once more, all it took was a look.

“It’s a guy, Gibbs. A cute, kind, and smart guy.” You met his gaze because you expected that that would be enough for him to back off.

Jarringly (for you, anyway), Gibbs didn’t give up. He continued to stare is Gibbs stare right into your soul.

“Agent Spencer Reid,” you gave in, revealing the boy’s name. “Has a higher IQ than me...Eh, he has 187. I have--”

He gave your score for you, “186.”

“So, it doesn’t really count.”

Gibbs chuckled, then agreed, “No, it doesn’t.”

After about an hour, dinner was done. You headed home, but not before mulling over the fact that you had just talked romance with Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Maybe you were closer with him than you had previously thought.

***

The next morning, you were woken up at 5 A.M. with a phone call from Hotch. At first, you were concerned as to why you weren't notified earlier. You launched out of bed and began to quickly get dressed. Hotch grew hesitant. He didn't seem to want you to go to the crime scene. You didn’t know why. You insisted that you were a federal agent just as he was, and that you had every right to be at any crime scene that had to do with a case you were legally working.

On your way to where the BAU was, you continued to think about the team. They apparently took you in as one of their own after just one day of working with you. It reminded you of your connections with your almost-family at NCIS. You didn’t mind it, and you were actually warming up to the idea. The only thing you had a problem with was when it interfered with your job. Hotch did that when he tried to keep you from a crime scene. You knew he was trying to protect you, but you were wondering from what.

The newest crime scene was an abandoned warehouse. Spencer was standing outside, on the phone with someone as you pulled up. When you got out of your car, he handed the phone to Agent Morgan.

Morgan smiled to himself as he walked away. “Baby, how you always bring such beautiful light in this world is beyond me...Love you, sweetheart.”

“Who was that on the phone?” you inquired.

Spencer answered, “Penelope Garcia...Our technical analyst.”

“Co-workers are allowed to date each other on your side?”

That last question made him smile. “Nope. And they’re not dating.”

“...Huh.”

“Huh indeed.”

Sighing, you then cracked your neck. “Alright. In we go.” You brushed around Spencer and headed toward the entrance of the warehouse.

You were surprised when Spencer took hold of your shoulders and stepped back in front of you.

He seemed as concerned as Hotchner, if not more. “Listen, Y/n. Remember that conversation we had yesterday? You said that you didn’t think you ever wanted to get used to the death that we see. Y/n, there’s a lot of death in there.”

“No one in this hemisphere can tell you what the unsub is aiming for in there besides me. If we catch this guy, it’ll save everyone from more death than what could be in there.”

Still, Spencer didn’t let you go.

“...Please, Spencer.”

The boy gave you a look that reminded you of a puppy. He stepped aside.

A few steps later, you were inside. Turns out, a few steps were all you could take. Fifteen people. Three of them were children. It was a long time before you were able to breathe again.

When you did take a breath, JJ and Emily were at your side. Not that you were complaining. You would need someone to steady you if your knees buckled.

Hotch came up to the three of you. “This is why I didn’t want you coming here, L/n.”

“...I’ve never seen a massacre like this...” You still weren’t sure you could remain on your feet.

Rossi approached. “Do you need to leave for a second?”

“The Preparation of a Dead Girl...and/or Wife...all the public knows is that it was released sometime in the 1850s,” you slowly breathed out the words after you swallowed. With your knees shaking, you made your way closer to the scene. “He put rods in them to pose them correctly compared to the painting...They were still alive when he put the rods in place.”

It was hard for you to understand how, but you made it through the rest of the day. Everyone in the BAU could obviously tell you continued to be affected by the most recent crime scene, and you hated that they were all walking on eggshells around you. The bottom line was that you didn’t let it affect your job, and you didn’t see why everyone was treating you differently. Okay, maybe you did see why. It was the same reason why Gibbs let Abby ramble on about the little things sometimes. Family. You were already part of the BAU’s family.

***

Later that night, you were back home. Your apartment was small, but you didn’t mind. You still found a way to fit all the books and art supplies you wanted in your home.

There was a knock at your door.

“Hiya, Spencer,” you softly greeted. You left your door open for him to enter through. You returned to your seat at your pottery wheel. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep working on this while you’re here. It centers me.” You got quieter. “...It calms me down.”

For a moment, Spencer was silent. “How long have you been in the field?” His question was gentle, unaccusing.

“Do people get annoyed when you profile them in social situations, Dr. Reid?” Your tone didn’t hold any malice, either.

He smirked, “All the time.”

It was your turn to be silent as you resolved to answer Spencer’s question. “Gibbs and I first met when he and his team were working a case at the University I taught at. He came to see me for some time after that. Most of the time it was to use my intellect on other cases he was working...I’m quite proud to say I was one of the few friends he had outside of the agency. Well, until I joined the agency.” You paused as you chuckled. “He recruited me back in ‘03, and I’ve been with the team ever since.”

Spencer waited. He could tell you weren’t finished.

“Only...,” you sighed, accepting that you couldn’t hide the following fact from him. “I’ve only been allowed at crime scenes for about a year or so. Gibbs is fiercely protective of me, and it took me years to get him to let me into the field...Man, I hope he doesn’t find out I acted today. He would never let me see a dead body again...not even in Ducky’s autopsy.” You said that last part more to yourself.

He smiled at you from his chair. “I think you acted perfectly fine today, Y/n.”

“Betcha Agent Rossi didn’t think so,” you chuckled, “He was read to dodge my vomit when I showed up today.” You stopped talking for a moment when your mind jumped back to the bloody warehouse. “...Your team doesn’t think I’m fit to be in the field.”

Spencer almost matter-of-factly stated, “They don’t think that.”

“Well, what do they think?” The vase you had been working on was thrown off balance on the pottery wheel. You set to work fixing it.

The male agent never moved his eyes from you. “They care about you, Y/n...I do, too.”

You were thankful you had your craft to focus on, it helped you hide your smile. “I know that, Spencer...I know that.”

Spencer stayed for the next few hours. Nothing physical happened. You eventually put away your pottery and broke out some wine. The two of you spent the night talking about arts, literature, and maybe other things that the two of you needed to discuss.

***

The following day, you made it to the local police station by 7 A.M. You first stop was the conference room where Spencer was already studying the map as closely as the last time the two of you had been in that room.

“Did you even sleep last night?” You inquired as you set your things down in one of the chairs.

As expected, Spencer barely glanced in your direction as you found a seat for yourself. He was already too immersed in his work. “I actually kind of slept in today...I have you and Walt Whitman to thank for that.” Surprising you, Spencer glanced over his shoulder and caught your gaze.

His inside joke got you to throw your head back in laughter. “Alright, Spencer. Here’s what I want you to do.” You hurled yourself out of your chair, and moved to stand next to the young agent. “I want you to explain this map to me. You don’t even have a key for it.”

Spencer shrugged, “It’s easy enough. These are parks, these are obviously areas of water, and this right here is a Chuck E. Cheese, so these marks mean places entertainment--”

“What?”

He pointed to a part of the map that was less than five blocks away from the second crime scene. “This mark right here is a Chuck E. Cheese. Which means--”

“No Spencer, you don’t understand. NCIS had a body at a Chuck E. Cheese. There can’t be too many of these in this area. This is very close to the second crime scene, but not close enough that it would make sense for the unsub to still be on foot. What if the unsub was walking home and the former marine saw the weapon? The unsub has used the same gun in every killing. He would have to take it home with him. The unsub could live in this area!” You drew a circle with your finger of a quarter mile radius around the second crime scene.

Spencer didn’t agree. “I don’t know, Y/n. All of this seems highly circumstantial. Couldn’t this all be a coincidence?”

“There are no such thing as coincidences,” you shook your head.

It was enough to get Gibbs and the rest of the team to work with the BAU on the case. Within the hour, most of your NCIS family were present in the local police department.

Hotch greeted Gibbs with a handshake. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Gibbs. I wish it could be under better circumstances.”

Gibbs nodded, “The feeling is mutual, Agent Hotchner.”

“Your Agent Y/n has proven to be very impressive.”

There was a blink-and-you-miss-it twitch of the lips for Gibbs. For half of a moment, he smiled. “That’s why I recruited them.”

Meanwhile, you were still in the conference room with Spencer. Tony, Ziva, and McGee had joined the two of you. You were explaining the details of he case to your three coworkers.

As usual, Tony got off topic as soon as he could. “So, Agent Reid” Tony was nose to nose with the uncomfortable FBI agent, “you’re just a hybrid of McGeek and L/n, aren’t you?” He sniffed the air. “I think I smell a bit of Palmer on you as well.”

Spencer looked anywhere but Tony. “I don’t know who Palmer is.”

“He’s our medical examiner’s assistant, Spencer,” you clarified, “Tony, what the hell are you doing?”

Ziva tried to help you out. “Leave the poor kid alone.”

Suddenly, Gibbs entered the room with Hotch. The rest of the BAU were behind them. Before Tony noticed their presence, Gibbs was already behind the movie expert. Tony received a slap to the back of the head.

Gibbs leveled voice suggested, “Yeah, Tony. Leave Agent Reid alone.”

Tony grimaced, “Yes, sir.” As he moved to the conference room table, Tony passed by you. He whispered in your ear in his usual, quick way, “You’ll be the dominate one in the relationship.”

Naturally, you were mortified by his words. How had he figured out so quickly what was going on between you and Spencer? Was it really that obvious? Was it distracting from the case? You hoped it wasn’t. You glanced around. No one seemed to notice Tony’s exchange with you. Except for maybe Gibbs, whom you could’ve almost sworn that he’d shot a knowing smirk in your direction.

Hotch directed, “Agent L/n, could you tell everyone what you’ve put together?”

"NCIS’s victim was murdered less that five blocks away from the BAU’s second crime scene. Eleven of the fifteen victims in the fourth crime scene were taken from the same quarter mile radius.”

Emily Prentiss added, “All of our earlier victims were from all over the state. Do you think our unsub is devolving in that he can’t wait long enough to go too far to find his victims anymore?”

“Yes,” you agreed, “It would also explain how Colonel Wilfred, the victim from NCIS connects to the other murders without reflecting any of Courbet’s paintings.”

JJ, suddenly got a notification on her phone. “There’s been two more reports of missing individuals in the same area. Both were white women in their twenties...about 220 ponds...they look like our second and third victims.” She looked worriedly from her phone to you.

“The Hammock and The Sleeping Spinner...,” you whispered the second and third crimes to yourself in order. “...He could be going after Young Ladies on the Banks of Seine. It makes sense with his running chronological theme. The reason why they look so alike with the previous victims is because it was rumored Courbet used his sisters for a lot of his portraits. Out unsub might be trying to replicate the likeness in Gustave’s muses.”

Hotch directed, “Alright. We may have some time to save these two women. Spencer, stick with the geographical profiling. Rossi, Prentiss, canvass Jones Avenue through Tenth Boulevard. JJ, Morgan, take Damien Road through Johnson Street. I’ll stay here and run point.”

Gibbs instructed his own team, “Y/n, stay here and work with Reid. McGee, Tony: Dischem through Clark. Ziva, you and I will take Harren to Williams.”

With the whole police department, along with most of Gibbs and Hotch’s team canvassing, it was likely the unsub’s house would be found within the following few hours.

Meanwhile, you and Spencer were back in the nearly empty police station. The two of you were in separate conference room chairs, and you both were staring at that map. It had delivered an extremely helpful break in the case, but it seemed to have done all it could. Hotch was in another room with the police captain, so you and Spencer were left to your own devices.

That was, until a secretary came running into the conference room. “Help! We need help!”

Both you and Spencer launched out of your respective seats.

“What’s wrong?” Spencer asked, alarmed.

The secretary elaborated, “A girl called the tip line. She sounds terrified. She claims to be Samantha Hawford, one of--”

“the missing women,” both you and Spencer finished with the secretary.

“Connect us, please,” you requested as calmly as you could.

She silently nodded, and quickly left the room.

Seconds later, a line lit up on the phone in the conference room. It turned out to actually be Samantha. She was hysterical, but you eventually got her to calm down enough to communicate.

Earlier, she had stolen the unsub’s phone, and she was waiting for a safe time to call the tip line she had seen a lot on T.V.

While you encouraged Samantha to keep talking, Spencer called Garcia. She traced the phone call for the two of you.

A minute later, you knew where Samantha was. You were on your way out with Spencer when Hotch gave you his blessing to go. It was obvious neither you nor Spencer were going to wait for Hotchner’s agreement.

You and Spencer were able to get to Samantha's location in fifteen minutes. Which was good because five minutes into your journey, the unsub found Samantha and hung up the phone. You prayed the unsub kept her alive long enough for you and Spencer to get there.

When the two of you did arrive, the unsub was about to stab the other girl with the first metal rod when you and Spencer found them. He had both the girls tied up as he prepared to stab them with the metal rods and shoot them in the heart.

At first, Spencer tried to talk him down. It was obvious that it was going no where.

“I can make sure the world knows of your works of art,” you suddenly lied, surprising yourself. “People took pictures of your crime--masterpieces. They could be hung anywhere and everywhere. You could become even more famous than Corbet. But let me tell you: if you hurt these two girls, no one will ever know who you are. Not your name, and not your face.”

Chillingly, there was hope in the killer’s eyes. As you’d guessed, he looked a lot like Gustave Courbet himself. You could see why he wanted to use Courbet’s image to make himself famous.

Eventually, you got the killer to turn over his weapons, and turn himself in. You cuffed him yourself. By then, your team, the local police, and the BAU had arrived. You turned the killer over to the local P.D. The two girls were crying as they thanked you profusely for saving them. You tried to push their attention away from you. It didn’t work too well.

Once all the chaos was over, you were back at the police station, gathering your things.

Hotch addressed you, making you turn around. “Agent L/n.”

“Uh...Yes, sir?”

His whole team was with him. “We would like to thank you for your work on this case.”

Morgan complimented, “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” you reasoned, “I mean, you guys have Spencer. He probably would've figured things out just as fast as me.. Well, almost as fast as me.”

Spencer smiled in a way that was contagious. “Don’t try to brush this off, Y/n. You know how important you are.”

Hotch continued, “That’s actually what we wanted to talk to you about. You’ve shown promising capabilities as a profiler, and we want you to know that there’s a place for you on our team.”

“Wait. On your guys’ team? In the FBI?” You were nearly in shock. “I...I don’t know what to say.”

JJ offered, “Well, we would really like it if you agreed.”

“...I can’t. I’m sorry guys, but NCIS is my home. They’re my family there. I mean, honestly, in these past few days, you guys have kind become my family to, but I don’t think I could leave NCIS. At least not right now.”

For the first time, you saw Aaron Hotchner truly smile. “It’s alright. The job’s here for you whenever you want it.”

“Thank you.” You were sincerely grateful.

Thee rest of the team left, but Spencer hung back.

“You know,” you sweetly took his hand in yours, ”my not joining has nothing to do with you.”

He squeezed your hand in his. “I know, but it would’ve been nice to see you more often.”

“I guess we’re going to have to make it work as is,” you smirked.

Keeping his gaze on your intertwined hands, Spencer chuckled. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

Slowly, you leaned in to kiss the boy.

At first, Spencer kept his hand in yours. Then, he moved both arms around you, pulling you in close.

Your hands were o his chest, but you soon snaked them around his neck to get lost in his hair.

Okay, so you were beginning to regret your choice not to join the BAU just a little bit.

***

Before you went home that night, you went back to NCIS. Spencer had to go back to Quantico to get some paperwork done, so you couldn’t spend the night with him. You decided to go back to NCIS to do the same thing.

“Y/n! Y/n, Y/n, Y/n!” Right outside the elevator doors, a certain adorable forensic scientist was waiting for you.

Practically catching the incoming woman, you tried to keep her steady on her feet. “Hi, Abby! How’ve you been?”

She was almost vibrating with excitement. “I’m completely fine. It’s you I wanna know about! How were Fornell’s friends at the FBI? Were they mean? They treated you nicely, right?” Abby continued on with the onslaught of questions until you got to your desk.

When you sat down, you looked up to Abby as you searched your mind for a way to tell her you needed quiet right then.

Gibbs beat you to it. He had been sitting at his desk. You only noticed him when he gathered his few things to leave. He stopped by your desk and explained, “Abby, it’s late and they’re tired. Leave them alone.”

With a quick, slightly intimidated glance to Gibbs and a “Sorry, Y/n,” and wave to you, Abby was gone.

However, Gibbs stayed behind a bit longer to knowingly ask, “So, you didn’t take the job, huh?”

“No,” you tiredly smiled, “I’m staying right here, boss.”

It was then that Gibbs did something that he very rarely did. He returned a smile. “Good,” was his final statement before Gibbs left for the night.

***

In the end, you made sure the killer’s name was never released to the public. You didn’t want anything to be given to the distributed criminal mind. However, you knew that some name needed to be given to the person behind the painting-based murders. You just expected it to have something to do with Gustave Courbet himself. You didn’t expect the previously unknown subject to be called The Chuck E. Cheese Killer. The nickname ended a pizza franchise.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it! If you would like to read more, I have more fics over on my page. You should go check it out. Also, REQUESTS ARE OPEN. I take requests for one-shots, multi-chapters, headcannons, and preferences. No smut, please. I write for a variety of fandoms. If you’re wondering if I write for a specific fandom, please ask me. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you.<3

*******

(Behind the scenes stuff)

Proofreader: @girl-of-many-faces

Crime scene #1 here

Crime scene #2 here

Crime scene #3 here

Crime scene #4 here

What would’ve been crime scene #5 here

#ncis #ncis x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #gibbs x reader #hotch x reader #friends made along the way #companion jones #Matthew Gray Gubler #mark harmon

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melodiouswhite · 5 years

Text

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde rewritten - Ch. 24

24. A rendezvous with a mad scientist

Jekyll could have danced all the way home.

Which was stupid, but he couldn't help himself.

After days of consideration, inner struggle and Hyde yelling at him to “JUST POP THE QUESTION ALREADY!!!”, he had finally worked up the courage to ask Utterson on a date. Just a trip to the theatre, nothing special, then dinner maybe.

And the lawyer had said yes!!!

Oh, the Doctor felt like he was walking on air!

Of course dancing in the middle of the street in broad daylight was ungentlemanly and he had a reputation to uphold. But he was just way too happy to keep it all in.

A flower girl profited from his good mood, when he bought all of her flowers.

He laughed at the way she gaped at the ten Pounds in her hand, as if they were the most magnificent thing she had seen in her entire life. Although, they probably were.

“For yer wife, Sir?”, the girl asked curiously, after a few seconds.

Jekyll smiled and shook his head. “No, I'm not married. These are to beautify my home.”

The flower girl grinned toothily. Her teeth were quite yellow, but there was life in her grin. That was the grin of someone who lived in misery, but still had hopes and dreams.

“Oh, but yer in love, right? I can tell!”, she laughed.

He chuckled and gave in. “Well, women have an eye for these things, don't they?”

The doctor took the flowers he had just purchased and cradled them in his arms.

“But don't tell anyone, young lady”, he added good-humouredly, “It's unbecoming for a gentleman at my age to-”

“One is never too old for love!”, the flower girl laughed merrily, “God bless you, Sir! And lots of luck to you!”

“Good luck to you too”, Jekyll replied and continued his way home.

“I can't believe you spent ten Pounds on an armful of roses!”, Hyde complained as soon as Jekyll was in his private rooms. “Ten Pounds! And look at these things! They're all together worth a few Shillings at best!”

Jekyll's mouth twitched upward. “My dear Edward, if I remember correctly, a certain mishap on your part cost me a hundred Pounds. So don't complain, if I use my money for something good. Besides, my home could use some decoration, don't you agree?”

Hyde groaned: “Are you rubbing this in my face again? I thought we agreed to never speak of this again!”

“And I thought we agreed to never speak of my personal spendings, Edward Hyde. You're in no position to complain to me about it, young man, you live on my wealth”, Jekyll retorted and sat behind his desk. There was work to do.

Hyde grumbled something under his breath.

Jekyll looked up to the mirror next to him. “Now, there is no need for that kind of language.”

“Yes, there is”, the brunette in the mirror grumbled, “It makes me feel better.”

“What's agitating you anyways? And don't tell me it's the flowers and the money I spent on them, you've been like this all week.”

“Well, if you have to know!”, Hyde cried in frustration and exited the mirror to sit on his creator's desk. “First I was frustrated at how fucking long it took you to ask him out! Secondly, I really hate your lovey-dovey behaviour! I mean look at you! Swooning over your lawyer like a fifteen-year-old girl! If you have to be in love, can't you be a little less corny?!”

The blond put his pen down and frowned at the younger man. “As a matter of fact, no. Hyde, what is your real problem? My love for Gabriel never bothered you before.”

Hyde just huffed and looked away.

But it wasn't quick enough for Jekyll not to notice the look in his eyes.

The blond knew his alter ego – just like Hyde knew him – and he would have recognised that expression anywhere.

“What's so funny?”, Hyde snapped, when Jekyll chuckled quietly.

The doctor smiled at him. “I just find it amusing how you pretend not to give a damn, despite how obvious your jealousy is. You're such a brat.”

He put as much fondness in his words as possible, to get his point across.

When Hyde turned back to him, his bilious green eyes full of mirth, it was clear that he had.

“And you're a hypocritical, sentimental, old fool”, the young man retorted.

Jekyll laughed merrily: “Yes, I can't deny that I am.”

Utterson was nervous.

He had arrived at their meeting point early and the longer he was waiting, the more antsy he became. It was still another two minutes and the lawyer prayed desperately, that Jekyll wouldn't be late. The blond wasn't the type of man to be late, but Lanyon had told him about all the times Jekyll had been late to their dates or forgot them entirely. Mostly because he had been experimenting.

Oh my god, what if Henry forgot that we were supposed to-?

Before he could end that thought, the subject of his concerns came around the corner.

Oh thank God!

Jekyll looked around, saw him and approached him with hurried steps.

“Hello, Utterson”, he greeted him breathlessly, “I'm sorry for being late, I-”

“You're not late”, Utterson informed him, “You're on time. And hello to you too, Jekyll. Looking dashing, old chap.”

How he hated saying 'old chap', but they were in public and had to keep up appearances.

The Doctor was wearing a black tailor-fit fur coat with a blueish hue, a purple silk scarf, black leather gloves, his best top hat and winter boots.

Jekyll blushed lightly. “You think so? I didn't even know I still had that coat and scarf. But I found them again and since this is a special occasion I thought I might as well try them on again. You're looking quite dashing yourself, if I may say so.”

The lawyer laughed. “You're jesting!”

“No, I'm serious!”

The black-haired man was wearing a black wool coat and top hat. To that a lavender scarf and white velvet gloves.

“You look handsome”, Jekyll whispered, before saying more loudly: “Let's go. They're performing Shakespeare's 'The Tempest' tonight and I remember that this is one of your favourites! I reserved us one of the boxes, so we will have a bit of privacy, while having a good view at the same time.”

Utterson beamed at the other.

The performance was perfect.

The actors did an amazing job, the atmosphere was splendid and the effects were stunning.

And of course it helped that they had an entire box for themselves.

Jekyll couldn't help but tear his attention away from the play from time to time. Watching Utterson watch the play was almost equally interesting.

The usually aloof lawyer got completely caught up in the atmosphere. He laughed during the funny scenes, discreetly expressed his antipathy towards the villainous characters and on occasion told Jekyll what would happen next.

Which wasn't necessary.

But the Doctor suspected, that this was just how it was, when someone liked a story very much. He took it with a fond smile and pretended that he didn't already know the play as well as his love did.

Utterson was so enraptured by the performance, that Jekyll didn't bother to try to begin a conversation (which was why he had reserved a box for them in the first place).

But it was okay. At least he could look (stare) at the black-haired man without anyone noticing.

He's too handsome for his own good …

“Seriously?”, Hyde's voice piped up, “There is nothing physically remarkable about him! Well, except for his eyes, when he smiles – maybe.”

Oh shut up, Jekyll scoffed mentally, I distinctly remember, that his eyes captivated you enough that you decided, that their colour is your favourite one.

“Just do me a favour and watch the play!”, Hyde grumbled, “I can't assume my shadowy form here, so I need to see through your eyes! And because you're staring at him all the time, I'm currently bored as hell!”

Jekyll grinned, but complied. After all, Hyde had never been to the theatre in his existence and he had behaved nicely as of late. Well, nicely by Hyde's standards.

In the darkness of the theatre, Utterson hadn't been able to make out, what Jekyll was wearing under his coat. But here in the restaurant, it was light enough for him to see that he was wearing an adorned, indigo waistcoat over a white shirt and-

“Don't. Say. A word”, Jekyll warned, when he noticed the lawyer smirking at his bow tie. It was the purple one Lanyon had given him for Christmas.

But Utterson couldn't help but remark: “Lanyon will be so delighted.”

“Not if he doesn't find out”, the blond grumbled, making the black-haired man laugh.

Oh, I will definitely tell him!, he thought gleefully.

He himself was wearing a lavender waistcoat and tie to a white shirt and blushed, when the blond complimented his attire again.

The restaurant was fancy, but not too much, which Utterson was grateful for. Jekyll had chosen well, here he didn't feel as underdressed as in the clubs where Jekyll liked to dine.

The Doctor was much richer than he himself was, as was Lanyon. Not to mention how insanely wealthy Lady Summers was. Sometimes the lawyer couldn't help but feel like he was the odd one out. Like a lowly commoner among bourgeoisie and aristocracy. It was a good thing that the three weren't as arrogant as most people of their class.

“Gabriel.”

Utterson blinked. “Yes?”

Jekyll was frowning at him. “You're moping again. Thinking about how you're so inferior to me, Lanyon and Lady Summers, because we're much richer, aren't you?”

The lawyer blushed awkwardly.

“I take that as a yes. Well, stop it. It's not true and you know it. I resent that classist thinking and I wish you wouldn't feel that way. You have no idea just how much of a gift you are.”

He blushed harder. “Oh hush, Henry.”

“Nay.”

Jekyll looked around to see if anyone could hear them.

Then he continued, more quietly: “Do you think I would love you, if I looked down on you? I'm pretty certain I wouldn't. Because in that case I would be blind to what a wonderful person you really are.”

“Sh-shut up!”, Utterson begged. If the other went on, he would die from embarrassment!

The Doctor chuckled. “Don't worry, I've said my say now. I won't embarrass you any further. I just meant to make a point.”

Utterson smiled weakly.

Now that they knew each other's secrets and feelings, Jekyll was smothering him with affection. It was almost too much to handle for the reserved lawyer. And it made him concerned. The Doctor was intensive and careless in the way he loved.

So how would Hyde – Jekyll's flaws and desires incarnate – act, if he grew attracted to him? His backhanded compliments and underhand remarks were creepy enough already. Utterson really didn't want to imagine, what that madman's definition of courting would be.

Enough, the lawyer admonished himself. Today is for Jekyll. I can continue to worry about Hyde tomorrow.

They finished their dinner, paid and left the restaurant.

Utterson accompanied Jekyll back home, much to the latter's delight.

Jekyll chose to enter his house from the backyard, where Hyde usually came and went. He was hoping that Utterson would come inside with him. But he was disappointed quickly, when the lawyer refused.

“It was a wonderful day and the offer is tempting. But I'm tired, Harry”, the black-haired man told him quietly. And he did look exhausted.

For a second, Jekyll considered offering him to stay the night.

But then he remembered, what Lady Summers had said about pushing things to the next level already. He needed to give the lawyer more time.

And so he just smiled and relented. “Of course. Good night, my dear fellow. I hope you will sleep well.”

“Likewise”, Utterson replied.

The clouds drifted away and the moonlight fell into the backyard. It illuminated Utterson's face, making it look like snow in contrast to his black hair.

He looked so gorgeous.

Oh, how badly he wanted to kiss him!

“Then do it!”, Hyde piped up, “Stop with that disgusting pining and just kiss him already, you old fool! You've wanted it for decades, so why don't you?! What holds you back? It's late and dark in here, no one will see it!”

Maybe, but has it ever occurred to you, that perhaps I have a modicum of respect for him?, Jekyll thought sarcastically.

“Sure!”, Hyde snorted, “That's why I'm such a respectful person! Because you have so much of it!”

Edward Hyde, I warn you-

“Arguing with yourself again?”, Utterson spoke up.

Jekyll blushed, caught red-handed.

“I can tell by now”, the lawyer explained, “For someone who always keeps his face in public, you have the worst poker-face. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No, but I'm definitely going to work on it”, Jekyll muttered.

Utterson frowned. “Fine, if you insist. But not to me, Henry.”

He took his hand, making his face flush deeper. “I want you to be honest and open to me. No more secrets. Promise?”

Jekyll smiled and kissed the other's hand.

“I promise”, he said sweetly and added: “I love you. So much.”

Utterson's face flushed just as hard as his own (much to his satisfaction).

“I-I know”, he stuttered. “A-and thank you. F-for the day, I mean. It was wonderful.”

Then he squeezed the blond's hand once more, whispered good night and ran off.

Jekyll looked after him, before breaking into a huge grin and went inside.

This had been the most wonderful day and not even Hyde's frustrated nagging could ruin it now.

Utterson practically flew all the way back home, still flushed with embarrassment.

As soon as he was there, he threw himself onto his bed, grinned and sighed blessedly.

For a brief moment he wondered, if that was how youngsters felt, if the object of their affection requited their love.

Either way, the black-haired man couldn't recall, if he had ever been happier than he was now. Happiness wasn't even the word. Bliss was closer to it.

Whether his feelings were a sin or not, he thanked the Lord anyway.

What a magical day …

#The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde #Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde #Dr. Jekyll #henry jekyll #Mr. Hyde #edward hyde #Mr Utterson #Gabriel John Utterson #utterson #jekyllxutterson #shameless fluff #sorry not sorry

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heartofoshun · 5 years

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@nimium-amatrix-ingenii-sui tagged me! Thanks so much!

Your name: Preferred pen name is Oshun.

Fandoms you write for: Overwhelmingly Silmarillion/Tolkien. Others include The Lord of the Rings, Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner, Harry Potter, Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire, Wraeththu, Alexander Trilogy, The Queen's Thief, 15th Century RPF, Merlin (TV), The Goblin Emperor, The Charioteer - Mary Renault, Richard II – Shakespeare, Figure Skating RPF, The Lion in Winter (1968 film), Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones, Captive Prince, The Last of the Wine - Mary Renault, and a few other one-shots or ficlets.

Where you post: Silmarillion Writers Guild and AO3.

Most popular one-shot: Not counting Game of Thrones ficlets (which one-shots are all total losers written in challenges in usually about 10 minutes—but I do not delete stories).

I will consider all other fandoms with the further disclaimer that I usually am comfortable with chapter fics—many single chapters are better read than my one-shots. Without further ado, it is (ta-da!): A Ponderous Tome by oshun (an ancient throwaway! Proof that popularity has nothing to do with quality).

Most popular multi-chapter story: An ancient WIP which has been my only hit, mostly read over a decade ago, with most of its several hundred thousand readers being on ff net or the now-defunct Tolkien site Henneth Annun Story Archive. It does still exist and is still a true WIP and can be found, among other places, on AO3: The Princess and the Horse Lord by Oshun (where it is definitely not a hit—I like to tell myself that anyone who would have liked it already read it somewhere else).

Favourite story I’ve written: I like I Hate You (SWG) I Hate You (AO3) a lot—breaking-up story of Maedhros and Fingon—there are others I like better at times—with better pacing, more plot, better written, bigger investment of energy, etc. But for some reason, this one meant a lot to me and still does (and it's short)!

A story you were nervous to post: I’m a not even sure that I do not think RPF is not morally objectionable, probably problematic at its best. So I wanted to write this story but was nervous about posting it (and it is now a WIP series—another part to be posted soon). Never Enough Figure skating RPF, featuring fantasy and falsehoods about Javier Fernández/Yuzuru Hanyu.

How do you choose your titles? Sometimes I just have a brilliant flash of insight. But usually, I write with very pedestrian working titles like “The Elrond-tries-to-seduce-Maedhros story” and when I get close to finishing I rack my brain by thinking about bits from songs, lines from poetry, part of a good line in the nearly finished story. It’s easier than I ever imagined. Working for newspapers and a wire service I was never any good at headlines! So titles for fiction were a happy surprise for me.

Do you outline? I outline anything over about three chapters. For fic series, I also have a rough draft list in my head of topics/incidents I intend to cover. Chapters and their subpoints are added as the story evolves but rarely deleted. My stories have a long gestation period before I ever touch hand to a keyboard.

How many of your stories are complete? Out of 197 stories on AO3 (I have all but four completed)--all of those incompletes are novels or longish novellas. (I have two abandoned stories on ff net from over ten years ago which were among my earliest attempts at fiction. I save them as fandom history (ha!))

Incompletes (in case you want to encourage me):

Mereth Aderthad

Erendis: A Love Story

The Princess and the Horse Lord

Summer's End

How many of your stories are in progress? The four stories listed above and several which have never yet seen the light of the internet, including the beginnings of a novel about Richard III, bits and pieces of possible Silmarillion fiction, my Mexico book which gets pulled out and fussed with for a few days about once a year. There are some notes for a WWII novel set in the town where I was born. I have collections of ideas for other Tolkien fanfic and a couple of unfinished character bios, the longest of which is Luthien, another more than half finished Javier Fernández/Yuzuru Hanyu story, and A Goblin Emperor story (which I might be saving to finish for Yuletide).

Coming soon: My contribution to SWG’s Notion Club Revival challenge (I have notes—Fëanor and Nerdanel find a diary belonging to Míriel), the Lúthien biography, and another Javier Fernández/Yuzuru Hanyu story.

Do you accept prompts? Not really. Even the thought of a prompt makes me anxious. I have so much unfinished and many stories I already want to write--I’ll never live long enough.

Upcoming story you are most excited to write:

I better get excited about the one that has a deadline—the Notion Club challenge. But, seriously, I never feel excited about writing except for the rare occasion perhaps an hour into a session when I have finally hit a serendipitous concurrence of inspiration and concentration—it does not happen often. Entire chaptered fics have been written without me ever reaching the point of excitement. Sometimes I get excited when I finish! I get really excited if people like a story also!! Super excited about that.

I’d like to tag: @bomberqueen17, @independence1776, @bunn, @grundyscribbling, @starspray, @keiliss and anyone else who would like to try this one.

#fanfiction #writing

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softspaceboibrian · 5 years

Text

Journeys End in Lovers Meeting (Chapter 3)

Pairing: Professor!Gwilym Lee x reader

Summary: Reader is a new student at Harvard University and, on her first day, she does something she might regret. Or maybe not.

Warnings: mention of a stroke

Wc: 2212

A/N: guys, this chapter is very descriptive. hopefully you won't think it's boring or stuff. don't worry! in the next chapters more is going to happen!!

Previous chapters: 1 - 2 - 4 - 5

Taglist: @tegan-eva (ask if you want to be added)

On the other hand, you were pretty different, thing that Gwilym grew to love more than he expected himself to. At first, he didn’t notice the peculiar shade of your eyes, or the constant rosy colour of your cheeks. Gosh, he could look at those eyes the entire day if he could; you had intelligent eyes, and whenever you laid them on him, he knew you were thinking about something, you were studying him, noticing the smallest detail that even him had never noticed before; like that time when you walked up to him after the lesson finished and started off with a “Did you know you look a lot like Brian May? You know, the guitarist from Queen”. That made him laugh, at first, but when that night he found himself in front of a mirror, he started staring at his traits and noticed that you were right, as always. You had a beautiful mind that was always working on some new, fresh idea, that would surprise everyone. If you remained silent for a little too long, he would always ask you what you were thinking about and you would probably start answering by saying “What if…” or “Have you ever considered…”. And those amazing ideas usually came with a big dream. “I want to travel to Rome, visit Keats’ house and see his headstone, then do an essay on the impact that his poetry, his works and Romanticism in general is having on modern day culture.” You said one day, out of nowhere, while you were re-reading one of his articles; you were alone in his office, as every other afternoon, he was drinking black coffee, no sugar, just a little bit of cream, while you had your usual mug filled with tea. You changed the tea every couple of weeks: at first, you started with black tea, then, when autumn came, you moved to chai tea. But now the office was filled everyday with the soft smell of mint and honey, fresh and warm at the same time. Just like you, he thought. He also found out he loved to make you laugh: you had a loud laughter, the type that fills the room with joy, that contagious laugh that you cannot hear and stay serious. Your voice, on the contrary, well, your voice was soft, warm, so pleasing to listen to that he would often make you read his essays and articles aloud just to hear it. You loved scented candles, that’s for sure. You even bought an orange chocolate scented one for his studio, just because you thought he might like it. But in general, there’s no doubt you are a poet. You were quiet, your steps were gentle, just like a fairy’s ones. You were quiet because you were always thinking, analysing things and finding in them the smallest, most peculiar details that no one else would notice, taking time to organize your thoughts and ideas, but still struggling to find the right words. That’s probably the main reason why he has often walked in on you reading the entire dictionary for the umpteenth time. You had so many beautiful ideas, and you would always talk about them as if they were your children. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to express what I’m thinking, to put it into words on paper, and I don’t won’t to ruin it.” You said to him many times; in fact, it had happened more than once that you could not be productive for days, weeks even, and then suddenly write six poems in an hour. But then, there’s this one thing that he read in one of your poems, one thing that stuck with him. «I wish to be enough, someday.» How could someone like you think that you weren’t enough. You were far more than enough. At least to him.

It was the beginning of December, and the first flakes of snow where starting to shyly cover the gardens and sidewalks, there were no longer leaves on the branches of the trees, it was finally that time of the year when he was able to turn on the fire in his little chimney in the evening. And, in fact, you loved spending the evenings over at his place, sometimes crushing on his couch just to enjoy the warmth of the fire. Or maybe you just enjoyed his company over anyone else’s.

The weeks went by and you got to know each other pretty well during your ‘meetings’ or your coffee breaks. Apparently, he was in fact of Welsh heritage, even though he was born in Bristol. He studied English Literature at Cardiff University and then moved to the USA. But, most importantly, he was the most genuine person you had ever known. You liked to look at him when he was busy working. His hair was long, but not too long, and sometimes little stands of hair would fall in front of his face, distracting him for even just a moment. When he was thinking, he would start doodling on the side of the page or on a spare paper. He collected playbills from theatre shows and museum’s pencils. He always had kind words for everyone. His earbuds were always tangled, and it would take him a good minute to untangle them. He always took artsy picture of everything, his dog, the school library, the first fallen leaves from the tree in front of his office’s window. He loved history, learning intriguing facts about historical figures. He liked to always have an open window, unless it was too cold outside. When he smiled, his eyes would brighten up, the corners of his lips go up, little crinkles show up around his eyes. He was also exactly how one would expect a writer to be: his notebooks a mess, full of notes and doodles, and his desk exactly the same, little reminders scattered all over the wooden surface, an empty pen holder, pens and pencils used as bookmarks. And his head too: he always had so many ideas, he was always thinking of a new article, a new story he could try to write, but that he never actually managed to finish; and you noticed that, sometimes, he would scribble stuff that he needed to remember on his hands and arms. He was definitely a night owl: it had happened many times that she would wake up to a text from him that had been sent at three in the morning. He was so passionate about everything that he liked, like that time, during class, when he was explaining Queen Elizabeth I’s Tilbury Speech, he was basically praising not only Queen Elizabeth herself, but her tutor, Roger Ascham, too. You found it adorable. He knew pretty much everything, except for his own limits. He was the kind of person that would try to make flowers bloom, even during heavy storms. But the things that stuck with you the most was the fact that he always found the good in everything.

“Love” That’s how he had been calling you lately, even around school, not really caring about what people would say. “They are doing Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night in a theatre just outside town and they want me to review it” He explained, showing you the email on his phone.

“Well, that’s amazing! When are you going?”

“We are going tonight. The play starts at 7:30, but we have to be there at least half an hour before the beginning of the play, because I have to meet the woman who has to give me the tickets at the reception.”

“Wait…” You stopped him, visibly puzzled “We are going?” You had talked about that many times before, Shakespeare was by far your favourite dramaturg and one of Gwilym’s favourite authors in general. You had often found yourselves debating whether it was Hamlet or Macbeth Shakespeare’s best play, discussing about every detail that made one’s favourite the best one and not the other’s.

“I got two tickets for free and I thought that you might have wanted to come with me. I mean, it’s Twelfth Night. You love it, it’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?”

You were speechless. You didn’t expect that to happen, not at all. Maybe that was the reason you immediately put your arms around him and reached for his cheek to leave a soft kiss, realising only afterwards that you weren’t at home or somewhere else. You were at University and there he was a professor and you were a student. You couldn’t act like that. So you instantly pulled away, your cheeks turning crimson, but he didn’t really seem to mind it.

“It’s a 45 minutes long drive, so I’ll pick you up at 6:00, so we have a few more minutes in case traffic is a mess. We can have dinner afterwards.” He smiled, his eyes on you, finding that look on your face extremely adorable. “Oh and wear a pretty dress.” He laughed while walking away.

Once you were left alone, you could feel the eyes of numerous girls on you, probably whispering to each other, already making assumption about the two of you. All you did at that point was walk out of the building, almost running towards the bus stop, to escape those curious looks rather than to actually get home early.

It was 5:45 and you were already sitting on the couch, a book in your hands, waiting for the man to send you the text saying that he was waiting for you outside. Wear a pretty dress, he said; and that was what you did. One could rarely see you wearing a dress, or anything a little more daring that a simple jeans and a nice blouse. But that time you decided that you could actually wear something different, maybe one of those dresses that your mother had bought for you years before. It was nothing too special, a simple bodycon dress with blue, burnt orange, mustard and white horizontal stripes. Obviously, not wanting to look too formal, you just paired it with a simple blue cardigan and white converse. Furthermore, you had no one to impress, it was only Gwilym, you professor, and in a way, your boss too. Yes, well, he was still really handsome, charming, and you too often found yourself daydreaming about those ocean blue eyes, that made you feel like you didn’t have to worry about your ponytail being perfect or your laugh being too loud. Whenever you were with him, you felt good, you felt as if that was the place where you were meant to be. And that was not good. You could not feel that way about him.

[from James] Hey love, I’m outside. Whenever you’re ready.

You didn’t even reply. You just put your jacket on and sprinted out, forgetting to say goodbye to Rose, who looked at you wondering whether you were acting like that because you were excited to go see one of your favourite plays or because you were basically going on a date with the man you had been talking about non-stop for the last few months.

You and Rose met the first day you came to Cambridge. She knew a new girl was going to live in the room next the hers, but she didn’t expect you to be, well, like you were. At first, you were reserved, she could barely see you outside of your room, but she could easily understand whether you were home or not, because you would always be playing those old records. One day she even caught you singing a little tune, but as soon as you realised she was watching you, you immediately turned red and shut the door. It took her a while before she could actually get to know you, even just a little bit. At first, it was small talks at dinner, random facts that popped up during movie nights. Then you spent a whole day around town, just the two of you, in which she showed you all the nice cafés and libraries where you could go and study without any problem, the restaurants where you could eat without spending too much, the shopping district, even the pretty places you could go to take pictures or take someone on a date. That day Rose found out some of the most important things about you. You were sitting on a bench in JFK Park and the brunette started talking about all times she had taken her parents there whenever they visited her, the things she used to do with them when they still lived together and how proud they were of her. But your response left her speechless. “My mother died two years ago. Stroke.” Your voice was cold, distant, your eyes on the water in front of you. “And my father is so proud of me that he is paying my tuition so that he doesn’t have to see me around the house anymore.” Rose didn’t know what to say, how to act, so she just stood up and offered you to go and eat ice cream. “I know a place that makes the best mint chocolate chip ice cream in town. It’s your favourite, isn’t it?”

#journeys end in lovers meeting #jeilm #professor gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee x you #gwilym lee #professor!gwilym lee #softspaceboibrian writings #softspaceboibrian

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bittysvalentines · 5 years

Text

Loose Lips Sail Ships

From: @missweber (Sophia_Prester on AO3)

To: @ellieotbelle Pairing: Bob Zimmermann/Alicia Zimmermann Tags: Meet cute, pining, spoilers for Jane Eyre, accidentally getting stoned, mild second-hand embarrassment, Bob is a doofus, honestly Alicia is the brains in the family Summary: Bob has a crush on a beautiful actress, but there's no way she would be interested in him, so there's no point in trying to do anything about it, right?

Bob was in love.

Well, it was something akin to 'in love'. Kind of. Maybe.

A few (okay, several) dramatically bad breakups had taught him that you had to know someone before you could say you were in love with them, and seeing someone interviewed on a stupid talk show while you were stuck at home on injured reserve in no way counted as knowing.

So maybe it was fair to say that he was primed to fall in love with Alicia Andersen if he ever got the chance to meet her and she didn't turn out to be one of those people who was actually horrible once you got to know them.

Somehow, he doubted this would be the case. He wasn't a rookie any more, and he had learned from several (okay, many) dramatically bad breakups to spot the more obvious red flags.

The problem was, he wasn't sure how he would ever get the chance to actually meet her.

In theory, it shouldn't be difficult. He was Bad Bob Zimmermann, damn it, and he had met plenty of other celebrities at parties, charity events, and the occasional nightclub. In fact, many of these meetings were precursors to a number (a lot) of dramatically bad breakups.

Maybe it was a good thing that everything he read about Alicia Andersen (it was a dark day when Mario found out he had bought an issue of Vogue just because she was on the cover) said she wasn't much of a party person.

Maybe he could meet her at some charity gala, because she did occasionally go to those (she was particularly vocal about funding AIDS research), but she was always quick to state in interviews that her idea of a perfect evening was sitting at home reading or running lines for whatever play she was obsessed with at the moment.

When his thoughts turned in those directions, he realized that a jock with a playboy reputation might not merit a second thought from her. It was one reason why he brushed off Mario's suggestion of having his agent call her agent and arrange something.

Another reason was that the whole idea sounded kind of gross.

No, it sounded really gross. One part presumptuous and one part transactional and one hundred percent slimy. If he tried something like that, Alicia would probably have him burned in effigy before efficiently trashing what was left of his reputation.

"Or get yourself booked as a guest judge on one of those stupid shows, or volunteer to help co-host something," Mario suggested after Bob explained his reluctance. "It worked for Wayne, didn't it? What's the worst that could happen?"

The worst that could happen was that the divine Ms. Anderson, a woman who probably knew all the plays of Shakespeare and all the novels of Jane Austen by heart, would have little use for a man who once bragged on camera that he technically hadn't graduated high school because he kept skipping art class to practice his slap shot.

"I'll think about it," he said, privately deciding that it was safer not to take the risk. Not taking a risk meant not looking foolish. It meant not getting shot down, possibly in public.

Or worse, she could shoot him down in private and be nice about it.

He wouldn't try to get in touch with her, and that was that.

* * *

Bob almost changed his mind a few times.

The first was after the whole Danielle incident, the first breakup in a long time that wasn't dramatically bad only because she dumped him halfway through the first date.

"Bob, this has been fun, but... no it hasn't, because the whole time I've been sitting here, it's been clear you were wishing I was someone else." She got up from the table, all long legs and perfect hair and... well, he didn't really know much about her other than that, and didn't that say something?

(It did, and it wasn't good.)

She left the restaurant before he could apologize and before the waiter arrived with the very hefty bill. He hated to admit it, but she had been right.

Bob got as far as rehearsing how he would bring up the subject with his agent before he told himself not to be stupid.

The second time was because he went to see Alicia's the latest movie even though it wasn't the sort of thing he would normally go see, given that it was based on a book he'd only pretended to read back in high school.

He was sneaky about going to the theater, sneaky enough that the other guys chirped him about being desperate enough to go to a strip club, but a few pointed hip checks during practice put an end to that.

The truth was, he almost snuck out shortly after he snuck in, because to his surprise and displeasure, Alicia Andersen was not playing the lead role. Some other actress had the role of Jane Eyre, and given the movie's nearly three-hour running time, whoever Alicia was playing might not be around for a while.

But then Jane's shitty aunt sent her to that shitty school, and her friend got sick, and crisse, the poor kid died?

Well, he couldn't leave now. He had to stick around long enough to make sure Jane was going to be okay.

His first impression of Rochester was that the man deserved to be slammed into the boards, hard. Slew-footing was also an option.

By the time it was clear that something strange and unwholesome was going on in the attics of Thornfield, Bob was so caught up in the story that he almost forgot why he wanted to see the movie in the first place.

And then, there she was.

He didn't recognize her at first. She was wild-haired and wild-eyed, barely visible in candlelight as she threatened Jane (who deserved so, so much better) with a knife.

By the time the truth came out about the madwoman locked away in the attic (and seriously, what the actual fucking fuck??) Bob was of the opinion that the first Mrs. Rochester deserved a hell of a lot better, too.

It wasn't anything like the glamorous roles Alicia Andersen usually took, and she was only on screen for maybe fifteen minutes, tops, but Bob thought it was the best thing she had done, ever.

When she was nominated for Best Supporting Actress, he felt just as smug as when his pet rookie got nominated for the Calder last year, and it took every bit of willpower he had not to ask his agent to forward his congratulations to her agent.

Every bit.

The third time was a week later, on his birthday. He was sulking in the press box, serving the first of a two game suspension (on his birthday!) for beating the crap out of a highly deserving Cam Neely (so yeah, he was carrying a little bit of a hate-on for the Bruins from his Habs days) and feeling more than a little sorry for himself.

He wanted someone to talk to who wasn't a part of his team, or his support staff. He wanted to talk to someone who wasn't part of hockey, and wasn't that a new feeling?

It would just take a call, and then a follow up call, and he deserved to have something nice on his birthday, didn't he?

But it would be kind of creepy to call her out of the blue like that, wouldn't it?

He didn't call. And if he didn't call, she couldn't say no.

* * *

In the end, it was the pills that did it.

At least, that was what he maintained the next day, the day after that, and every time he told the story in years to come.

The Pens were in New York for three days. The trip had a game against the Rangers on one end, a game against the Islanders on the other, and Valentine's Day smack in the middle. A lot of the guys who were married or who had a serious girlfriend had big plans for the night, and PR and the press were all over it.

More specifically, they were all over him. Bob's nickname wasn't just because of his reputation for starting fights. He was also known for leaving a string of broken hearted girlfriends behind (which wasn't fair, as he usually wasn't the one doing the leaving).

The nonsense started even before the first game.

"So, Bob. You have any big plans for tomorrow with a special someone?"

"No. I'm looking forward to a good night of rest between games."

He fielded a few questions about his thoughts on facing off against Marcel Dionne before it started again with another reporter.

"I heard a rumor that maybe you and Christy Tur -"

"Ha ha. No."

And then another reporter.

"You can't tell me that Bad Bob Zimmermann doesn't have a hot - "

"Oh, yes, I can!"

And then another.

"I'm sure it wouldn't be hard for you to pick up some pretty young - "

At this point, Mario frog-marched him to the visitors' locker room because PR had declared that him literally growling and baring his teeth at reporters did little to 'foster a productive relationship with the press corps.'

It was a good game from a team perspective, and the win was needed if they wanted to secure a playoff position. It wasn't so good from a Zimmermann perspective, because a pileup early in the third period tweaked his back enough that he needed help getting off the ice.

The only saving grace was that he didn't blow his point streak and the back thing seemed to be just muscle strain.

"We'll put you down as a game-day decision for the Islanders," the team doctor said. "If you can get some rest tonight and tomorrow, you'll probably be okay. The trick is getting it so you can relax."

The doctor handed Bob a small pill bottle with what sounded like two pills inside it. Bob fiddled with the child-proof cap while the doctor explained what to do with alternating heat and ice. "In there is some pain medication and a muscle relaxer. Go ahead and take them - "

Bob got the cap off and tossed the pills back without benefit of water.

" - when you get back to the hotel," the doctor finished with a sigh. "Just make sure you have someone with you until you get back to your room."

The one good thing about getting injured was that it got him out of doing press. One of the rookies got assigned to accompany him back to the hotel while everyone else went out to celebrate the win.

Any other time, Bob might have felt sad about missing out, but by the time their cab got them back to the hotel, he wasn't feeling sad about anything.

He was one of the best damn hockey players in the world, he loved his team (he really did, he told the rookie - whatever his name was - he really, really did) and he loved New York City, and tomorrow was Valentine's Day, and there was something important, something important he was supposed to do or say...

Oh! And here was this nice person with a tape recorder and his friend with a camera asking him about his Valentine's plans. How nice!

"I don't have any," he told the men, once he remembered that he should speak English. He swatted at the rookie, who kept on trying to interrupt them for some reason. "Nope. No plans. Not for me. But there's someone I would love to have plans with."

The bubble of happiness that had formed around him ebbed for a moment. He didn't have plans with her, and he doubted she'd want to have plans with him, and it was so sad that he just had to tell someone about it.

So, when the nice men asked him who that someone was, he told them.

* * *

Later, Bob wouldn't be able to say for sure what restaurant it was. He would remember the white tablecloths and romantic lighting and how his custom-tailored suit still didn't feel swanky enough for this kind of place and how his stomach tried to turn itself inside-out with terror.

Most of all, he would remember the tripping, tumbling beat of his heart as Alicia Andersen walked into the restaurant and stopped to talk to the hostess.

Film could never do justice to the gold of her hair, or the soft blue of her dress, which looked like it had been pulled down from the summer sky. The hostess nodded at her and then led her straight back. To him.

Bob staggered to his feet, and failed to bite back a curse when his back twinged. It was loud enough that a nearby couple glared at him, and Alicia raised an eyebrow.

Oh, this was getting off to a great start.

He hurried to help her with her chair even though his back protested. "I am so, so sorry about this."

She gave him a polite and questioning little smile, but said nothing.

"In my defense, not that I'm trying to excuse what I did, I had just taken a muscle relaxer and a pain pill?" He tried giving her a charming smile, remembering just a second too late that he was waiting for the off season to do something about that missing incisor. He tried for a closed-lipped smolder instead. "I didn't remember saying anything to that reporter until my agent and the head of our PR team both showed up in my hotel room to yell at me this morning. Actually, I still don't remember saying it."

The shift in her facial expression was subtle, but telling. It was the sort of thing that she'd used to tell the audience so much about the first Mrs. Rochester before she even uttered a word. She wasn't happy, but it was a different kind of not-happy than he would have expected from a woman who was probably badgered by her publicity team to go on a date she probably didn't want.

"Are you saying that you didn't really want to spend Valentine's Day with me?"

For one crazy moment, Bob thought irony had struck in his favor, and she had been pining after him like he had been pining after her. But no, she was just curious.

"Ouais, I wanted to very much, but only if it was something you wanted, too."

The brief lapse into French got a flicker of a smile. "The fact that your agent told mine you would understand if I didn't want to go to dinner was one reason I did want to go."

"What was the other reason?"

Alicia rolled her eyes and propped her chin in one hand. "My agent wants to drum up a bit more publicity for my latest movie. Classic case of good critical reception but slow box office."

"What? Even with your Oscar nomination? Euh, I should have said congratulations earlier. Sorry."

She laughed, but it was kind, not mocking. He wanted to hear it again. "You really are Canadian, aren't you? But thank you. I'm delighted about the nomination, but best supporting actress isn't as much of a draw as best picture. I'd give up my own nomination in a heartbeat if we could have gotten that one instead."

"That's right. You were co-producer on that, weren't you?"

The look he got was one of unguarded, unfiltered surprise.

"It was one of the best movies I saw in a long time, even though I was disappointed at first you weren't playing Jane. But that twist about the first Mrs. Rochester... " He whistled low and shook his head. "I honestly had no idea that was coming. And I love how even though you didn't have many lines, you could tell this woman had a whole life before that crosseur Rochester wrecked it all. Euh, are you all right?"

Her jaw had dropped, but it shifted into a smile that started in her eyes. "Oh, yes. I was hoping people would get that from my performance. But you really had no idea about the madwoman in the attic? I assumed everyone who went to see the movie would already know the story."

"Alas, I am but an illiterate goon," he said, raising his wine glass in a mock toast. "I only went to see the movie because this hot actress had a supporting role."

He wasn't sure, but he thought her foot might have bumped against his.

"You know, I normally don't like it when men comment on my looks, but from you, I find I don't mind. Now isn't that funny?"

Bob forgot how to breathe.

"So, you'd been wanting to ask me out for a while, but you had to wait until you were loopy on pain pills to do anything about it. Why?"

There were so many things he could say about being respectful and not a creep, and while these things were true, they weren't the most true.

"I was afraid you'd say no," he said quietly.

"But I maybe I would say yes. And you would never know."

Bob huffed out a laugh. "That reminds me of something my friend Wayne said."

"Oh, is Wayne a smart guy?"

Bob waggled his hand. "He has his moments. So will you?"

"Will I what?"

Her hand was on the table within easy reaching distance. He slid his hand towards hers, waiting for a signal that he had gotten this wrong.

"Say yes?"

She raised an eyebrow, but this time he saw the humor behind it. He placed his hand on hers, and the world tipped on its axis when she turned her hand over and gave a gentle squeeze.

"Well, you'll just have to ask to find out, won't you?"

He would.

He took a deep breath, and he took the shot.

She said yes.

#aliciabob #fanfiction #bittysvalentines #bv2019 #omgcp

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