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#my voice teacher is on sabbatical
rosewaterandivy · 7 months
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10. a kiss is not enough
Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader
W.C.: 4.5K
Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by the nickname Trouble instead, cursing, sexual situations - SMUT & idolatry (my usual bullshit), real-talk with Nancy Wheeler, idiots still being idiots, Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance.
A/N: Holy shit, I can't believe we've come to the end (or is it 👀) of this series! When I started this, I had no clue how many people would respond to Trouble and Steve's idiots-to-lovers story - but I'm so glad that they did! This series will always be near and dear to my heart, for a variety of reasons, but primarily for the people it brought into my life (here's lookin' at you, babe!). This isn't a goodbye from Trouble and Steve so much as a see you later - don't hate me too much! Poetry excerpt from John Keats. 18+ mature content (minors dni). Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated, please let me know what you thought; enjoy & thanks for reading! 💜
series masterlist | playlist - newly updated!
Trouble’s playlist from Steve: trouble will find me
Steve's playlist from Trouble: rebel without a clue
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previous || epilogue
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Now, May, Finals Week
“Just think about it, kid,” Hopper says on his way out your classroom door. He’d requested a meeting during your conference block, when normally he’d amble in under some pretense just to shoot the shit.
You nod, at a loss for words. It’s not like you needed yet another thing on your plate— waiting to hear back from admissions and not spilling to Steve or the gang was bad enough.
Yeah, you’d applied for grad school (even though grad students were the worst) and Hop had been contacted as a reference, which prompted his little visit today. Apparently, the district had approved a stipend and sabbatical for faculty furthering their education in graduate school.
“I’d like to recommend you,” Hop said matter of factly, sitting in a desk across from yours. “Maybe not for the sabbatical until you’re further along in the program, writing your thesis and whatnot.”
“I, uh–” you stumbled to find the words. “Cart, horse. I haven’t been accepted yet.”
He leveled you with a look, “Are you shittin’ me? Of course you’re getting in.”
You swallowed audibly and busied yourself emptying your desk for the summer, “Well, time will tell I suppose.”
“This isn’t—” Hopper paused in thought. “This isn’t about Harrington, is it?”
“Huh,” you nearly yelled, clutching the cardboard box for dear life. You had been so careful too.
He cracks a smile, “I saw the pair of you at graduation, you think you’re so slick.”
That brings a smile to your face, good ol’ Hop sussing out the goings on like he’d never left the force. 
“It’s nothing.” You assure him, “We haven’t— We’re professionals, okay?”
“I know,” he nods, voice lowering as if he could spook you. “I’m happy for you, really.”
A small smile breaks across your face, “Yeah, uh, thanks.”
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Finals done and grades posted, you’d never been so happy to get home. Had plans to pour yourself onto the couch and not move for 72 hours. 
But life (and Steve) had other plans.
He was sorting through the mail, chucking envelopes into various piles on the countertop. The loft was quiet that afternoon— Eddie had a gig in Indy that evening and Robin was crashing at Vickie’s for the night. Steve hummed a tune to himself, the occasional slap of paper hitting the granite punctuating it.
“Oh hey,” Steve turns with a large envelope in hand, “This looks important.” Tosses it with freakish accuracy, the white paper landing with a thwack where your shorts had ridden up against your thigh. 
Distracted by whatever drama was unfolding on TV— something about a crew working on chartered private boats— you mindlessly slip your thumb beneath the lip of the envelope and tear it open. 
It’s only once you’ve pulled the papers from it that you glance to see what’s what. The university’s crest shines like a beacon, your thumb worrying over the topmost letter. Steve, the bastard, has stopped his mail sorting and turned toward you.
He leans lazily against the counter, a knowing smirk fixed on his lips. You scramble up from the couch with the papers, too nervous to see for yourself. “Here,” you say, thrusting the envelope and documents to his chest. “Can you—”
Pulling you to his chest with an arm, he brushes his lips against the crown of your head. “Sure, honey.” You wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest— warm and familiar.
“You know,” he drawls, “The big envelope generally means something good, right?”
“I know,” muffled against his shirt.
He chuckles, hand coming up to cradle your head. Steve clears his throat, reads the opening of the letter in his best announcer voice. “Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that…”
The rest is drowned out by the rushing of blood in your ears, the tears pooling in your eyes breaking free to cascade down your cheeks. He squeezes you tight abandoning the acceptance letter and letting it flutter to the floor in favor of drawing you closer. Steve kisses you, licking your own tears into your mouth, your taste onto your tongue. And it’s so weirdly hot that your heart starts fluttering again, like you’re seeing him for the first time.
Because of course, just as things were going right something had to come and throw a wrench into things. 
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Plans for lazing in the early summer forgotten, the next few days saw you coming and going from the university campus for orientation, meetings with faculty, so on and so forth. As you were leaving the grad student mixer, a professor peeled off from a group of faculty to flag you down with a call of your name.
You turn, not recognizing them from the English department. She’s an older woman, has maybe a few years on your mother, and is swathed in a lovely linen dress— the cool elegance of minimalist style.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Holland,” she says shaking your hand. “I’m on the admissions committee and was very impressed with your work on Dante Alighieri.”
“Oh, thanks!”
“And you studied Italian as an undergrad?”
“Certo.”
That brings a smile to her face. “Perfetto,” she says with a perfect Italian accent and waves over another faculty member. “I only ask because there’s a summer intensive in Italy beginning next week that I think you’d be perfect for.” 
Your mind reels. The new professor introduces himself and echoes Dr. Holland’s sentiments— a summer session of classes in Italy, in partnership with Università di Bologna, the oldest university in operation in the world. Scholarships that would cover the cost of tuition, travel, and accommodations for you to peruse.
What the fuck.
Vision swimming, you somehow come back to the conversation at hand. Dr. Holland presses a folder to your hand, “I know you were planning on taking the introductory grad school courses over the summer, but I hope you’ll consider joining us in Italy instead.”
You nod, gobsmacked and make your way to the car. Settling into the sweltering seat, you start the car and call Nancy. If anyone would know what to say in this situation, it would be her.
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“That’s the thing,” you sigh, wine glass in hand as you slump on Nancy’s couch. “We’re not anything, haven’t discussed it. I mean, sure, we fuck like rabbits, but aside from that?”
She blows a raspberry and sips from her glass. “He’s in love with you, get over it.”
You jerk up, “Okay, maybe,” you allow. “But he hasn’t said anything.”
“And you won’t pony up to do it yourself?”
A scoff as you drain your glass. “I’m sorry, have you met me?”
Nancy laughs at that, loud and bright. “Unfortunately, yes!” She refills your glass before continuing, “Let’s be honest, you’re both hopeless when it comes to eachother.” She raises her brow before you can balk, “Full offense intended.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
She hums at that, head cocked to the side in thought. Her nail taps against the glass with a soft clink. A bite to her lips before she heaves a sigh, “Sometimes he just needs a push.”
You narrow your eyes at her. “I am absolutely not telling him he’s bullshit, if that’s what you’re after.”
Nancy, to her credit, winces uncomfortably at the memory. “No, no,” a shake of her head. “Absolutely not, you would never.” She sets her glass down carefully, giving you her full attention. “What I’m getting at is this: do you want to be something with Steve?”
She lets the question hang in the air between you. 
“Because if you don’t know Trouble, you should back away now.” A low warning tone. “You’re it for him, have been since he laid eyes on you, but you’re both too scared to do anything about it.”
You drain your glass to the dregs and hastily take your leave. At the sound of the door closing, Nancy grabs her phone and brings it to her ear, “Hey Harrington, I need a favor…”
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Returning from a less than helpful hang session at Nancy’s, you find a post-it note left on your bedroom, door that reads ‘meet me at our spot on lover’s lake. - s.’
Prizing it from the wood grain, you make your way back to the kitchen to scavenge for something to eat, in an effort to soak up the remnants of wine in your system. Opening the fridge you spy another post-it stuck to the topmost shelf: ‘get your ass down here, i’ll feed you soon enough. - s.’
With a laugh, you let the fridge door fall shut and grab your keys.
_
He can see you now, just barley, even in the indigo dark. Wonders to himself, how are you even real? How is it that you’re mine? An explanation that won’t ever come. 
You slip into the cool water of Lover’s Lake like a dream, with nary a sound. Steve stumbles after you on the piles of clothing you’d left behind—bunched up denim shorts here, a threadbare tank-top over there, the silk of your thong musky and damp. 
Fisting his shirt to pull it up and over his head, it falls to the forest floor behind him, jeans shucked off and tossed elsewhere, boxers joining your lingerie by the shore. His patience is wearing thin as you wade further and further from him out into the lake. 
Little minx, he smiles and takes a breath before diving beneath the waves. Arms cutting through the placid water at a quick pace until he’s occupying the space between your bare legs, and coming up for air. 
One arm drags you near, lazily pressing you close, tight around the small of your back as the tide breaks around your waist, minute movements almost imperceptible— the slow roll of your hips against his.
Water shallow enough to tread and keep you buoyant. Steve kisses you slow and sweet, pulling you flush against his chest while you writhe under the water’s surface. Body slick and wanton and arching into his own. 
His dick jumps when you lift yourself to drape your arms around his shoulders. A sharp breath replaced with a shaky exhale as he brings his forehead to rest on yours, dark eyes taking in the exhilarated flush of your body. 
And Steve knows, under his skin and tucked into the cage of his ribs, near the beating of his anguished heart, that you’re the only thing left in this world worth worshipping. To keep you, and render you a flightless bird, to clip your wings, would be all for naught.
He has to let you go again, and so soon after you found him. From perihelion to aphelion before the moon’s full turning. The soft curve of your throat drawn taut as you glance upward, marvelling at the stars and planets in the northern sky. 
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Your voice is a husk, low and hoarse, in the dark. “Its loveliness increases, it will never pass into nothingness.” Your eyes, once fixed on the sea of stars above, shift to him once more.
Closer to the shoreline now, and unbeknownst to you, Steve had gently waded you both inshore, until he could draw you toward the dock. 
You let him walk you back until you’re flush against a mooring pole, wood rough against your moon-bathed skin. Body yielding to him as both his hands slide beneath your bottom, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass before he pulls you forward by the hips.
“S’okay, honey,” He mutters—right into your panting mouth with a sultry pull of his lips. “I’ve got you.”
“Steve,” You gasp, “This is unfair.” Your body jerks with every teasing kiss from his lips that he laves and sucks to the column of your throat.
He ignores you, crawling his hands onto your hips to keep you from squirming. Works his thigh in between your legs for good measure. Once you’re settled, he moves one hand to your center a finger trailing up and down your slippery folds. His mouth latches onto the spot that makes you keen, just behind your ear. You fist his hair in both hands at the same time he slips a digit inside.
But Steve doesn’t move. Other than his tongue’s soft licks on your neck and into your kiss-bitten mouth, he doesn’t move at all. He happily lets his finger rest inside of you, gathering your juices all over his hand.
You whimper, trying to shimmy against them, anything to create more contact. Its intrusion lights a terrible match inside of your body, and goddamn it, you want to a forest fire.
Calming breaths in and out. Steady head, steady heart. When you’re able to meet his gaze again, you take a moment to see him as he truly is: dappled in moonlight, forelock hanging in front of his eyes, his entire focus trained on you.
It feels like an eternity passes before he finally lets you have another—adding one more thick finger inside, stretching you as he moves them both around, curling them, scissoring them, pumping them in and out.
Steve sucks enthusiastically on your sensitive skin and lips, fucks you with two fingers almost wildly, and your body responds with fervor. You gasp and moan, arching back into his hand, goosebumps blooming all over your shoulders and down your arms and legs.
You shake like a leaf in his arms, not knowing if it’s from the cool night air or due to the man before you. 
Instead of increasing his pace, Steve continues to stroke you with his fingers, slowly prodding at your entrance with a third. Your eyes roll back and get lost in your head as you lean back with a whimper.
“Just trying to get you ready.” He murmurs, so soft and low that your heart stills.
Your legs wrap around his back loosely as he holds you still, his previous two fingers pushing inside gently. The third finger meets resistance as you tense up. “S-sorry,” You whisper, “I’m…” 
Your head knocks back against the wooden pier. But you move his hand back and try again. He’s so tender and sweet with you as he turns his head to place kisses on your cheek and ear.
You blink owlishly, trying desperately to weave your threads of thought together. A shake of your head to rattle them loose. A sweet smile up to Steve, a barely there kiss to his lips.
Your eyelids are heavy, breaths heaving from your chest. Steve commits to memory the way your lids flutter when he touches you.
You gasp and moan, arching your chest into his and pulled as taut as a bow sting—back forming a crescent-shaped arc, a sliver of the moon radiant in the inky blue reflection of the water.
“C’mon, that’s it, honey. You’re so close. Almost there… Good girl… Good girl.”
With a cry, you come undone, rolling your hips every which way as you reach orgasm on Steve’s hand. His voice continues to praise you, lips kissing your sweat-slicked collar, bristles on his cheek and jaw tickling your sensitive skin.
Coming back to yourself, you shiver bodily. And Steve looks at you as if you hold infinities in the palms your hands. 
You reach for him reverently, desperate for his shape of beauty and noble nature. A dream realized, a wish granted, gentle and true. You feel brave enough to shift and stroke him with determination.
You whisper, "Missed you," eliciting a shudder from him as your palm grips him tenderly. 
Relishing in the temperature of his body, you sigh. Spreading the beaded precome at the tip of his cock up and down his shaft. Steve groans, head falling to yours.
“Missed you more,” He hums, eyes heavy-lidded and lustful. 
Gasping as Steve guides your hips with one hand, and grips himself with the other. Slowly and without haste, he fills you inch by inch until he’s so deep inside you think he could burst from your throat.
You whimper. There aren’t enough words to describe it— the gratifying sting, an all-encompassing and chilling burn, a mystifying and utter fullness that nearly brings tears to your eyes. You’re fearful to move, to lose this sensation, and afraid to feel what comes next. But you know that you want it.
Steve kisses your lips tenderly, babbling praise, whispering affirmations, soothing the shock that surges up your spine with his warm palm. Slowly, he rocks you back, as water lapping against your thighs, holds onto your body with one hand, smoothing the hair that falls over your face with the other.
You’re gripping him so tightly it takes some effort to slide even an inch of him out— and there’s many inches of him. Sweat collects on your brow as you grind, dragging against his length, forcing shudders to course all over both your bodies. “Is this okay?” you cry, delirious, “Steve? You feel so good.”
He moves in you, like a prayer.
A groan escapes him as his hand squeezes your back just a little too hard. He’s holding back, trying to prolong your pleasure, but his own is chasing him down, only a few steps away from pouncing.
You coax it towards him with faster snapping of your hips against his, clawing at his back, nibbling on his ear. “Come on, lover… just a little more.”
With a grunt and a shudder, and a hard kiss to your lips that makes your teeth clack against each other, Steve thrusts one last time as deeply as possible, riding out his orgasm as he pulls your hips against his. 
The two of you feel rooted together, sticky with sweat and so tightly flushed that you’re not sure where he ends and you begin. Your body slumps as you drape your arms over his neck. Steve turns his head to kiss your shoulder before making the effort to pull away, your shaky legs held in his secure grasp.
The black slik of night gives way to the earth’s rotation, stars and moon bending to the will of gravity. Splashes in its silent, dark depths as you broach the shore. A little shaky on your feet, but he’s close behind, sultry and brilliant like the summer morning quickly approaching.
Whispers and murmurs tucked between fervent kisses as you dress. Fabric sticking to damp skin as his hands roam. Frenetic movements as he backs you up against the car, the coolness of it causing you to shiver. 
“You should do it,” he rasps against your lips. “The Italy thing, you always loved it there.”
“How did you–” you sputter.
You can’t see him roll his eyes, but you just know. “Nance, who else?” 
The warmth of Steve’s body burns against you, a hand threading through your hair half-convinced the moon is hiding there, hanging like a jewel in the night. And you’re a mess when you kiss him. Your breath is warm and so sweet, and the center of his chest squirms like something alive. 
In that moment, you love him but can’t tell him, not yet. You decide the sun that will kiss freckles to his face will do it for you.   
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The song of summer sings out as you load your suitcase into Nancy’s car a few days later. The trunk slams closed and your back is pressed against his chest, his arm hanging casually around your collar. It is the end of May, the first bloom of summer balmy on your skin.
Steve had not taken the news of Nancy driving you to the airport well.
At all.
A sponged necklace of kisses to your throat as the light creeps in. Sheets kicked to the edge of the bed so you’re tangled up in him. Skin already glinting gold in the summer sun. Twisting in his hold, desperate to glance at the time. “Steve,” muffled against the heft of his shoulder, “I gotta go, Nance will be here soon.” 
The turn of his weight bearing down, trapping your body under his. A cruel circle of his hips has you shuddering. His breath ghosts along your skin, “Baby, baby please.” Nose trailing down from your sternum to the swell of your stomach. Pausing there for lips to lave kisses on the curves that trailed to your hips. 
Eyes dark and heady with promise, “Just a taste.” Lips and mouth delving lower now, fingers parting the cleave of your cunt with a squelch. He hooks them back into his mouth with a groan. “Mmm,” he slurs, drunk off your arousal. “You taste good, sweetheart,” His nose bumps against your clit, “Like honey.”
Breath stuttering in the cage of your ribs, you fist his hair in one hand and tug. Steve moans overtly, pupils blown wide while he’s face deep in pussy. “Steve,” Your voice trembles. He glances up, smoldering and glorious, drinking you up. “Ah—fuck,” before you’re overtaken again.
You’re desperate, and he can hear it in your voice. A quiver in your throat, you swallow thickly mouth falling open in a pant. His fingers work into you easily, dragging exquisitely along your channel—warm and wet, only growing more so with every thrust of his hand. You mewl, hips bucking up as he sucks your swollen clit. 
Legs thrown over his shoulders, as he cants your pelvis forward, arm heavy against your stomach to bully you in place. “Sweet girl,” He coos, lips ruddy and wet with your slick. “Doin’ so well for me.” You shiver in his hold, sunbeams hazy with orange glow, the refracting light makes a halo to crown him and for a second you feel blind.
Then you feel something pulled taut in your belly. A chord stretching like a rubber band before it snaps. The wind up is excruciating, Steve’s litany of devotions falling in hushed murmurs from his lips. His fingers plunging up into the chasm between your legs, pulling away wetter each time.
He bends back down, tongue circling your clit at a dizzying pace. A third finger slides in impossibly, a keen igniting from your throat—high and whimpering. God, you’re so close. You babble, hands scrambling purchase against his dewy skin.
“Come,” he commands, “Come for me right now and I’ll fuck you through it, how you like. Then I’ll make you come again and we can go.”
“Oh my god,” you thrash on the bed, hair sticking to the sheen of your face, hanging on by a thread as his fingers drive into you, on a mission to break either the bed frame or your brain, both were fine. In a rush. Can’t quit now. A little bit more. Your entire body is folded against him, insides fluttering desperately, maddeningly.
“Everyone’s gonna know,” Steve promises, “You stumbling in there.”
The image flashes through your lust-addled brain, the telltale sign of him screwing you stupid— lips swollen, legs wobbly, outfit crumpled up, smelling like him and sex in front of all your friends.
“You want it, don’t you, want them to know you’re all mine?” He smears your wet around the sides of your cunt— spit, slick— up to your clit. And then he pushes you like a button, flicking the pad of his thumb upwards and grins at the way you jerk in time.
“Stevie,” you mewl, “Steve.” The syllable breaks, your panting comes out in choked babbling.
You drily sob out something broken, a tiny echo of affirmation as he keeps fucking into you like he could break through. He’s really abused your pussy this morning, maybe gone too far, but every time you come like this, it’s like he’s seeing something holy. 
“Oh my god…!” It’s a small shout as you shatter, and it makes Steve’s spine light up as you rub your face further into the pillow.
“Praying to me, sweetheart?” but doesn’t stop those tiny, hard circles, doesn’t stop melting into your body, his dick pulsing as he ruts against the sheets. “You can keep doing that,” he urges, “I like that.”
So, you’re not surprised when the two of you stumble into a nearly finished breakfast, as predicted, in a terrible disarray, and Robin crosses herself before promising, “I’m getting you two a goddamn chastity belt.”
On the couch, Eddie clicks the remote to a new channel, snapping his ring-clad fingers with an offhanded, “A-fucking-men.”
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As much as you tried to tell yourself that this wasn’t goodbye but instead see you soon, it didn’t stick. But the ache in your gut did—low and menacing, growling like an animal. 
Eddie and Robin were easy, promises to stay in touch and bring back the best candy. Your parents were less so, tight hugs and dried tears on cheeks. 
Steve, however, you needed to brace yourself for. Short of chaining yourself to Nancy’s car, you weren’t sure how you’d escape with your dignity intact. He was already kissing on you, soft and sweet, as Nancy slid into the driver’s seat while Eddie and Robin waved goodbye walking back inside.
You slip from his grasp in a flash, pulling him by the belt loops to knock hips. “Stevie, lover mine,” you sing, his palms cupping your ass as his hands slide into your back pockets.
Lover.
What a word.
You think about it every waking second—the way he stretches in the morning, how he sings in the shower, dances in the kitchen, smiles and beams at anyone who passes by—how good he is.
How you love him.
“Mm—” raspy, tongue darting out to wet his lips.
Feet walking you closer and closer and you’re pressed against him. Nosing along the column of his neck, nipping at the delicate skin there, watching as his throat bobs when he swallows. 
Hands free themselves from denim confines, a thumb caresses the small of your back. Steve pries your hand from his chest, and brings it to his mouth, placing a tender kiss against your palm. 
You hum as his lips brush your skin, observing as he meanders to the thin flesh of your wrist. Hazel eyes near golden in the morning sun as Steve looks to you, face open and fond. Lips featherlight when they kiss your thundering pulse.
Only then do you start to break. 
You thought you were prepared. But it steals the breath from your lungs, levelling you to ruin, a creeping sense of hopelessness in its wake. 
He’s quick to notice, crushing you to his chest and hand cradling your head. Soothing murmurs of “S’okay honey, we’ll be alright,” and the rasp of your name. Fingers brushing hair from your face with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
And it is hard to leave him, but you can do difficult things.
Forehead bent to yours, back warm in the sun’s decorous rays, a searing tear-laden kiss and you’re off. Turned back in your seat to see him recede in the distance until he’s a mere speck on the horizon as Nancy tugs you forward.
All the goodbyes had all been said, save one thing lodged in the depths of your throat. 
I love you. 
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texasobserver · 4 months
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“A Paris to Marfa March for Reproductive Rights” by Gayle Reaves, from the November/December issue of Texas Observer magazine:
Above: Louise Culbertson, 15, organized protests and rallies all over Texas on behalf of reproductive rights.
Louise Culbertson’s passion for political activism started when she heard about the murders of 17 students at a Parkland, Florida, school in 2018. With her mother’s help, she organized a demonstration in support of stronger gun laws in her hometown of Marfa. About 200 people showed up.
Culbertson was 10 years old at the time. She was proud to put Marfa on the map of places that had marched against gun violence, a list kept by March for Our Lives, the national organization of young people formed in the wake of Parkland to push back against the epidemic of shootings. 
It was something Marfa needed, Culbertson said. The fear of a mass shooting at her own school was real. The shooting at a Santa Fe, Texas, school had happened the same year as Parkland. Four years later, Uvalde’s tragedy would reinforce the bitter, tragic lesson. What happened at Parkland and the other schools “really, really scared me,” she said.
Fast-forward to summer of this year, and Culbertson, now 15, was organizing protests and rallies all over Texas, this time in support of reproductive rights. And doing it from Paris, France. Anger at the reversal of Roe v. Wade had turned up her activism by a couple of notches. Thanks to her mother’s French background, Culbertson and her brother had been able to enroll in school in Paris two years earlier. But Culbertson was coming home to Texas for the summer with a mission.
She started planning in April, and in May got in touch with a nonprofit called Deeds Not Words (founded by former state senator and gubernatorial candidate Wendy Davis) that helps young women build a stronger voice in politics. With their mentoring, Culbertson put together protest events in five cities. Amid Texas’ mind-numbing summer heat, she and her mom, Valerie Breuvart, drove from Austin to Houston, then to Dallas, El Paso, and home to Marfa. In Austin, only a handful of young people showed. In Houston, Dallas, and El Paso, Culbertson said, the turnout was about 20 to 30, from young teenagers to adults. Back home in Marfa, her event drew about 50 fellow protesters. In the other cities, Culbertson said, the events were in one place and featured speakers and people chanting and holding up signs. But in Marfa, she said, “We actually marched.”
“I loved it,” Culbertson said. “I definitely learned a lot. … We had great speakers.” And of course, she got to meet people all over the state and immerse herself in politics.
Where does her determination and interest in politics come from? Her father, Don Culbertson, is a physician’s assistant and her mother a teacher of art history. For more than a decade, they have owned and run a medical clinic in Marfa, with Breuvart working on the business side. “I was raised with my parents talking a lot about politics,” Culbertson said. She described them as “strong Democrats” who took her to polling places to show her how elections worked. “All my passion for politics comes from my parents cheering me along.”
The couple shared their daughter’s fears about gun violence and her concerns about the quality of the schooling that she and her brother would get in Texas. In 2021, they took a year’s sabbatical and went to France.
“We live here [in Marfa]; we have a business, our home. Louise was born on the living room floor here,” Don Culbertson said. But his wife’s background gave them the “opportunity to get a kick-ass education” in Paris for their kids. “And so we’re doing that. We’re so excited,” he said. For now, he and his wife return to Texas for a few weeks several times a year. While in France, Don Culbertson participates in the clinic via telemedicine. The whole family comes home in the summer. 
Louise Culbertson said that the language instruction she’s getting in Paris is the best part. The schools she would be going to in Texas offer little in the way of foreign language programs, she said, whereas in Paris, “half of my courses are in English, half in French, and you have to take a third language.” A small city in Texas—even if it’s Marfa—can’t offer the social life that is available in Paris, and then there are, of course, the opportunities for activism.
In Paris, Culbertson is active in a group called Democrats Abroad France doing things like helping register Americans to vote back home. Her brother Victor, 18, is “even more happy than I was to move to Paris.” She called him a “classic teenager … having fun.”
Her activism probably wouldn’t go over as well in other parts of conservative rural Texas. But Marfa and Presidio County tend to be a world of their own—very oriented toward the arts and politically, as she said, “one blue county in a whole pool of red.”
Culbertson “grew up in this town. Everybody looks out for each other here,” said Lisa Kettyle, a founding member of the Big Bend Reproductive Coalition. Culbertson said the coalition has helped her plan her local protest events. 
Natasha Acevedo, an outreach manager with Deeds Not Words, said Culbertson contacted the nonprofit last spring via Instagram. She shared her idea of a series of events around the state supporting reproductive freedom. The Roe v. Wade decision had “really made her feel heartbroken,” Acevedo said. Culbertson was one of the youngest activists they’d ever worked with, she’d reached out to them only about six weeks before the first event, and “she lived in a whole other country,” Acevedo said. But Culbertson “wanted some mentorship, and that’s what we do.” So the nonprofit agreed to help.
Deeds Not Words, which has been around about five years, has chapters on a handful of college campuses and is looking to add more. Acevedo said the group’s goal is to empower young people to deal with problems of gender inequality and to think about what a society built on equity would look like. “A lot of young people are very passionate about wanting things to change” but don’t know how to get started, Acevedo said. The nonprofit teaches them about building a community of like-minded people and starting with smaller concepts.
Acevedo helped Culbertson find the people she needed in each city, showed her how to create a pitch for her ideas, and met with her weekly to check on her progress. The 15-year-old was tenacious, passionate, and intelligent in how she dealt with people.
“She ended up having all the events she wanted,” Acevedo said, even though turnout was small for some. It shows that “no matter how young you are, you can make a difference.”
Culbertson said her aim is to “continue to grow awareness” about the repercussions of Texas’ severe abortion laws. A year after Roe v. Wade was overturned, she told the Big Bend Sentinel, “It’s still important to keep on marching … because this hasn’t gone away yet. And I’m not going to stop until it does go away.” 
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cadenza-damour · 6 months
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tw // vent
I've finished my exams and maybe I should reconsider my options but then - which ones? I don't want to give up but it makes me feel so despaired when nothing changes, even after I was allowed to get a second shot. Of course, it still inspires me, of course I want to invest more time and effort in this program but still... there's this little voice in my head that keeps telling me that I don't have a purpose, that i'm not cut out for this, that I should take another direction and this makes me feel so scared because I can't let all the money, time and energy go to waste. I can't afford a sabbatical year to not study and maybe pull myself together because my visa doesn't allow it.
If I was born white maybe it would have been a viable alternative but that's not the case, and I have to deal with it. It's unfair though. I remember how a teacher ignored the questions that me and my lab partner - who's also not white btw- have asked during lab training, but took the time to answer dutifully the ones that were raised by those white guys even though my lab partner and I literally approached him first. I mean- yeah I have social anxiety but for the sake of that f*cking lab training I really tried.
Also the jumpscare I had when I saw I got an unjustified absence during the exams! My brain's had a hard time to process this like there's no way because I literally did them all. I scrambled them in a foreign centre but I still did them all. Maybe there were some organization issues but still... they marked that on my results because I'm a foreigner and that's just unwarranted. As soon as they were out, l complained to the administration with all the proofs and now I am waiting anxiously for the real results. This week I barely made it out of bed. Tried many different ways to cope, I feel like shit and it's not getting better at all.
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phoenixspirits · 5 months
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@quantumstarpaths moved for beta editor from here
He doesn’t expect her to disagree with him, but it doesn’t change the fact that he feels put at ease, just a little, by the fact that she sees his point. Not that he doubts himself, but he rarely puts his feelings to words, even with Hugh, so perhaps the sensation is more like praise from a teacher. The confirmation that something done so rarely has been done correctly. He doesn’t want to dwell too much on that particular feeling either, though. He’d rather not focus on any feeling at all, which is why he’s lingered so long at his station, which is why her question isn’t an easy one to answer.
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“I wouldn’t know what to do if I did.” Which is a way of saying that despite the fact that it may do him some good, he prefers to work. Even if he can’t stand being on this ship now that Hugh’s gone. (He considers telling her about the teaching offer that was made to him, but something stops him.) “But…I know they’re offering us time if we want it, and my parents are going to want to see me before we get too far from orbit.” And he’ll need to see Hugh’s. And Justin’s. “That’s not exactly a vacation, though, is it?” Not in the way she means, and certainly not by any definition he would give the word. To answer her question, in short: no.
"Apparently not," Airiam agrees, warmth in her voice as the corners of her mouth pull upwards.
She tries to imagine Paul going on vacation, to a beach, or a national park, or a city break; and it's almost impossible to picture him without the familiar figure of Dr Culber beside him. It's the same reason that, in spite of her determination not to let grief decide her future, she has never yet been back to a beach. ( Trying to get sand out of her cybernetics sounds like a nightmare. ) She knows it's likely that Paul has the same problem, finding it impossible to imagine going anywhere without Hugh.
She muses on this as her fingers continue to swipe at the screen, glancing at Paul again only briefly. He looks tired; worn down. And that's only to be expected, but it makes her more determined to try and help, at least a little.
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"Have you considered a working holiday? A short sabbatical. I'm sure there are numerous universities or research institutes that would love to have you at their disposal for even a week or two."
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biblenewsprophecy · 2 months
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Sabbatarian explains why he’s convinced the end begins in 2026
COGwriter
A reader forwarded me a link to the following by Sabbatarian Tim McHyde:
Why I’m Convinced The End Begins in 2026—And What You Can Do About It
Since learning in 2001 that Yeshua must return in a Sabbath year, I’ve had to rule out three consecutive Sabbath year cycle windows for the final 7 years (2003-2009, 2010-2016, 2017-2023). This same insight enabled me to easily rule out every date-setting prophecy theory along the way, bringing comfort to many scared readers. With the next possible window for the 70th week coming next decade (2024-2030), I’m ready to share why I believe, based on the real end time sign of Mt 24:14, that this can be the one. …
To be clear as possible about my position on 2026:
I’m not saying “thus saith the Lord” or doing this “in God’s name.” I offer you no hard proof in signs or wonders that would accompany such a statement by the prophets.As such, I am not a prophet nor making myself out to be one.I am not a “watchman” nor am I here to “warn” anyone, either.I am not even making a “prediction” nor a definitive statement that “the end will for sure come in 2026.” For an example of a definitive statement from me, go to my article “Jesus cannot/will not come back in 2018.” Note that those who make doomsday date predictions are usually surprised or confused when they fail to happen. I won’t be because I already know it is possible I misunderstood given I did not hear the audible voice of God explicitly say “2026 is it.”I’m only sharing my conviction that 2026 is the end. …I’m sharing this revelation to bless and build up brethren (1Co 14:26) who want or are waiting for confirmation that time is short. …If 2026 must be ruled out early in the 2020s, I will be relieved with nothing to apologize for because my conviction shared below coupled with my teaching on repentance to escape what is coming will only help listeners to prioritize God in their life. Urgency about the end is a blessing when you have been told what the Bible says to do about it.Finally, my “reputation as a teacher” is not “on the line” as my 2026 date is not a teaching as much as sharing a revelation I am convinced is from God (1Co 14:26). In other words, a teaching of mine would be that the 70th week will come in some Sabbath year cycle. My conviction is that God has confirmed that 2024-2030 is the right cycle, making 2026 the “beginning of sorrows.” …
By the way, I hope my conviction is wrong. 06/09/2017 https://escapeallthesethings.com/2026-in-prophecy/ accessed 10/14/18
Anyway, I had seen this before, but decided since someone else brought it up, to address some of this here.
Please understand that Jesus DID NOT say to calculate the Sabbatical year, Jubilee year, or anything similar to figure out when the end would be.
So, be careful about doing so yourself or relying on those who mainly point to such calculations.
That being said, there is a small possibility that 2026 is a Sabbatical or Jubilee year.
Now, while certain events did happen in recent years, we did not see certain prophesied events take place (like the confirmation of the deal of Daniel 9:27), therefore Jesus will not return in 2026. That is simply too early at this stage.
To prove that, we need to look at what Jesus said would happen.
Let’s look at Matthew 24:
1 Then Jesus went out and departed from the temple, and His disciples came up to show Him the buildings of the temple.
2 And Jesus said to them, “Do you not see all these things? Assuredly, I say to you, not one stone shall be left here upon another, that shall not be thrown down.”
3 Now as He sat on the Mount of Olives, the disciples came to Him privately, saying, “Tell us, when will these things be? And what will be the sign of Your coming, and of the end of the age?”
4 And Jesus answered and said to them: “Take heed that no one deceives you.
5 For many will come in My name, saying, ‘I am the Christ,’ and will deceive many. (Matthew 24:1-5)
Jesus warned that people would deceive many.
To help those with the love of the truth, He gave many specific signs to look for:
6 And you will hear of wars and rumors of wars. See that you are not troubled; for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.
7 For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences, and earthquakes in various places.
8 All these are the beginning of sorrows.
9 Then they will deliver you up to tribulation and kill you, and you will be hated by all nations for My name’s sake.
10 And then many will be offended, will betray one another, and will hate one another.
11 Then many false prophets will rise up and deceive many.
12 And because lawlessness will abound, the love of many will grow cold.
13 But he who endures to the end shall be saved.
14 And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached in all the world as a witness to all the nations, and then the end will come. (Matthew 24:6-14)
Tim McHyde is correct that Matthew 24:14 is a pivotal step that must be fulfilled before the end comes.
And that is something that we in the Continuing Church of God are working hard to help fulfill. See also our free online booklet: The Gospel of the Kingdom of God. This booklet is available in over 100 languages as you can find if you scroll down at the home page at www.ccog.org
Now, see what Jesus said happens after the “gospel of the kingdom will be preached in all the world as a witness to all the nations“:
15 “Therefore when you see the ‘abomination of desolation,’ spoken of by Daniel the prophet, standing in the holy place” (whoever reads, let him understand),
16 then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains.
17 Let him who is on the housetop not go down to take anything out of his house.
18 And let him who is in the field not go back to get his clothes.
19 But woe to those who are pregnant and to those who are nursing babies in those days!
20 And pray that your flight may not be in winter or on the Sabbath.
21 For then there will be great tribulation, such as has not been since the beginning of the world until this time, no, nor ever shall be.
22 And unless those days were shortened, no flesh would be saved; but for the elect’s sake those days will be shortened. (Matthew 24:15-22)
Jesus referring to Daniel does add a time period. More on that can be found in the article The ‘Peace Deal’ of Daniel 9:27.
As far as WHEN Jesus will return, notice what He said:
29 “Immediately after the tribulation of those days the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light; the stars will fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken.
30 Then the sign of the Son of Man will appear in heaven, and then all the tribes of the earth will mourn, and they will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds of heaven with power and great glory.
31 And He will send His angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they will gather together His elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other. (Matthew 24:29-31)
So, since Jesus returns AFTER the tribulation is over, many have correctly figured out that this would be seven years after the deal of Daniel 9:27 is confirmed. That did not happen by the end of 2020 so Jesus will not return in 2027 either.
Now, Tim McHyde did not state that Jesus would come in 2026, only that he believed that the beginning of sorrows would start then. Well, there is evidence that this has begun.
But we need to watch events to see other things that Jesus pointed out.
As far as watching goes, Jesus taught:
37 And what I say to you, I say to all: Watch! (Mark 13:37)
Let us notice here something that the Bible teaches:
10 … Worship God! For the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy. (Revelation 19:10)
Prophecy is important.
But part of the point of prophecy is to get YOUR spiritual life in order. That is more important than knowing the date.
Enough people predict dates that some, by chance, will get it right.
But notice something else that Jesus taught:
34 “But take heed to yourselves, lest your hearts be weighed down with carousing, drunkenness, and cares of this life, and that Day come on you unexpectedly.
35 For it will come as a snare on all those who dwell on the face of the whole earth.
36 Watch therefore, and pray always that you may be counted worthy to escape all these things that will come to pass, and to stand before the Son of Man.” (Luke 21:34-36)
In order to “be counted worthy to escape all these things that will come to pass, and to stand before the Son of Man,” you need to get your spiritual life in order.
The following may be of assistance:
Is God Calling You? This booklet discusses topics including calling, election, and selection. If God is calling you, how will you respond? Here is are links to related sermons: Christian Election: Is God Calling YOU? and Predestination and Your Selection. A short animation is also available: Is God Calling You?
Christian Repentance Do you know what repentance is? Is it really necessary for salvation? Two related sermons about this are also available: Real Repentance and Real Christian Repentance.
Christians: Ambassadors for the Kingdom of God, Biblical instructions on living as a Christian This is a scripture-filled booklet for those wishing to live as a real Christian. A related sermon is also available: Christians are Ambassadors for the Kingdom of God.
Prayer: What Does the Bible Teach? This free booklet contains 28 biblically-based tips on improving the effectiveness of your prayers. This is a pdf. A related two part sermon is available: What Does the Bible Teach About Prayer? and What does the Bible Teach About Prayer (& Healing)?
That being said the end, meaning the start of the Great Tribulation, is coming soon.
Europeans are more and more deciding to get their military together. Notice something from yesterday:
“Europe is in danger,” Borrell said in the forewordof the full strategy document that has been sent to the EU’s 27 states for debate. “We need to have rapid deployment capabilities,” he also told reporters. …
With the blessing of U.S. President Joe Biden in a communique with French President Emmanuel Macron last month, the EU argues it can be a more useful ally to the United States if it develops standalone military capacities. https://www.reuters.com/world/europe/europe-is-danger-top-diplomat-propose-eu-military-doctrine-2021-11-10/
Fear is a powerful motivator–and a Europe fearing danger will take steps. As it will be a European force that will attack the USA around the start of the Great Tribulation, such a force will be more developed soon.
2027 might be a possible date–it is the EARLIEST possible date–but I think it is too early.
Is the end near? When might Jesus return?
To help better scripturally know the answer to those questions, the Continuing Church of God (CCOG) put together the following video on our Bible News Prophecy YouTube channel:
youtube
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Tribulation in 2024?
Some claim that the Great Tribulation will begin in 2024. Some say that Jesus will return in 2024. Are either of those events possible based upon the words of our Savior or the prophet Daniel? Why or why not? What about September 12, 2024? When is the Day of Atonement in 2024? Are various heavenly signs to occur before or after the tribulation? What about the ‘peace deal’ of Daniel 9:26-27? Could the war between Hamas and Israel expand to directly involve Iran, Syria, Hezbollah, and others? What about the ‘Union for the Mediterranean’ and the King of the North and the King of the South? If God has a 6,000 year plan for humanity to be under Satan’s sway, might Jesus return in 2031, with the countdown to His return beginning in the Fall or some other time in 2024? Steve Dupuie and Dr. Thiel go over these matters.
Here is a link to our video: Tribulation in 2024?
The end is getting closer–but it will not be in 2026.
Related Items:
When Will the Great Tribulation Begin? 2024, 2025, or 2026? Can the Great Tribulation begin today? What happens before the Great Tribulation in the “beginning of sorrows”? What happens in the Great Tribulation and the Day of the Lord? Is this the time of the Gentiles? When is the earliest that the Great Tribulation can begin? What is the Day of the Lord? Who are the 144,000? Here is a version of the article in the Spanish language: ¿Puede la Gran Tribulación comenzar en el 2020 o 2021? ¿Es el Tiempo de los Gentiles? A related video is: Great Tribulation: 2026 or 2027? A shorter video is: Tribulation in 2024? Here is a video in the Spanish language: Es El 2021 el año  de La Gran Tribulación o el Grande Reseteo Financiero.
Could God Have a 6,000 Year Plan? What Year Does the 6,000 Years End? Was a 6000 year time allowed for humans to rule followed by a literal thousand year reign of Christ on Earth taught by the early Christians? Does God have 7,000 year plan? What year may the six thousand years of human rule end? When will Jesus return? 2031 or 2025 or? There is also a video titled: When Does the 6000 Years End? 2031? 2035? Here is a link to the article in Spanish: ¿Tiene Dios un plan de 6,000 años?
Armageddon Who is involved and when will this gathering happen? Here is also a video from Dr. Thiel, from Tel Megiddo in Israel: Armageddon. Other videos include: Armageddon Will it come on Trump’s watch?, Iraq, Armageddon, & Prophecy, Freemasonry, Armageddon, and Rome, Is China paving roads to Armageddon?, and Jordan, Petra, and Armageddon.
The ‘Peace Deal’ of Daniel 9:27 This prophecy could give up to 3 1/2 years advance notice of the coming Great Tribulation. Will most ignore or misunderstand its fulfillment? Here is a link to a related sermon video Daniel 9:27 and the Start of the Great Tribulation. A short video is also available titled Trump’s Deal of the Century and Daniel 9 27
The Laodicean Church Era has been predominant circa 1986 A.D. to present. The Laodiceans are non-Philadelphians who mainly descended from the old WCG or its offshoots.  They do not properly understand the work or biblical prophecies and will face the Great Tribulation if they do not repent. One video of related interest is 50+ Laodicean Prophetic Errors. See also Do You Hold to Any of These Laodicean Prophetic Errors?
The Gospel of the Kingdom of God This free online pdf booklet has answers many questions people have about the Gospel of the Kingdom of God and explains why it is the solution to the issues the world is facing. Here are links to three related sermons: The World’s False Gospel, The Gospel of the Kingdom: From the New and Old Testaments, and The Kingdom of God is the Solution.
LATEST NEWS REPORTS
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microfinanseer · 10 months
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First weeks in Mexico City have been exciting, emotional, and enchanting. What a place! And being able to reconnect with family while here has also been very good for me. As we learn more about our cultural history, we learn more about ourselves, don't we?
I've been meaning to start blogging again since arriving, but admittedly have been so distracted (in both good and challenging ways) while in Mexico City, that somehow the time is already getting away from me. That last part of the sentence is the way I learned recently that a Mexican might gladly use the much-embraced passive voice. I didn't forget, but rather the time got away from me. Not my fault. Time's fault.
I'll do better to blog more and post more photos of my current adventures here while working on a book project with my partner, Baylen. We are doing short-term travel in Mexico for the next several months to continue to research and begin writing a book draft of a novel based on my experiences living here in 1982, when it was still known as the D.F. I moved here then from a suburb of Baltimore, Maryland. It's a fictional memoir, if you like. Back then, we didn't end up living here for more than 9 months, but the experience of living here at 11 years old, a very formative period of development, left so many strong impressions on me that have been brewing in my mind for years. It feels like the time to share them more widely now. And so with the partnership of my life partner, we're working on a story.
While here, in addition to the book research and writing, I've decided to spend time improving my Spanish and immersing myself in some creative endeavors. Last week, I took a week-long conversational Spanish class with the wonderful folks at Spanish in the City, where I got to meet some other cool travelers and learn from some stellar teachers. Last week I also started an 8-week long mini-fiction or flash fiction class with Prof. Armando Alanis at the beautiful Centro de Creación Literaria Xavier Villaurrutia. And next month, I'm scheduled to take a pottery class at Taller Contorno, where I will get back in touch with clay and take a deeper dive into the wheel experience. I first took ceramics class in college and then again about 20 years ago, so very excited to embrace this art form again.
In addition to seeing all the city has to offer, I also have spent some time with family who live just outside of CDMX in the small and pretty town of Tlaxcala. It was a great visit and fun to see family, some of whom I hadn't seen for over 20 years or never met in person, and I enjoyed the quieter overnights compared to the bustle of the capital. Life moves slower there and there is much less development. The winding bus ride allowed me vistas of the volcanoes closest to Mexico City, including El Popo that is currently making its presence known again.
I commit to posting more often over the next several months as I travel. After Mexico City, our plan is to head to the Yucatan Peninsula and have some adventures there at the beach and in the jungle. But for now, we are enjoying and settling into a good routine here in CDMX. It's really a lovely, albeit immense place, and I feel lucky to have been able to make the time to take this career sabbatical and embrace more creative projects now.
A few highlights of my time in Mexico City so far & in no special order:
Learning that for decades I was likely speaking Spanish grammatically incorrect in spite of speaking it since I was a child. Until last week I never took a formal class and learned by doing, that's for sure. I just spoke based on what I learned from family and neighbors. Never too late to learn and grow, so it's all good. I appreciate that I'll now practice correct Spanish grammar regularly.
Realizing I can't have enough mole, quesadillas, guavas, or atole. The food here is spectacular even from the most modest of vendors. And talk about baked goods! Some of the best bakeries I've been to while traveling, including in Europe.
Appreciating that Mexico City has more parks and green spaces than I ever knew as a kid. I honestly never saw that side of the city much when we lived here in the early 80s. Walking the main tree-lined streets is a treat. Chapultepec is a natural wonder on its own!
Enjoying my favorite cantina in this city.
Embracing that ice cream is taken very seriously here. This classic spot near where I'm staying is already my favorite.
Question: If you know me, you know fragrance and smell are very important to me. I'm a big lover of perfumes. So why hasn't scented toilet paper really taken off in the U.S? It's a very pleasant surprise and now feels essential to me.
The photo at the top of the post is from the early 70s on one of my first trips to Mexico City with my mom (in the fashionable lilac). I don't know what I was crying about, but I do love my facial expression here. I do nothing else better than to wear my heart on my sleeve sometimes. Unrelated and ICYMI, here is the Spotify playlist I created for inspiration to work on my current book project. It's music I recall hearing while living here in 1982. Hasta pronto!
Until next week!
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howtosavethehumans · 1 year
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It all hurts so much. It's been almost 4 years since I've got to hug you and almost 6 years since I moved away. I want you to know, my precious child, that nothing has ever pained me more in this life. I only left because your grandma said she was terminal and initially came to say goodbye, but I'm glad to report she did a natural therapy and is doing better. I've worked this entire time to build you something here, but nothing has worked out. I have fought for us and fought for us but it hasn't come together the way I envisioned it. Instead of giving you the world, I feel like I've lost almost everything. I barely get to talk to you.. I hope after six years, this brings you back into my life so that I might protect and raise you like a father should. Perhaps this will be like the Sabbatical year for us. If it should turn out otherwise, at least you can get to see your dad, know my mind, and understand how much I love you. I think the only thing we can change is ourselves, but we can assist others in achieving that change, and this alters the frequency and vibration of the multiverse and of humanity itself. I want the world to experience the great party we were promised in the Torah and I believe it is love that will get us there. We all make a difference. We are all students, we are all teachers. As rastas like to say, “Each one, teach one.” We are all a virtuoso at something. The day you were born was the day the world decided it couldn't exist without you. Find that inside yourself and shine into the world. Who will rise up and be the next voice, the next hands, and the next heart to help set humanity on a higher path of love, peace, and understanding? As Hillel said, “If not you, then who? If not now, then when?
Good deed of the week, go tell a person you see this week that you love them. It can be a family member or a friend, or someone you see often. Don't do it to strangers yet. Say, “I want you to know that I have love for you. Save the Humans.” For extra credit, say it to a different person each day of the week
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thewholeguacamole · 4 years
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Is it weird for me to find encouragement weird?
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homoose · 3 years
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Teach Me Something I Don’t Know: Part VII
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Summary: Spencer’s unresolved trauma catches up with him. Reader gets her heart broken.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader
Category: angst, I’m so sorry guys
Warnings/Includes: brief mention of violence and details of a case; brief mention of prison, past trauma; a lil self-loathing and self-sabotaging
Word count: 3.8k
a/n: I knew that this was where this story was going from the very beginning. The dialogue is one of the first parts I had written. It still hurts. Relevant to the story: I operate with the understanding that the Jeid arc does not exist, which also means that Spencer never went to therapy in season 15. Also, huge thanks to @reidscanehand​ for beta-ing and just generally being my hype person!!!!
Song Recs: Shrike by Hozier; Better As a Memory by Kenny Chesney (don’t come for me if Spencer made playlists this would ABSOLUTELY be on there)
Series Masterlist
———
Spencer made his way to Emily’s office, ignoring the team’s eyes on him— varying degrees of understanding, concern, and uncertainty plain on their faces. As he reached the threshold, he paused for a second before moving into her line of sight. When he moved into the doorway, she looked up and waved him in. He closed the door behind him.
She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. Spencer hesitated for only a split second, but it was long enough for her to notice. He lowered himself into the chair and met her eyes.
She folded her hands on top of the desk. “How are you feeling?”
He drummed his fingers across his kneecaps. “I’m fine.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. She bit back a sigh and flipped open the folder in front of her. “I’m finished with the official report. I wanted to go over it with you before I submit it to the director.” She looked at him briefly before reading out the report. “On January 9th, our team pursued a lead at the residence of suspect Andrew Hurley. We divided into teams to cover the two entrances to the home, as well as the barn behind the house.”
Spencer fidgeted slightly in his chair and rubbed the tips of his fingers together. Emily continued, “During the raid, Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid became separated from the team and was ambushed and disarmed by the suspect in the barn.” She paused but didn’t look at him. “The team was unaware of the altercation for some time, during which Dr. Reid employed various approved restraint methods and was ultimately forced to utilize self-defense measures to preserve his own life. Consequently, Mr. Hurley sustained serious injuries.”
She did look at him then, a steady and unrelenting gaze that had him shrinking inside himself. “However, I have determined that Dr. Reid’s actions were justified in order to maintain his own safety.” She returned her eyes to the report. “Mr. Hurley was detained and treated for his injuries at Sebastian River Medical Center, and he is expected to make a full recovery. Based on the cognitive interviews and physical evidence, a grand jury hearing is scheduled for January 25th.” She brought her hands to rest on top of the report.
“I’ll sign off on it and deliver it to the director by the end of business today.” She let out the sigh she’d been holding back. “Reid.”
He pressed his mouth into a thin line, torn between shame and vindication. “Emily.”
“What happened in that barn was unacceptable. And I need you to recognize that.” Her eyes were back on him, a leader’s gaze boring into a weak link. “You went against a direct order. You put your life in danger unnecessarily, and in the process you endangered this entire team. Furthermore, you could have cost us the ability to close this case, to put Hurley away and bring justice to his victims.”
“It won’t happen again,” he assured her.
“No, it won’t.” Her tone told him that if it did, he’d have bigger problems than a meeting in her office. “My recommendation to the director is that you transition to your next mandatory leave cycle early.”
“I can handle—”
“It’s not a request. You’re on sabbatical starting tomorrow. That’s an order, and one you’d do well to follow.” She closed the file in front of her. “We’ll see you back in the bullpen on March 7th.”
“I don’t need more time off, Emily,” Spencer snapped.
He could see her grind her teeth together at his tone, but he couldn’t seem to care enough to feel contrite. She took a deep breath in through her nose, leveling him with a pointed look. “If Simmons hadn’t broken it up, you’d have killed Hurley on the floor of that barn.”
His mind snapped back to the lifeless eyes of Hurley’s victims— eight year old boys in shallow graves. Boys who died afraid, and in pain, and crying out for their mothers. His thoughts raced to the feel of Hurley’s throat under his arm, the crack of the zygomatic under his fist. Emily was right of course. If Matt hadn’t found them in the barn and dragged him up and off of Hurley’s nearly lifeless body, Spencer would have killed him without compunction.
“Reid.” The stern edge was gone from her voice. Spencer refocused his eyes on her face, now showcasing an underlying concern that made his stomach turn. “I’m not recommending another cycle of mandatory counseling at this time, although I reserve the right to require it moving forward. But… I’m asking you to take care of yourself. You’ve been through a lot in the last two years. More than a lot.”
“I said I’m fine,” he insisted, but there was less fire behind it this time.
“And I’m not saying you aren’t,” she countered. “But I am saying that the person in that barn… that wasn’t you. That was not the Reid that I know.” Emily tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “The Reid I know uses his intellect and empathy to see angles that the rest of us miss. He depends on the strength of his mind and his unwavering compassion to diffuse conflicts without violence. He invites his friends to foreign film showings and puppet theater.”
When he didn’t budge, she let out a long breath. “I want you to take the next fifty days to find that Reid and bring him back to us.”
...
Y/N dropped into her desk chair with a huff. They’d been back from winter break for two weeks, and she already needed another vacation. But tomorrow was Friday, and then they had a long weekend. She could make it through one more day.
She closed her eyes for a long moment, tired in the way that only kindergarten teachers fresh off a long break can be. She heard the click of Anita’s shoes coming before she even entered the room, and Y/N couldn’t stop the twitch of her lips.
“Dude. How is it only Thursday?” Anita flopped down into the plush Calm Corner chair.
“This has been the longest week of my life,” Y/N agreed. “My kids were off the chain.”
“There is so much drama in middle school right now,” Anita groaned. “I can’t keep up with all the tea, and you know how I love to stay up to date on the freshest brews.” She shot Y/N a look. “Speaking of, where’s the good doctor?”
“I think they’ve had a lot going on at work,” Y/N surmised. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Jareau in over a month.”
“Well, I’m getting antsy,” Anita complained. “Thought for sure you’d be going steady by now.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help but feel a little impatient herself. If she’d known it would be this long before she’d see him again, she might have made a move when he’d volunteered. Then again, probably not. She sighed.
Her phone chimed with an email message, and she automatically swiped the screen open to read it.
Spencer Reid Re:
Are you free today? If you are, I’ll be at Soho.
...
Spencer sat at the table in the corner of the coffee shop. He sipped absentmindedly at his tea, almost gone cold. He hadn’t waited for a reply before leaving Quantico. He drove straight to the city, figuring he’d wait at Soho until he felt some semblance of calm returning to his body.
He didn’t know why he’d emailed Y/N, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to show up. Usually he’d talk to Penelope or maybe JJ. But he’d wanted to get as far from the BAU as possible, and he didn’t want to drag Penelope away from the colorful, safe corner of the world she’d created for herself. He didn’t want to fill it with all the tragedy she’d tried so hard to leave behind.
If Y/N did show, he was certain he could keep the conversation vague, focus on her and the classroom, ask her about her holidays. She wasn’t a profiler, didn’t know his tells well enough. She’d be none the wiser, and he’d have her warmth and presence to focus his energy on, if only for a few hours.
Every time the bell chimed, his eyes flew to the door, searching for her. He knew it was ridiculous. He’d only known her for one hundred and eleven days. Pragmatically, he knew she shouldn’t be the one he wanted to talk to. Realistically, he wasn’t planning to burden her with all of the mess of the past week, the past year, his entire life.
But in the six hundred and forty seven minutes he’d spent with her since September, he’d felt more like himself than he ever had. He was never afraid to be himself with her— the silly story voices, the ridiculous costume, the magic trick, the vulnerability about his mom. All of these pieces of himself were things he usually waited years to show people. It had taken her a matter of weeks to draw them out.
He couldn’t help but believe that if he wanted to, he could tell her everything. She’d know exactly what to say. She’d listen for as long as he could keep talking. She’d cover his shaking hands and wrap him up in the warmth of her spirit. She’d give of herself to guide him back to the person he used to be. She’d be more than willing to use her radiance to illuminate the dark so that he might have a little light again.
The bell sounded, and his eyes focused, and there she was. She was wrapped up in a puffed jacket, a bright blue scarf tied around her neck. Her nose was adorably red from the cold, and she rubbed her hands together as the door closed behind her. Her eyes found him immediately. A small smile turned up the corners of her mouth, and she gave him an enthusiastic wave. And he knew that he was right about all of it.
She approached the table, unwinding her scarf. “Hi!”
“Hi.”
Her eyes flickered over his face, and then settled on his mostly empty mug. “I’ll get you a refill, and then we’ll catch up?”
He nodded, and she headed to the counter. There had been a part of him that thought she wouldn’t come, but of course she did. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, she liked talking to him. Even among his closest friends, he was often made to feel self-conscious about his tendency to ramble, but Y/N had literally asked him to. She sought him out, asked him questions, listened intently, and remembered things he’d told her. She was kind and thoughtful and genuine. Of course she came when he called.
She returned with two mugs, carefully setting them down on the tiny table. She unzipped and removed her jacket, hanging it on the back of her chair and revealing a crew neck sweater covered in tiny astronauts and rocket ships. When she sat across from him, her hands wrapped around the mug and her eyes met his.
“Hi.”
He couldn’t stop his lips from twitching, despite the events of the day. “You said that already.”
She laughed, and he felt the weight begin to lift. “Yeah, well, I haven’t seen you in forever, so— I’m just making up for lost time.”
“Sixty one days.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s been sixty one days, eighty eight minutes, and approximately,” he looked at his watch, “fourteen seconds since we saw each other last.”
She laughed again, and his mouth completed its curve. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I like that you’ve been counting.” She let her chin come to rest in her hand, eyes studying his face. “How are you?”
He wanted to lie, but she was looking at him so earnestly that he mumbled out, “I’m managing.”
She mirrored the way he’d looked at her across this same table nearly three months ago. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” That was a lie, too. But asking her to meet him was enough of a burden.
“Okay. Well, if you change your mind at any point, let me know.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Until then, I can just regale you with all the kindergarten stories you’ve missed while you were out saving lives.”
And regale him she did. For almost an hour, he listened to her tales of love (budding crushes were taking over recess time), loss (the class pet— a stuffed zebra— had accidentally taken a swim in the Atlantic on a vacation to Florida), and lessons learned…
“So, in case there was ever any doubt, we are now painfully aware that we shouldn’t attempt to flush our underwear.” Y/N let out an exasperated laugh.
She’d been talking to him for fifty three minutes, and his heart already felt one thousand times lighter. “I’m really glad I wasn’t there for that one.”
“I really wish that was the only poop story I had.” She shook her head. “There are a lot of things they don’t tell you in grad school. I think there’d be a global teacher shortage if they warned you about the amount of bodily fluid management involved in teaching kindergarten.”
She toyed with the edge of her empty mug. He watched the movement of her fingers.
“Do you—”
“Do you—”
She laughed and gestured for him to speak first.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
They ended up in Mitchell Park. The trees were bare and the grass was brown, but he was with her, and so it was beautiful.
They’d been walking in comfortable silence, when she asked, “Did you change your mind? About talking about it.”
Spencer put his hands into his pockets. “It’s, um— it’s kind of a lot.”
She shrugged. “I’ve got time.”
“I don’t mean— I mean, it would take some time to get through it all. But it’s also— it’s a lot.”
“We don’t have to.” He could feel her eyes on him. “Do you talk to— someone about it?”
“I talked with my unit chief today,” he answered.
“Okay. But— I mean, have you ever— talked to someone. Like, a professional.”
Spencer bristled slightly. Although he knew she wasn’t passing judgement, her question exposed the reality that she thought he could use it. “I’ve had some mandated counseling over the years.”
“Obviously it’s your choice whether you talk to someone or not,” she mused. “I just— I know that I’ve benefited a lot from seeing my therapist.”
Spencer was unsure of what to do with that information. Here she was, confessing that she went to therapy— sweet, lovely Y/N. In comparison, he wasn’t sure if even daily meetings with a counselor would be enough to tame the darkness that had grown and festered inside him over the years. That sometimes threatened to swallow him whole.
For a long while, there was only the crunch of the frozen ground beneath their feet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was an uncertainty about them that felt uncharacteristically heavy. He was hyper aware of her presence, and so he felt her pace slowing down before she came to a complete stop. He walked a few more paces before it became clear that she wasn’t planning to catch up.
He turned and saw that she’d taken a seat on one of the park benches. He carefully made his way to the bench, sitting beside her quietly. She didn’t look at him, but instead studied her fingernails intently. She cracked her knuckles once, twice, and then turned her body slightly toward him on the bench.
“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” she hedged carefully. “I didn’t mean to tell you what to do, or like, imply that there’s anything wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with you at all. I just—”
“It’s fine,” Spencer assured her. The way she looked at him then— like he was something fragile, delicate— made his eyes burn. He kept his voice even. “I know what you meant.”
She smiled, eyes crinkling and filled with something that felt familiar and far away all at once. “Good. I can’t have you out here thinking you’re anything less than wonderful.”
He couldn’t stop looking at her, attempting to solve the impossible cypher behind her irises. As he failed to decode it, his inability to read her blinded him to what came next. He missed the dilation of her pupils, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips, the increase of the beats in her carotid. So when she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his, he was momentarily paralyzed.
Her lips were so soft against his slightly chapped ones, pressing with a perfectly gentle pressure. She brought her hand up to cradle his cheek, the pads of her fingers just barely ghosting the curls falling around his ear. She sighed into his mouth and pressed a little closer. He took one peaceful moment to bask in the realization of a desire he’d had for almost four months.
And then she swiped the very tentative tip of her tongue against the seam of his mouth, and his hands involuntarily wound into her hair, dragging her closer. He opened his mouth against hers to swallow her sweet little gasp. His grip on her hair tightened, and she let out the tiniest mewl, and like a switch had flipped— suddenly his mind was full of the darkness she’d spent the evening chasing away.
Y/N beneath him in the dark. Maeve in a pool of blood. His hands around Cat’s neck. His mother’s slap against his cheek. Max walking away from him. His fingers pressing the plunger on a dirty syringe. The slam of the door behind his father. Y/N calling out his name. A knife at his throat under a canopy of bones. Innumerable sets of lifeless eyes staring up at him. His life being snuffed out on the dirt floor of a shed. The clanging of metal bars and fingers ghosting over old bruises. Y/N looking at him with warm, loving eyes. The violent crack of bone underneath his fists. Y/N’s face, lovely and perfect— and then twisted in pain.
He broke away from her, releasing his hold on her hair and pushing her back into the bench. He took a second to gather himself before he dared to look at her. Her hair was tousled from his rough grip; her eyes were half-lidded and focused on him; her lips were red and kiss-bruised and turned up in a small, sweet smile.
And all at once he knew he had to hurt her, and it had to be now. Because what Cat had said about him was true. He might have escaped his mother’s illness, but he hadn’t been able to outrun the violence— and unlike her, he didn’t have the excuse of being sick. He had hurt people, and he had enjoyed it. He would have killed Hurley, and he would have slept soundly. He was no better than the men his team hunted.
Every time he thought he’d moved past it, that wickedness lurking just under the surface would grab him by the throat, choking everything else out. Emily’s directive rang in his ears. Find that Reid and bring him back to us. He knew who she was talking about. The problem was, he wasn’t sure that person still existed.
He was going to hurt Y/N eventually. Better to do it now, before things got too far.
“You’re Michael’s teacher,” he said, as evenly as possible.
Her smile faltered, and she pressed her lips together. He could still feel the phantom press of them against his own, and he was sure he’d never forget it. She cleared her throat. “You’re right, you’re totally right. I, um— I won’t be in a few months, and maybe then—”
“You don’t even know me,” he interrupted.
Now there was confusion in her eyes. That much he could read. She huffed out a small laugh. “I— I don’t think that’s entirely true.”
He looked directly at her. “Why? Because you read my bio on a university website? Because we got tea a couple times?” His voice sounded harsh, patronizing, and he hated it.
Her confusion shifted into shock, and he ignored the tug on his heart. “Are you serious?” she questioned, genuinely searching for a sign that he was joking.
“Dead serious.” He shrugged, and it felt like his bones were breaking. “You don’t really know anything about me, Y/N. If you did, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
“Where— where is this coming from?” Her voice was small, close to breaking. He lined up the last nail on the lid of the coffin.
“Maybe I gave you the wrong impression. I’ve appreciated talking to you. Volunteering in your classroom was entertaining. But I don’t— I don’t see you that way.” It was a lie, and if he didn’t have such a practiced poker face, she might have seen through it. As it was, his poker face had helped get him banned from every casino in Vegas, so he watched her as he hammered the final nail. “You’re just Michael’s kindergarten teacher.”
“Oh.” The hurt flashed across her features— the furrow of her brow, the tightening of her mouth, the storm clouds in her eyes. “Well, I— I really read this wrong, huh?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“Yeah.” He put his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching for her, the desire to comfort her a strange juxtaposition to the pain he was intentionally inflicting on her. “I guess so.”
She opened and closed her mouth twice before taking a deep breath and nearly whispering, “Okay. Well. I’m— I’m gonna go.”
She brushed some imaginary dust from her pants and then stood. She turned to him, and he waited for her to explode— to scream and curse at him. But it didn’t come. She didn’t look at him at all. “Um— yeah. I’m gonna go.”
He didn’t say anything, and he knew she’d take his silence as indifference. But he had to keep his mouth shut, because if he didn’t, he’d beg her to stay. He’d tell her every single random piece of information he had stored in his brain. He’d tell her that he loved her from the moment he watched her help a child pick a solution from a pencil box. He’d tell her that he only ever dreamt of two things these days— her or the lives he didn’t save. He’d tell her every single one of his deepest, darkest secrets. He’d tell her that sometimes he was so afraid of himself that he could barely breathe. And if he told her all of that, she’d walk away anyway.
So instead, he watched her turn and start back up the path, hugging her arms around herself and swiping her cheek against her scarf.
When she disappeared over the slope of the path, he scrubbed his hands over his own damp face and let himself break.
———
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Text
Rain Check
Spencer Reid x (gender neutral) Reader
Word Count: 2860
Warnings: Lots of sexual tension and pining and ~heated glances~ or whatever but no actual sexy times. Author plays fast and loose with the canonical details of Spencer’s teaching sabbatical, as well as the logistics of grad school. There’s a teacher-student thing going on, but no weird age gap or whatever. Excessive objectification of Spencer’s hands, because really, what else do you expect from me? 
A/N: For the “mutual pining” square on my @cmbingo​ card! 
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You trail off. Spencer’s staring like he’s waiting for you to say something else, even though you’ve been rambling for a while now. 
“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. 
“For what?” 
“You probably didn’t need to know all of that.”
He blinks, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. 
Something about him makes you want to open up; it’s been almost an hour of nonstop conversation, and you haven’t told him what you’re studying or even where you’re studying, but you feel like you’ve known him for years. You’ve talked about your favorite books and assorted high school traumas. He keeps insisting he’s not good at small talk anyway. 
“I really like listening to you talk,” he says, soft and sweet. “I just… I like watching you talk, too. I noticed your eyelashes and — and I got distracted.” 
Your cheeks feel hot, suddenly. You know the feeling. 
“Oh,” you manage.
There’s something about his hands; they’re just very fucking distracting, and every time he tucks his hair behind his ears, you lose your train of thought. It doesn’t help that he keeps absently-mindedly twirling a pen as he talks, long dexterous fingers moving with precise little movements, and — yeah. Distracting is putting it mildly. There’s this constant low flicker of want in your gut. 
“It’s been a long time since I enjoyed myself this much in a bar,” he admits, with a self-conscious little half-smile. 
“Me too.” 
Probably helps you’re not actually inside the bar. You’re tucked in the corner of the deck, leaning on the railing, and even though it’s crowded, you’ve barely noticed your surroundings. Every time you look at him, the rest of the world feels distant, like one of those perfect movie moments where the crowd parts and the hero and heroine walk toward each other in slow motion, meeting in a spotlight as everything else fades away. 
It’s just… those moments don’t happen, not in real life and certainly not to you. It’s never as simple as that: see — want — have. 
You can’t help but hope that this time might be different. 
Spencer’s smiling, and the way he looks at you with those big soft eyes makes you feel like you’re standing in a spotlight. It’s not a bad thing, necessarily. It’s just unusual, this jittery, excited, not-exactly-stage-fright thing happening in your chest. 
You have to remind yourself to breathe. 
The pause stretches a bit too long, and in an effort to fill the silence you blurt out, “What are you thinking about?” 
He hesitates, and his tongue slides along his lower lip, drawing your attention to his plush pink mouth as he says, “I was thinking—”
“Spence! There you are!” someone says loudly, and you’d be embarrassed by the way you jump, startled, if Spencer didn’t do the exact same thing. 
“Hey. Emily. Um… what’s up?” His voice cracks. He looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar; it’s flattering and oddly endearing. 
“We have a case.” The woman seems to be holding back a smile as she glances apologetically at you. “Meet you up front.” 
Spencer is visibly disappointed as he turns back to you. He gives you a helpless sort of shrug, and for a second, neither of you say anything. 
Your throat feels tight as your eyes lock on Spencer’s parted lips again. It’s been such a long time since you felt this drawn to a person; his closeness feels hypnotic. 
“I’d like to see you again,” he says shyly. “I — can you—” 
“Phone number?” you supply. His hands flutter and his eyebrows rise, like he forgot, for a second, that cell phones exist. Then he pats his pockets, pulls his out, and passes it to you. Once your number is saved, you give it back with a small smile. 
“I’ll probably be out of town for a few days, and then — maybe next weekend,” he says. 
“I’d really like that,” you admit, trying to make yourself take a step back. “This was — yeah. I’m glad I met you.” 
“Spencer!” someone says, from the door, and he waves them off without turning to look. 
“Earlier, when you asked—” He pauses, frowning, shifting his weight like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I was thinking about how much I’d like to kiss you.” 
His voice is soft and husky, and it cracks on the last word like maybe his throat is tight too. You feel hot all over. 
You never even shook hands; there’s been no physical contact whatsoever between the two of you, and now your head is spinning with the urge to reach out, to touch, to get closer... but it feels like you missed your opportunity for that — it doesn’t feel right, not when you know it’d be over much too quickly. You can tell Spencer feels it too. 
Once two magnets snap together, it’s a lot harder to separate them. 
“Rain check on that,” you say breathlessly, and he nods, raising one hand in an awkward wave as he steps back. 
-
This is Spencer, by the way. I’m really glad I met you.
The text comes in just an hour or so later, when you’re sitting in the cab on your way home, and you smile so wide it feels like your cheeks might split with it. 
-
The giddiness lasts until Tuesday morning, when you walk into the first session of your six-week-intensive graduate seminar and see Spencer at the white board, writing down page numbers for your reading assignment. 
Your eyes lock, and there’s another of those moments where you can’t see anything other than him. It’s not so pleasant this time, though. 
Spencer drops his pen, and you promptly forget how to walk, stumbling and spilling coffee down your front. You curse so loudly that the rest of the class turns to stare at you. 
To add insult to injury, the only open seat is directly across from Spencer’s. 
Fantastic. 
You spend the next hour and a half trying very hard to avoid eye contact, and for the most part, you’re successful. He doesn’t seem to want to look at you either. 
You do sneak one glance, though, and he’s just as pretty in the harsh fluorescent light of the classroom as he was in the golden glow of the bar lights. It seems really fucking unfair. 
If it were any other class, you would consider dropping it, but you were lucky to get a spot; this is big for your resume. It’s a special, one-time-only class, and your advisor had described the guest professor as “a genius, and one of the leading names in his field.” 
...fuck. 
Spencer dismisses the class. You start packing hurriedly, convinced he’s going to ask you to stay back, but you get out the door without incident. You’re already halfway down the hall when you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. 
Can we talk? 
It’d be so easy to lie, say you have somewhere to be, put the rejection off for another day, but instead you take a deep breath and turn around. 
Spencer is sitting right where he was, except now he’s cross-legged in the chair, twirling a pen and frowning at it like it contains the mysteries of the entire universe. He gives you a twitchy attempt at a smile, eyes wide with worry. 
You move closer, sitting down next to him, trying to ignore those fucking fingers as he plays with the pen. This would be a whole lot easier if he would stop doing that, because it’s just like the bar — the same hot, fluttering sensation low in your belly, no matter how much you try to ignore it now. 
“I thought you worked for the FBI,” you mumble and he lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. 
“I do,” he says ruefully. “I just — also teach, sometimes?” 
“Yeah. I got that.” 
His tongue does that slow swipe across his lower lip. You bite your own lip, trying not to stare, and Spencer drops the pen with a clatter. 
“Sorry,” he says, shoving both hands through his hair. “I’m so sorry if I — if this is — is this going to make you uncomfortable?” 
You frown, looking at him blankly for a second, because that was so not the reaction you expected. “Uncomfortable?” 
“Knowing that I — that I’m attracted to you? I’m aware of the power imbalance inherent in the situation and I promise I would never—” 
“Present tense?” you blurt out, and Spencer stops, blinking at you. 
“Well… yes. I thought that was obvious. I meant it, you know; I don’t just meet people like that,” he says, agitated. “It’s usually difficult for me to talk to strangers, and you’re — you’re just — yes. I’m attracted to you.” 
“I figured you would think I was immature, and — I mean, it’s such a fucking cliche,” you laugh, digging the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I usually try to avoid modeling my life on Van Halen songs.” He gives you a blank look and you add hastily, “Never mind. Point is, a student with a crush, throwing themselves at a professor? Seems like a recipe for embarrassment.” 
“Oh,” he says, as a smile spreads across his face. “So… maybe after the class is over, we could—” 
“Yeah?”  
Spencer is blushing. Jesus pogo-jumping Christ, you want to kiss him. 
“It’s just six weeks. We’ll keep it strictly professional — appropriate — for six weeks.” The words are quiet, all husky and promising, and you can’t tell whether it’s intentional or not, but something about that tone sounds very fucking inappropriate. “And then… we’ll take that rain check.” 
You nod and clear your throat. “You’re on.” 
SIx weeks, two classes a week, ninety minutes per class. Easy enough. 
-
It’s not easy. Not in the fucking slightest. 
Part of you wishes he could be a bad teacher, or something. If he was boring — if he had an obnoxious laugh — something. Instead, every goddamn minute spent in his classroom seems like another reason to fall for this guy. 
And yeah, sure, he’s pretty. You catch yourself staring, sometimes: his long lashes, the hint of gold in his eyes, the sharp angles of his jawline, the messy hair… and you’re not the only one. It seems like the entire class is crushing on him by the end of the second meeting, boys and girls alike, and maybe you would make fun of the Indiana Jones-style lash-fluttering that’s aimed his way if you weren’t guilty of doing the same thing yourself. 
Once word gets around that there’s a cute new professor in the criminology department, rumors start to fly left and right. You’ve heard other students talking about him, speculating about the apparently “way more badass than you’d think” Doctor Reid. You hear stories about how he got shot once — was kidnapped and tortured — overdosed on heroin — saved a train full of people by talking down a lunatic with a gun — hooked up with a movie star — went to jail for murder — you name it, every story more far-fetched than the last. 
Well, he did mention getting shot one time, but you’re pretty sure the rest are too absurd to be true. 
Either way, it’s not the looks or the legends that have you hopelessly head-over-heels. 
It’s the way he lights up when he gets started on a subject that interests him. It’s the joy in his expression when a student asks a good question, or when they draw the right conclusion; his smile is bright and brilliant every time. 
The first time one of those smiles is aimed in your direction, along with a half-shouted, “Correct!” and an excited wave of his pen, you’re just about blinded. It quickly becomes one of the driving goals of your day-to-day life: make Spencer smile. 
He’s beautiful, in those moments when he’s grinning and enthusiastic, but the quiet moments are even worse. 
Sometimes he stares as you work your way through a train of thought, eyes glinting as he fixes them on you with a breathtaking intensity and this fierce pride. Sometimes, his voice is firm and sharp, and sometimes when he says things like, “Yes, exactly like that,” it sounds so much dirtier than it should. 
Sometimes — sometimes — once or twice or a dozen times — you fantasize about that voice. You’re only human. 
You never realized there was such a thing as a “praise kink,” but… yeah. That about sums it up. 
At first you worry that he’ll lose interest: that you’ll say something stupid or he’ll find someone else, because in your experience with men, they don’t wait around for six hours, let alone six weeks, once they’ve realized they can’t immediately have what they want. Instead, it only gets worse as the weeks pass. 
It’s nothing obvious, nothing that could be labeled as inappropriate — you still haven’t touched Spencer, not so much as an accidental brush of his hand against yours when he passes back a graded essay. It’s just that his gaze lingers, whenever he looks in your direction, just a moment longer than it would on anyone else. Every time your eyes meet, you have a hard time remembering that the rest of the world exists. It might as well just be the two of you. There’s this heat between you, this crackling electricity, like touching a live wire every single time, like you can’t pull yourself away to break the current. 
It’s the longest six weeks of your life. 
-
“That’s our time,” Spencer says, glancing at his watch. “I’ll get your essays marked and returned to you before break, and on Sunday evening, I’ll submit your final grades, at which point—” His eyes flick to you, and you bite your lip. “— my responsibilities as your professor are complete. It’s been a pleasure.” 
-
“Hi,” Spencer says, without preamble, when you pick up the phone on Saturday evening. “This is — um. This is Spencer?” 
You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning so hard you can barely say, “Yeah, I know.” 
“Right. Um… where are you?”
“Just dropped off a few library books.” 
“I got grades done a little early,” he says hesitantly. “Do you want to… meet me at my office, maybe? We could go out for dinner?” 
You’ve never been there before, but you know where it is. Open office hours with Spencer always seemed like a disaster waiting to happen, because your self-control only goes so far.
“Sounds good,” you say, voice strained, heart racing. “Be there soon.” 
You walk fast. 
The building is mostly deserted, at this hour, and as you walk quickly down the hall, the catch and release of breath in your lungs seems too loud for your quiet surroundings. 
You might be panicking a little bit. There’s still a part of you that’s just waiting for him to change his mind, to realize how dorky and awkward you are, to find someone more polished or accomplished or… something — fuck, this seems to good to be true. 
Spencer has one of the old, cramped temporary offices used by visiting professors, and even though he’s only been here for a month and a half, he’s amassed quite a collection of books in the small space. When you step through the open door, he’s got his sleeves rolled up as he places a couple books gently in a box. He runs his hands through his hair with a sigh, making it even more hopelessly touseled. 
“Hey,” you say, and he turns around, wide-eyed and nervous for a moment before a smile — one of the brilliant too-bright ones you’ve become so fond of — transforms his face. 
“Hi! Um, I’ll come back tomorrow to finish cleaning, I was just — we could go out, I don’t have to — dinner? Are you hungry?” He picks up a pen from the cluttered desk, twirling it like he just really needs something to do with his hands; he seems just as anxious as you feel. It’s comforting, for some reason. At least you’re both awkward dorks. 
“Not hungry,” you say shyly. You close the door, slow and deliberate. 
Spencer’s eyes widen and then go dark, all heavy-lidded and heated. 
He drops the pen, closes the distance between you in two long strides, and cups your face in his hands before kissing you, deep and urgent, dizzyingly perfect. It’s desperate, after all this time, all that pent-up longing and suppressed electricity surging through you all at once, making you gasp at the sharp incredible sting of his teeth nipping your lower lip. 
It’s one hundred percent worth the wait. 
You’re both breathless when he breaks the kiss, but you sway closer anyway, trying to follow his mouth, and blink like you’re coming out of a trance. His lips are red and swollen. 
“Rain check on dinner?” he asks. His voice is suggestive and smoky — there’s nothing appropriate about it. 
When you nod, he just reaches behind you and locks the door. 
.
.
Smutty bit is now here!
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More CM fic here! 
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angeli-marco-writes · 3 years
Text
Elizbeth Debicki - Reunion Revenge
A/N - I love Elizabeth with everything I am, I'm sure I've said this before. I don't know why there aren't more fics about her. As always, I do not know Elizabeth, nor do I claim to: this is a work of fiction and wholly my own. I mean no disrespect to any of the careers mentioned at some point in this, just bear with. This is a set at a high school reunion, but I went to a private secondary school in England, so my experience is obviously not everyone else's. Reader has a twin brother, have fun with that. I also based this on a Tumblr post I saw, and thought that would be a swell concept to work into a Liz piece of writing: ‘never understood the whole showing up at your high school reunion revenge fantasy cause, like, really? high school?? I don’t want anyone from that time in my life to have any idea where I am or what I’m doing. do not perceive me I am dead to you and you are dead to me.' 8k.
Warnings - a little angsty, mentions of bullying, smoking, mentions of homophobia and slurs, wlw explicit smut, fingering, sex toys (strap-on), bathroom wall sex in a semi-public place, the whole shebang (literally). 18+
Summary - At first, when your brother roped you into attending your high school reunion with your wife, you hated the idea. Now, all eyes are on you, all the focus on your career, and maybe this is the revenge you always needed, of course aided by Liz's quick thinking and hidden surprises.
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AT THIS CURRENT POINT IN TIME, you would more than happily murder your brother for roping you into this. And for convincing Liz to come along, which is somehow worse than your own enforced attendance, as though your presence will make any difference to the people who made the seven ‘best’ years of your life a pure living hell.
Your brother did have your back through it all, and considering that he was supposed to be the best one to succeed, he needs you there for some moral support after his career took an unfortunate nosedive that everyone is undoubtedly going to be gawking over.
You never understood the whole ‘showing up at your secondary school reunion revenge fantasy,’ but that’s mostly just because they don’t deserve to know who you are anymore. They broke you continually, and you’re past it now: the only thing that could take you back to that mindset is being back in that great hall with the gossiping busybodies. It’s not your fault that you were a closeted gay for so many years. Well, that’s another cause of concern. Notorious homophobes, and you’re bringing your wife.
“Come on, honey, we have to go inside.” Liz tells you, her long fingers curling around yours affectionately.
She has a point. You’ve been in the car park for ten minutes now, your knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. Her continual lavishes of kisses to your neck seem to be the only redeeming factor of your procrastination.
“Hmm, kiss me first.” you say.
She doesn’t disappoint, curling your hair behind your ear—wearing special diamond earrings she got you on your second anniversary—and catches your chin tenderly between her polished forefinger and thumb, tilting your face up to meet hers, her lips slanting over yours, melding together perfectly.
She’s the only good thing about this situation, about any situation: the only reason your brother was able to bribe you to come. Your main qualm about today is that you don’t want anyone from that period of your life to have any idea where you are or what you’re doing. You’ve been dead to them for years, and they to you. You don’t want them to perceive you whatsoever. But maybe, with Elizabeth on your arm and a brilliant career under your belt—everything you ever wanted—you can reap revenge. No one is in touch with you, so your arrival will be such a surprise, not that you exactly care about that, having blocked out and repressed a whole lot of that time period. You wouldn’t be able to even do this without Elizabeth, though.
“Liz,” you moan when she nibbles on your lower lip in that signature way she does. “We can stay here, we don’t have to go in.”
You shift your hand over the centre console to rub over her clothed thigh, your grip more than a little suggestive, prying further up…
“No baby,” she coos, “later, I promise. We’ll be late.”
You grumble, but only momentarily. She has a point, and a thing about being on time to everything. So you load out of the car, Liz coming around to the drivers side where she offers you her hand. She’s more chivalrous than any guy you ever pretended to date, an absolute gem of a person. You don’t even get jittery on the short walk inside, not with her thumb caressing your hand, your legs brushing together.
You can’t say you’re surprised when, at first, no one even turns to look at you, though relief floods your system, Liz bending down to kiss your forehead in a conciliatory manner.
“Oh my God, y/n, I’ve been here twenty minutes! Why didn’t you pick up?”
“I was busy,” you say to your overzealous brother who is suddenly hounding you, attaching to your side.
He bristles, visibly shaking off his discomfort, before he’s linking his arm through yours and is tugging you along, out from beneath the wooden balcony, tugging you away from the shadows.
The hall is the exact same as it was both when you came and left the school, oak panelling everywhere, great glass windows stretching to the ceiling with sills too high for anyone to climb onto, a stained glass shrine above the stage. Put-me-up tables are littered around, sheathed with white cloths and ribbons with your school emblem on them, decorated with drink dispensers, mugs, wine glasses and cheap biscuits. The whole… scene brings back that awful sense of dread you got when forced to sit here, in tacky red woollen chairs, frayed and bobbled, that itched your legs, every Monday and Friday for assembly. It’s a beautiful room, truly, with a reinforced floor beneath the original boards, slightly splintering beneath your low heels, and you know every nook and cranny, every escape route, but the bad memories tarnish the space.
Liz, darling as she is, senses your discomfort, and creates small talk with your brother as you’re steered between groups of people you scarcely recognise until you reach the apex of the room, where his old friends stand, hunched over in ill-fitting suits, brooding over their brandy, no doubt complaining about their dead end jobs and lack of girlfriends.
“Hey buddy…” one of them says, trailing off once he hears a woman's voice, his eyes darting up—first to Elizabeth, then down to you. “Your sister and your girlfriend? Dude, she’s hot.”
“Isn’t she just?” Liz teases, a malicious smirk creeping onto her lips.
You haven’t even noticed, but some subconscious part of you has tucked your joined hands behind you, covered by Liz’s long, flowing dress.
“How you doing, wait, I know, don’t tell me…”
“y/n.” you snap. “Fine, thanks.”
“Well that’s good, good, isn’t it? I was just gonna call you mini y/l/n—”
“Don’t, that isn’t my name anymore.”
His eyes dart down to your left hand not held by Elizabeth’s slender fingers, instantly noting the glistening silver princess-cut ring nestled above a platinum wedding band.
“Married? Nice. No wonder the guy didn’t come,” another one chimes. You’re not entirely sure what he means, though it’s undoubtedly a dig at the fact Elizabeth is far hotter than you are.
Your brother is slowly growing angrier and angrier, the cords of thick muscle in his shoulders tensing, his nostrils flaring, his thinned eyes conversing with Elizabeth’s blues over the top of your ducked head.
“Yes, well,” you play along, and desperately look to your brother to continue the conversation.
“What are you all doing for work now?”
Everyone gives a boring answer: salesman, accountant, finishing up law school, working in an office, with one trainee chef in the mix. These men have all just done what the school or their parents expected and wanted them to do, no one has any ambition. No wonder you were always the odd one out.
“What about you?” the chef asks your brother.
“Oh, I’m on a sabbatical at the moment,” he replies sheepishly, eyes suddenly training on the floor before turning quickly, fixing on you. “My sister’s done really well for herself.”
Their surprise is palpable, seeping off them, dripping onto the floor via the loose threads of their cheap blazers.
“Yeah, I’m a translator for political and legal proceedings, you know, with cabinet ministers from all over the world, those who speak the languages I do, at least.” you answer pridefully. Your talents always were overlooked when you were at school, apart from by one special teacher, whom you haven’t actually seen yet.
“She’s marvellous, really,” Liz says, and you can’t help but feel a hint of guilt from neglecting her for so long, so you squeeze her hand a little tighter, and rub your thumb over her wedding ring. “I’m gonna get us some drinks, babe. What do you want?”
“Red wine would be lovely. Unless you want me to drive home?”
She pecks your lips, “Of course not, enjoy yourself. You want anything, mate?” she turns to your brother.
“I’m good, thanks.” He mock-salutes.
“Don’t be long,” you warn her, swinging your hands out from their cover with a sudden flush of courage, and detaching them.
She looks down at you curiously, but her smile quirks into a smirk the second you pinch her hip and lean up on your tiptoes, capturing her pretty pink lips with yours, swallowing the small surprised gasp that escapes her. You can feel eyes on you all over the room, the situation genuinely feeling as though everyone besides your brother is staring upon you with disgust as her lithe arms wrap around your body, her one hand straying lower than you were prepared for, arching into her chest as she nibbles your lip again, your one hand cupping her flushing cheek.
A moment later, she’s releasing her hold and strutting away, all eyes then glued to the sensual sway of her hips, her long legs carrying her across the room faster than they thought possible. Then again, being 6-foot-3 as a beautiful woman is quite the surprise to people, they all expect her to be garish, uncoordinated, and though she’s clumsy at times, she’s certainly better at general levels of human functionality than you are.
“Dude, stop staring at my wife’s ass.” you hiss to the first man. If only they were worth your bother or time, you might have remembered their dreary names.
He splutters for a moment, bringing a ring-less left hand up to loosen his lilac tie. “Wife? What the fuck? How are you married to a woman before we are!”
What a mystery.
“You gay or something?” the trainee lawyer chimes in again.
“You got a problem with that?” your brother accuses, puffing up his chest pompously.
“Well, no… just surprised.”
“Astonished.” another pipes up.
“Isn’t that a big word.”
You showed the tell tale signs of being a lesbian for years, the popular girls all pretended you were preying on them in the changing room, calling you a d*ke for years until you reached the point of just changing in the bathroom to stop yourself from snapping at them. They must’ve always had a hunch, and why ever they thought Liz was your brother's girlfriend is beyond you. Men truly are more trouble than they’re worth.
“Yes, I’m gay. Yes, Elizabeth is my wife. I didn’t realise this would be earth shattering information.” You cast your eyes up to the ceiling, erected like a great old Church steeple, and shutter them for a moment, gathering your bearings. “I’m going to find Liz, little man. Told you I shouldn't have come.”
“Don’t call me little man!”
“I’m ten minutes older than you, I’ll call you what I like.” you tease, sticking your tongue out childishly, receiving a sarcastic sneer from your brother. Right now, all you want is Liz. “I wish I could say it was nice to see you all again, but then we’d all be liars. Goodbye.”
They gawk in a greatly uncouth and infantile manner as you stride away, pep in your step as you approach your stunning wife, wrapping your arm around her stomach as she waits for her tea—English Breakfast, naturally—to cool down.
“Hey beautiful,” you greet.
“Hey, you. What happened?” she asks, instantly noting the sallow bags that have swiftly formed beneath your eyes.
“They were being arseholes, c’mon, let’s just stand in the corner until it’s socially acceptable to leave this hellhole.”
“We can go now if you’re uncomfortable, baby.”
Ever the forward, sympathetically thinking wife.
“No, no. I came here, I’d better make it worth my while.”
She tangles her fingers with yours, “Okay darling. Say the word, we leave.”
There aren’t words for how safe you feel thanks to Elizabeth, even just with this fractional amount of contact from her. She’s the answer to all your prayers and more, the thing in life you'll never deserve. Her love for you is endless, her affections infinite, and every day, you fall more and more in love with her, especially when she’s as kind as she is now.
It barely takes five minutes, the two of you hugging, kissing, leaning against a broad oak pillar, half shadowed, for someone to approach. One of the girls you despised, costume jewellery on her wrists, a self aggrandised smirk painted onto her fake lips. Martha? Mabel? Maddie?
“I heard you were here,” she starts, placing her tackily manicured hand onto her hip, “it’s so good to see you! How are you?”
“Great, thanks.” you say blandly, keeping your attention on Elizabeth’s hand entwined with yours.
“This is your… friend? Why did you bring a friend to this?”
She laughs mirthlessly, such a fake sound—like this cow's boobs—it makes your primal instincts flare. Elizabeth holds you impossibly closer, her arm around your waist tightening as you seek solace in her.
“y/n and I are married, thank you. I don’t appreciate the homophobic, disrespectful insinuations.”
She stifles another laugh, “You’re punching above your weight a bit aren’t you, y/n.”
“Don’t rise to it,” Liz headily murmurs in your ear, sending pleasant, calming vibrations throughout your whole body.
You gulp down as much air as you can, curling tighter into Liz, before saying what you thought all those years ago, “I’d rather be ‘punching’ and married to a woman I love rather than be a Goddamn trophy wife going nowhere, leeching off daddy’s money. People like you will never change. I’m happy, and I have a good feeling that’s more than the likes of you and your sad old minions can say.”
“Sweetheart, come on.” Liz whispers, and her hold on you increases until it begins to pinch, not that you mind, and then she’s thankfully tugging you away.
You barely make it out the door, Liz leaning down to kiss you heartily, passionately, before people are clamouring over you, what’s-her-faces friends, people you used to be in fair acquaintance with, all speaking together, their voices overlapping in what you can only believe to be expressions of acceptance.
“Um, thank you, I’ll just be back in a moment.” you say to those who bother to listen. Next thing, you’re darting out the way you came, tugging Liz down the great stone steps in front of the behemoth building, and then are leaning against the old wall, almost crumbling with rubble on the exterior at least, not as well preserved as the inside.
She joins you not a moment later, ferreting around the pockets in her skirt for the spare cigarette and lighter she slipped in earlier. Liz doesn’t condone your smoking in any way whatsoever, and in fact she’s the main reason that you quit, but she knows that when your anxiety is high during times like these, one can’t hurt. She always comes prepared.
She is definitely the most consistent, reliable thing in your life by a long shot. Naturally, you two have your fair share of ups and downs, and on the occasion you get your periods at the same time, you’re a complete dichotomy of furious fights and condoling cuddles, while the rest of the time you find yourselves in sheer throes of passion. You may be a dependable couple bound to stay together forever, but that doesn’t mean that the flame of lust once born there has even momentarily flickered: it’s why you work so well. Men are awful in bed, from both of your experiences. Only a woman truly knows how to please another woman. And in the many ways that Liz is a home-body and sticks to the safe side of things, sex is not one of those areas, and you frequently wind up in another one of her barmy—though blissfully pleasurable—experiments. Her daring never goes amiss, and you can’t help but pray that she has something up her sleeve (besides the cigarette) to dull the ache of the day, and also the growing desire pooling between your legs upon seeing have such a naturally demanding power, and looking so Goddamn stunning in her maxi dress. And the lip nibble, God—
“Before you ask, I’m not shagging you out here.” she says, lighting your cigarette with steady hands.
You inhale the smoke, allowing it to form dark halos around your head once you puff it out through pursed lips, hoping it obscures your sheepish smile and averted eyes from Liz’s view.
“I wasn't thinking about that.”
“Yes you were. You forget how well I know you.”
You shoot her a sardonic smile and take another deep drag, the bitter taste pouring into your senses, filling your lungs, calming your mind before you let it go with one long, shaky breath. The smoke has a way of revealing the air, making an artistry of its swirls and flow, something you’ve always been able to appreciate. Ever the wise one, Liz just sees the poison it’s creating within your body, and will do anything to make you stop.
The sick, intrusive thought that you might be disappointing her by this simple act alone rises a cough to your throat with the next puff, but in reality she looks so nonchalant, her eyes closed, a simple smile playing on her perfect lips as she revels in the moment, in your presence, her pinky finger looped just over yours against the crumbling brick wall. Nonetheless, the uneasiness is enough for you to stub the cigarette out under your shoe before it’s even half-way smoked.
“Baby, you okay?” she asks sympathetically, turning to face you so that her shoulder is pressed to the wall, her spare arm flying around to brush against your upper arm, thumb caressing the flesh there through your clothes.
“Yeah, course. Can we stay out here a bit, though?”
You expect her to wholeheartedly agree, because you could tell by the subtle sensing of her limber body and the sudden snap attitude she had that she was just as uncomfortable in there as you were, perhaps more so. Her reflexes may as well be yours with how used you are to them. That’s exactly how you know that she’s going to refuse your request by the almost imperceptible crest of her nails into your supple skin.
“Your brother texted, he asked you to come back in: people won’t stop badgering him about you.” She pauses, but upon hearing you huff, hurriedly leaps back in. “I mean of course we don’t have to if you’re not comfortable, this is about you, not your brother…”
But it is about your brother. You agreed to come here today to be of help to him. And besides, Elizabeth has almost as much loyalty to your brother as she does to you, the two of them having been friends before he introduced you to her. That certainly didn’t have the outcome he was expecting, but you’ve all remained close nonetheless. Mentally, you give yourself a shakedown. How could you be so selfish? Today isn’t about you, not really. Sure you’d like to make peace with your past and your old tormentors one last time before leaving and never seeing them again, but the main reason is support.
“No, you’re right,” you say after a long moment of lamentation.
“That’s a first,” Liz snorts.
You smack her playfully, “Watch it, you.”
“Hey, who’s the pillow princess around here?”
Your cheeks instantly flush. “That was one time.”
“More like five,” she umms and ahhs, but grasps your hand a little tighter regardless.
It’s a fair comment on her part: Liz does wield the majority of the power in the relationship, and is definitely more of a top that you are, but you ensure that you pleasure her just as much as she does you, it’s only fair. Apart from those few times you decided to try something new… you got tired of that pretty quickly, though, since you couldn’t go too long without tasting her while you were in bed. No matter how many times you’ve had sex, no matter how many mind-blowing orgasms you receive, your desire for her is never quite quelled. Frankly, you hope it never is.
“Stop thinking about fucking me, babe,” she scolds, and pulls you up fully standing from your temporary reprieve against the wall. “Later, I promise. Not here.”
Embarrassment heats your cheeks at the fact she so easily deciphers your filthy thoughts, but then again, she always has. She leads you back inside, and all but hands you over to your brother, practically jumping with impatience at the door to the hall.
“Thank God you’re b—” he cuts himself off, moving closer to you, imperiously sniffing your clothes. “Did you smoke again?” You nod. “Fucking hell, well, there’s another conversation topic, we’ll talk about this later. Can you believe this lot didn’t know you were gay? What morons…”
“Hey, I’m not that obviously gay, am I?”
The dead silence that envelops you gives you the answer you weren’t too keen on receiving in the first place.
“But!” Liz helpfully adds in her most cheery tone. “If you hadn’t been so obviously gay, I probably never would’ve asked you out.”
She beams even as you roll our eyes, “So endearing, babe.”
“Hurry up, this lot are arseholes.”
“I know.” you deadpan. He sends you a snarky smile.
Following him through the small clans of people meandering and congregating amongst themselves, all with some sort of beverage in their hands, you feel your hand grow clammy in Liz’s. Your mind doesn’t get the chance to run away with itself or whirr on for too long, though, before you’re pulled into a group of people—all three of you—and are all welcomed with enthused hugs and professions of well wishes.
“Oh how are you? You look so well, I hope you’ve been doing good!”
Well, you think, if they cared enough they’d have contacted you. Half of them are your brothers Facebook friends and he’s often posting pictures of you hanging out, or childhood throwbacks, and tagging you in them in plain view. Thankfully, your page is private, and Elizabeth doesn’t even have social media. She’s smart.
You engage in conversation—well, they do, you just listen and hum when you’re supposed to, making surprised faces at the right parts—about one classmate who couldn’t be here because she married a mobster and isn’t allowed to discuss her lifestyle. She isn't. She got pregnant straight out of school and is going through her second divorce: your brother saw her recently. Who are you to deny them gossip when you really couldn’t care less?
In minutes they seem to have exhausted all possible fascinating subject matters, or at least make it appear that way as they turn all eyes on you.
“So, y/n, we hear you have a girlfriend!”
Not again.
“Wife; this is Liz.”
“How are you.” she says, more by way of greeting than having any regard for them.
“Oh my God,” one woman clamours, “are you Australian? My boyfriend is Australian! Maybe you know him?”
Liz’s face breaks into a wide smile, the first one of the event. Who cares that it’s at the expense of another person's intelligence, or lack thereof? You and your brother struggle to stifle your own laughter as you loll your head against his broad shoulder, too.
“Australia is more than seven and a half million square kilometres. In context, the UK is only two-forty-two thousand. We have a population of 25 million. I’d be more likely to meet the queen and the president.” she quips. Ever the fount of useless knowledge; as are you both.
“Oh,” says the woman, casting a sheepish gaze away.
“But, um, yeah, I am Australian.”
“You’re tall,” another blatantly observes, “you look Dutch.”
“Polish-Irish. Not far off.” she says again, fixing a smile of nonchalance.
People turn to you for something to say. You have nothing: nothing to say to these awful sycophants, so you’re half relieved and half angered further when your name is called from somewhere behind you.
“y/n y/l/n!”
Great, another bellend. Star of the football team. You settle yourself after a sudden wave of dizziness from spinning on your heel to see just who was calling you, and you’re not particularly surprised, but not glad either, when he’s excited to join the dull circle.
“Actually,” you correct, “it’s y/n Debicki.”
Silence cools around the circle. What, have these people been living under rocks for the past God knows how many years?
“Oh, why?” he asks.
“I got married and took my wife’s name.” you grit out just barely, balancing from foot to foot, the wooden floor creaking around you. Some more wine would be really good right about now, but instead you just settle for an intoxicating peck from Liz’s lips, the chiffon of her skirt shifting again to reveal your held hands and glistening wedding rings.
“Oh!”
The silence is agony. Why can’t the ground just swallow you up already? Your brother's getting angry, his fist clenching, picking at his nails, while everyone else in the group is exchanging anxious eye contact. Liz and her insanely long legs could probably give you a leg-up to one of the immensely tall windows as a quicker, though slightly more problematic escape route…
“By the way, that’s totally fine.”
“Yeah,” someone adds, you can’t be bothered to look who. “We totally accept it.”
“It’s like you’re not even gay, but straight, and normal. N—not that being gay isn’t normal, just that we don’t see you any differently.”
“You’re the same y/n you always were.” one smiles at last.
Your brother is going to lose it in three… two… one…
“Oh yeah? The y/n that you all relentlessly picked on and victimised for years? The same y/n who was forced to hide her identity and everything she wanted to be for years just because you back-thinking bastards didn’t want a lesbian in the class?” he shouts, flailing his arms madly about, hissing one of the broad, tree trunk pillars in the process. He doesn’t flinch. Turning to you, he starts in a softer voice, “I never should’ve asked you to come here, I’m so sorry y/n, I was so selfish to bring you back to this hellhole. It’s no wonder you didn’t want to come with these dipshits tossing around! And Liz, you don’t deserve this either. Please, do us all a favour, and take y/n home, never bringing her back here. You were right all these years, sweet, it’s the place nightmares are born. And you scummy lot should all be ashamed of yourselves!”
His breath is ragged once he’s done with his rant, his forehead glistening with sweat, his knuckles white with tension.
“Liz, could you get him some water, please?” you whisper into her ear.
She nods affirmatively, and breaks from your grasp, steering your hunched, tense, seething brother in the direction of the drinks table.
“Thanks, I guess,” you begin, kicking your heels into the splintering oak floor, your wine long forgotten, “like, for the acceptance and stuff. But I’ve always been this way, he’s right. It’s not some earth shattering revelation, I was just too shy to come out because you all tossed slurs around like it was okay.” You take a deep breath, and in that time, Liz has returned and stuck herself to your side, your brother happily alone in the corner with a cold glass of water as you cast a glance over your shoulder. You comb your fingers through Elizabeth’s coiffed blonde hair to relieve some anxiety, and are further reassured when she presses her lips to your earlobe, glistening with the diamonds she gifted you. “Besides, this shouldn’t be a thing you have to zealously profess to accept, it should be just as normal as one of you walking in with your heterosexual partner.” As some of them have done, and no one’s batted an eyelid.
A din of agreement sounds out from them, but you know they’re all more than a little meek after being scolded like schoolchildren by your big scary brother. He’s a teddy bear, really, but when he flips, he flips.
When you arise no cohesive response from anyone, you rest your head on Liz’s shoulder, and ask, “Did you see that article on the BBC yesterday morning?”
You have no idea what article you’re on about, but one leaps in with something about climate change, and one about a rise in violent crime in the area. Thank God you don’t live there anymore.
“I forgot about that one!” you gasp with feigned surprise.
Liz looks down on you warmly, chuckling at the mischievous glint in your eye. She knows exactly what you’re up to. But after today, you can walk away from this place, despite the stunning old architecture of the gorgeous building, the beautiful panelling on the walls and the window you spent so many hours gazing at while daydreaming wistfully through assemblies and exams, never to return. Frankly, after this shit show, you’d have it no other way. The teachers will be arriving soon, and in the hopes you see your favourite old teacher, Mrs Alleman, you decide it can’t hurt just to stick around a little bit longer, even if you don’t listen to anyone's conversation. It’s not like they want to involve you.
*
Before you know it, ten dreary minutes have passed, and as each second slips by, you’re losing the will to live. Even these people are bored to death by the sound of their own voices, unsurprisingly. You’ve just busied yourself the whole time by playing with Liz’s long, slender fingers and her glistening silver ring. She’s becoming more and more antsy, though, so you’re unsurprised when she moves to stand away, speaking only when there’s a brief intermission of silence.
“I’m heading to the loo, honey. Which way is it?” she asks politely.
“Out the door we came, but on the other side of the corridor is a closed door, down that corridor it’s the fourth on the right, up a couple of stairs.”
Her eyes widen, “This place is a maze.”
“I know,” you chuckle, and lean up to peck her lips. “They’re the staff ones, down a cohorted route in a forbidden corridor so we wouldn’t use them.”
“You,” she shakes her head, bending down to kiss you again from her standing position, though she does practically double down, and has to press a hand to her chest to prevent her dress from falling, “are so randomly knowledgeable.” It’s really more of an awkward stowed away memory, but you take it anyway. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
As she draws away, she catches your lip in her teeth. Again. If it wouldn’t arouse suspicion, you’d be after her like a bullet, but, well… So you just sit there, counting the minutes, the seconds until she returns and you’re able to make a quick exit, barely making an agreeable sound or two when someone deigns to involve you in the deathly boring conversation they’re having about the FTSE or something, but she doesn’t return. It’s only after five minutes—you meticulously checked your watch—that you realise she’s probably gotten lost, your heart fluttering into your throat.
“I think Liz is lost, I’m gonna go find her,” you say, not that anyone exactly notes your absence or offers you as much as a nod, so you stand and stroll away, not caring about your knocked over glass as you stalk out of the great hall, breaking into a slight jog as soon as the doors are closed behind you.
You could swear you catch your brother winking across the room as they close, but you can’t be sure, not with how crazy you are after Liz did that thing she does every single time she instigates sex. You’ve been together for more than four marvellous years, and yet it still brings fire into your veins, butterflies into your stomach, and lust into your mind.
She’s not in the foyer, or down the ostentatious portrait corridor, so you burst into the pristine white and purple bathroom, only to find Liz leant against the wall, a slight bulge in her dress.
“God, I was wondering if you’d ever get the message, I’ve been waiting for ages.” she huffs, slamming her mouth onto yours impatiently.
You gasp, winding your arms around her neck, not complaining in the slightest when you hear the door lock and you’re lifted high against the wall. Your hand flies down on instinct, and you’re not disappointed when your hand wraps around something long, hard and thick.
The squeak of surprise that leaves your lips only spurs Liz on more. “You wore the strap.”
“I went and fetched it from the car, thought we could have some fun, make this worth your while.”
“I love you so much.” you breathe, no time for courtesy.
Crashing your lips down onto hers, you lick filthily into her mouth, your tongue skimming her teeth, but your control barely lasts a moment before she’s overpowering you, nipping at your lip as she busies herself otherwise with gaining access to your throbbing, drenched core.
“Liz…” you moan. When she skims her fingers over the lace edge of your panties.
“So wet already baby,” she taunts, her breath hot on your ear, “have I done all this? Such a dirty girl…”
Her voice holds a gravelly quality, down to lust you’d wager. Her accent becomes so much more pronounced during times of passion, too. Her voice alone sends another wave of wetness gushing through you, soaking Liz’s fingertips as she slides them under your panties and into your folds.
“Oh poor helpless baby,” she croons, biting down on your neck harshly. “I don’t even need to use lube today, do I?”
You can’t respond, can’t even try to. She’s so intoxicating you could cry. All that’d come out is senseless babble. You can barely muster a breath with her gaze of such intensity burning into your fucked-out face. In all fairness, she doesn’t usually have to, since she makes you gush with a single glance, but the sensual jibe does make you a little embarrassed.
You can’t think straight when she plunges a single, long digit deep within your velvety walls, stroking at a torturous pace.
“F— fuck, faster, please.” you stammer.
“Only because my baby asked so nicely.”
Her hand begins to move faster against you, the rustle of clothes nothing compared to the sounds of your wetness. She adds another digit daringly, and pumps within you faster, her technique impeccable. If she’s not careful, you’ll be falling apart around her fingers in little more than a moment. Over the years she’s learnt how to bring you to mind-shattering climax embarrassingly quickly.
“Lizzie…” you moan when she hits that special spongy spot that makes you see stars behind your eyes.
Quick thinking as ever, she clamps one elegant hand over your mouth, her pale fingers digging into your cheeks, the metal of her rings cool against your lips. You can’t help yourself, your tongue darting out to lick the band of her wedding ring, skilfully wrapping your wet muscle around her. She can never resist when you do that, and her own knees begin to buckle, but her pace speeds up.
“Baby, I’m close,” you hiss against her hand, words muffled.
Your shoulder presses painfully into a ridge of the wall, but you can’t care, not when her wrist is flicking so quickly, yet somehow each thrust is deeper and more pleasurable than the last, the pads of her fingers catching all the right places within our quivering walls, continually hitting that spot. The heel of her palm keeps hitting your clit with a voracious intensity, needing to bring you toppling over the edge.
You come unravelled with a cry of her name, your legs unable to even partially hold yourself up as she settles you down gently on the floor, forcing you to lean heavily against the countertop. Stars and fireworks erupt to create images of Liz behind your eyelids, in the front of your brain. And the noise you made… After that, you wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in the hall knows what you’re up to, and somehow, that only fuels your need for Liz further.
“How do you get hotter every time you do that?” she husks.
Purple glittery potpourri on the window-sill prickles at your upper arm as you shuffle backwards, reaching out to Elizabeth with grabby hands. Her petite chest heaves with heavy breaths, her hair sticking up a little in cute blonde spikes.
“You wanna sit, babe?” you ask breathlessly.
Your own vision is a bit blurred from riding on cloud nine just moments ago, your juices running down your legs, glistening in the harsh bathroom light.
“You’ve always got a seat with me.” You wink, and wet your lips with your tongue. “Come sit.”
She chuckles at you, instead moving to kneel between your open legs on the edge of the counter, hovering over you
“Wait until we get home,” she teases, pressing the cold rings on her hand to your inner thigh, “I don’t trust myself, I’ll never leave if I sit now.”
Her lips lace with yours filthily, and you find yourself unable to stop your legs reflexively bolting out to wrap around her hips again, hand coming up to cup her cheek and neck with a bruising hold. Her hips rock against yours, and with your core already opened and revealed to her, all it takes is a slight fidget and a particularly harsh rut of her pelvis, and the priapic extension of Elizabeth—attached, thankfully, by a harness—is buried to the hilt within you. Your gasp is silent, your mouth opening in an inaudible ‘o’, a soundless plea for more. She’s prepped you well as always, and sought to open you up fully, which means that only a moment later you’re tapping her shoulder to signal for her to move.
The bulbous tip of the toy gains your attention rather swiftly as it grazes that heartily stimulated spot that Liz was so focussed on just minutes earlier. Her hips move with such grace even in such an ungainly act, her years of dance training aiding her elegance. God, she’s just so perfect in every way.
“Fuck, baby, I think I’m close—” she murmurs in your ear.
She begins to suck hickeys into your jawline, rendering you utterly speechless at the onslaught of pleasure you’re receiving all at once. Your boobs are bouncing as she pounds into you harder on the counter, the base of the strap now hitting your clit.
“Me too,” you eventually garner to choke out.
Your own pleasure can wait, take a damn backseat, because sweat is beading on Liz’s forehead as she wrecks her knees to fuck you more furiously, delivering you all of the pleasure you could ever want. But Elizabeth? She deserves it far more than you do after everything she’s done for you today.
She bites her lip, probably to keep a moan down the same way you are by biting your tongue, and she proceeds to hook her willowy arms around the crooks of your knees, thus tugging your legs up onto her shoulder, allowing her to hit an even deeper angle than before.
You can’t help the obscene whimper that escapes you, shrill and so pleasured, “Baby, keep— ohmygod please!”
Your head falls back against the hard porcelain rim of the sink, knocking some sense into you. This is your chance, while her eyes are still closed and the veins and ridges of the fake plastic cock are driving deep inside you, squeezed by your clenching walls. Slipping your own arm down her body and between the two of you, you find your way beneath the strap and onto her throbbing pearl.
“Shit!” she squeaks upon the first spark of contact, her body temporarily seizing, but she falls back into her previous pace within moments.
You rub circles on her voraciously, suddenly darting up to capture her lips in a sloppy kiss as a cry threatens to spill from her lips. But then you feel it coming, and your entire body tenses in anticipation, your eyes flying wide open to watch heaven crash right before your eyes.
First, her shoulders tense, followed by her eyelashes fluttering against her sharp cheekbone without her even being aware, then her legs try to involuntarily clench around your hand, her clit throbbing with anticipation as you speed up your movements. Her knees go next, then her arms, and she’s unable to hold herself up, but her hips don’t stop once. That’s when it happens.
“y/n, y/n, y/n.” she repeats like it’s her prayer of salvation.
Every muscle in her body quivers, her lips parting, her nose scrunching. Her teeth then catch your lip in the kiss you’re mixed up in, and her hips still. It doesn’t matter, since you’ve reached your own climax just from watching her fall apart at your very own mercy, your own legs falling from her shoulders, open wide on the counter as you chant her name in as quiet a whisper as you can muster.
Heavy breathing resonates through the small room, the stifling air now reeking of sex.
“C’mere,” you coax.
The counter is cold beneath you, the sink uncomfortable as you lie down flat, but when Liz crawls feebly into your arms, it matters a whole lot less. The comfort she provides is, and always has been, incomparable. Ethereal is the only way to describe her this way, too, blonde hair ruffled as she curls into your side, burying her nose into your shoulder, her arm slung over your waist.
“Do you think you got your revenge, babe?” she asks in a quiet voice, husky, laced with sex.
“Definitely. There’s no way they didn’t hear that.”
“Probably more than what most of those has-beens have got in years.”
You meet her twinkling eyes, and dissolve into a fit of giggles together, gripping her even tighter. It always was a secret fantasy of yours to do something like this, but you never imagined you’d be here nearly a decade later, fucking your wife in the staff bathroom. That’s just… beyond, but so hot.
“Ready to blow this place?”
“More than,” you answer, “but safety first.”
She gazes up at you, pouts and grumbles, but slips off you and into the left hand stall anyway, while you take the right. Once she emerges, the strap is safely stowed away in a discreet bag—one you purchased specifically should a chance like this ever arise since you’re not fans of handbags—and she turns the tap on. You wash your hands in a contented silence, and fix each other's clothes and hair the same way, until you’re at least half way presentable (though still more than mildly dishevelled) in order to just escape to the car and then hope at long merciful last.
“Should we text your brother?”
“I’ll do it when we reach the car,” you tell her, taking her hand as you unfasten the lock and pelt out into the corridor. “Wait, one minute.”
She watches you peculiarly as you pull out perfume from your pocket, spritzing it around the room, before re-entering fully and cranking the window open. At least this way the scent of sex is partially masked.
“Ever the resourceful one,” she chuckles, following your lead down the corridor, her long legs bounding beside you.
Your giggles carry around the high ceilinged building, bumping and bouncing off every wall so it seems, and once you're out into the foyer, she ensures to kiss you loudly, bending down to meet your height, just to test if your kisses have the same effect.
You don’t get to test that, however, before an all too familiar voice snaps you out of your trance, and suddenly, you’re fifteen and being told off for late homework again.
“y/n!”
You scurry to hide Liz behind you, as if that’s of any use whatsoever, and almost melt into tears when you see Mrs Alleman.
“Oh dear, how good to see you.” she professes, and before you quite know what to do with yourself, she’s standing right in front of you, wearing the same stylishly sensible shoes she always did.
“And you, Miss.”
“Who’s this?”
Glee forces a wide smile onto your face, standing aside to allow Elizabeth’s full beauty to be appreciated.
“This is my wife, Elizabeth,” you say, the proudest thing you’ve said all evening. “This is Mrs Alleman, my language teacher. She taught me everything I know.”
“Oh stop it,” she plays coy, but is gasping and gawking joyously beneath it. “Mr Smith owes me a tenner now. I predicted you’d come here with a female partner of some sort, he said you’d just come as an out and proud lesbian but single.”
Your jaw drops, and you can see Elizabeth’s chest rattling a little with swallowed laughter.
“I’m sorry, what? You had a bet on me being gay?”
“Oh yes, it first started when you were in year eleven and so helplessly queer, we couldn’t help but keep placing bets on how long you’d stay in the closet.” She places a gentle hand on your upper arm, noting the evident flush about you, and turns towards Liz. “Anyway, hi Elizabeth. You treat our girl well, she was a great student.”
“Always, Ma’am.” Liz answers dutifully, squeezing your hand even tighter in a silent promise. “She’s the most wonderful thing to have ever happened to me, and I’m glad she had an influence like you among all that lot of bogans.”
Mrs Alleman is impressed, you can tell since she’s wearing that same delighted expression she did when you told her you got into your top choice university with the results you aimed for, thanks to her teaching. “Tall, out, and Aussie? She really does have it all. And as much as I’d like to argue, you’re totally right, that year was a damn nuisance.”
“Somehow, no one has matured since we left?” you comment with feigned shock.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” It didn’t surprise you either. They were a fat lot of use, the whole lot of them. At least you and your brother were able to do good on your promise to get away from them all. “What are you doing now?”
“Oh, I work in translation for the home office and cabinet ministers.” Though your statement doesn’t hold as much pride as the one about Elizabeth being your wife did.
Her eyes grow wide, “That’s brilliant! I know you always wanted to do something like that.”
“I did, and I actually enjoy it.”
Mrs Alleman’s face softens, “I hoped you would. But promise me you’ll never become a teacher.”
You loose a chuckle, saying, “Never,” before stilling to a beat of easy silence.
“I love those earrings, by the way.”
“Oh!” You twist them subconsciously. “Anniversary present.”
“Y’know, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to get inside and make a speech,” she grumbles. “Drop me an email, I’d love to catch up and properly see how you’re doing. Bring this tall drink of water if you’d like,” she adds with a wink.
“I’d really like that Miss, thank you.” you say, flushing a little.
Mrs Alleman was always one for affection, so you’re not entirely surprised when she approaches you with wide arms, her court shoes muffled on the foyer carpet. You accept the hug, and you’re surprised when Liz does the same. You say your goodbyes, agree to meet again, and let Elizabeth lead you back to the car, your fingers woven together.
“Was that worth being dragged out of the house for?” Liz asks.
“Hmm, I’m not sure. Perhaps shoving that strap down my throat will make it a little more worthwhile,” you say with a smirk.
“I heard that!” Mrs Alleman shouts from the top of the stone steps, gazing at you disapprovingly despite the laughs tumbling from her.
You cling to Liz, pressing your lips into a thin line when you feel your phone buzz, your brother's name popping up on the screen.
‘Everyone knows what you were doing. Don’t come back.’
‘We weren’t planning on it,’ you type back. Not now you’ve reaped your revenge, at least. You shut your phone after adding to the message, ‘Drinks at ours tonight.’
These people from your past are insignificant, Liz is your future and your forever.
63 notes · View notes
ikingsley · 3 years
Text
Ina x MC: Another Woman
Ina x MC: Another Woman
Summary: Ina has a secret admirer.
Warnings: Fluff!
Tag: @samanthadalton @domakir @kulaykape @hellyeah90sbaby @dopeyouth @kwaj05 @thedaft1​ @swimmingshoebakerydreamer​
Author’s Notes: A little fic for Valentine’s Day! Thank you to my friend @kwaj05, the “Prompt-Giver” and my personal editor LOL.
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Belvoire’s campus buzzed with anticipation. It was only a few days before Valentine’s Day, but students already made plans to woo their classmates or planned grand gestures for the people they were with. Even the quietest of students absorbed the campus’s lively energy, acting more extroverted than ever. Maybe it was just being overtly friendly or being flirtatious, but everyone felt the effects of the holiday spirit.
Luna was no exception. As an intelligent, witty, attractive young woman, she was often hit on by both male and female classmates. But the stunner only had eyes on one particular woman, a certain stuffy professor. So when people flirted with her, she often nodded politely, or smiled and turned away. The lack of interest she expressed was received by her admirers, who disappointedly backed off.
~
It was the day before Valentine’s Day, and students piled into Professor Kingsley’s ample classroom. They came in pairs, chatting lively with their lovers. 
The class started quite uneventfully. Ina watched as Luna took her seat, flashing a knowing smile as Luna nodded back at her. Then Ina began her lecture, which very suitably was about the power dynamics between couples. Ina knew that some of her students had tuned her out, but every time she looked on at Luna, she was met with a piercing pair of eyes. And this was satisfactory enough to her. Each time, she would smile to herself, motivated to continue lecturing. 
And right before she was going to let the class work on their own, a soft knock at the door was heard.
“Professor Kingsley? I have a package for you,” a voice rang out.
“Hmm,” Ina hummed. She hadn’t been expecting a delivery. Maybe it was a romantic gesture from Luna.
Ina got up and opened the door. Nosey students stretched their necks out to see what was the mysterious package, Luna included. Luna had absolutely no idea what Ina could have gotten. She was more lowkey, a person who wanted to keep her private life, private. She’d celebrate with Ina on their own terms, and found no need to plan huge public gestures.
It was much to Luna’s surprise when the delivery man presented her with a teddy bear, chocolates and a bouquet of red roses. The gift was left anonymous and Ina thought she knew who had given it to her.
What... Luna thought. Red roses? That was her and Ina’s flower to each other. It carried a heavy weight, especially after the sabbatical ordeal.
Luna was uncharacteristically not having it. But a wolf-whistle from several of the frat boys in her class brought her out of her stupor. Is this was jealousy feels like? she thought. But I’m not a jealous person!
“Damn Prof! I see you,” Ford commented.
Luna did a quick glance around the room. Everyone around her was smiling, and to not look like an outlier, Luna put on her best fake smile. Meanwhile, Ina smiled sheepishly at the boys’ wolf-whistle and Ford’s comment. She gave Luna a quick glance, one that lasted merely a quarter of a second. Had she really given Luna a good look, she would have been able to tell something was wrong. But Ina’s quick glimpse at Luna’s faux demeanor made her assume that the sender was in fact her girlfriend. 
Ina smiled to herself and subsequently wrapped up class. Today she was teaching back-to-back classes, and Ina made sure that Luna was well-aware she wouldn’t be able to lag behind to avoid them being caught. Quickly, Ina was left with an empty classroom. Everyone had places to go and people to see. Though she found it odd that Luna hadn’t even acknowledged her on her way out, Ina didn’t think much of it.
~
“Baby, I’m home!” Ina called out.
Night had fallen quickly. Ina had a faculty meeting that seemed to last hours. Dean Steinhelm had droned on again, and many of the professors fought to stay awake. Despite a relatively boring meeting, Ina had noticed that Professor Alvarez was looking at her every so often. As the newest addition to the sociology department, Professor Alvarez had worked closely with Ina. Ina once was the new teacher in Belvoire’s human science school, and she knew how isolating the experience could be. Ina took Alvarez under her wing, like a sort of mentor, despite their age difference of only a few years.
Ina walked into the office, and put down her work bags. She then strolled into the bedroom, where she found Luna sprawled on the bed doing homework. Ina stood leaning in the doorway, drinking Luna up. 
“Are you gonna greet me or just stand in the doorway like a brooding loner?” Luna said, without looking up from her laptop.
“I do not brood,” Ina said, finally shuffling towards the bed.
“You so do,” Luna replied coldly.
Brr! Ina thought. Luna’s tone was slightly reprimanding, leaving Ina concerned. She seemed fine during class...“Lu, are you okay?”
“Hmm. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just tired,” Luna sighed. 
The hours that passed between the class and now had calmed Luna down. Sometimes it would cross her mind and she’d feel a sense of jealousy wash over her. Luna hadn’t considered herself a jealous person, but with Ina it was different. There was just something about her. But then Luna realized that she was being unreasonably jealous. Ina was by far the most popular professor, and one of those stupid frat boys probably sent her that gift. And then she’d laugh because she knew the frat boys would never have a chance with Ina. This vigorous cycle repeated itself, but eventually she’d felt relieved. Ina was hers.
Ina crawled into bed, wrapping Luna in her arms. “Hey, thanks for the gift today in class,” Ina whispered into Luna’s ear.
And again, Luna felt jealousy course through her, “Ina, that wasn’t-”
“The mysterious aspect of it was quite hot. But it was also swee-” Ina said letting out a hot breath. 
“Ina! That wasn’t me!” Luna exclaimed.
“Oh. So...who was that then?” Ina asked quizzically. 
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“Does my secret admirer bother you?”
“Not really. I know you’re mine and I’m yours.” Luna’s jealousy fluctuated often, but she didn’t want Ina to feel bad about the present. Ina had no control over who found her attractive. I mean, come on. Ina was just drop dead gorgeous.
“I’m glad. A couple of my relationships...have deteriorated because of jealousy. I don’t need that extra drama in my life,” Ina said. 
Now Luna really didn’t want to bring up her varying jealousy. She turned away from Ina, and Ina fell asleep holding Luna.
~
Hours passed by. It was almost four in the morning, and Luna was still wide-awake. She tried so hard to not feel jealous - that was so unlike her - but something wasn’t sitting right with this whole secret admirer thing. Ina shifted in her sleep, pulling away from Luna. 
“Ina?” Luna asked.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” Ina turned to Luna.
“No, I’ve been up.”
“Why?” Ina shifted to check the time “Jesus Lu, it’s almost four!”
“I...” Luna began.
“What is it?”
“I know you didn’t want me to be jealous and normally I’m not but I don’t know, something feels off. I know it’s not your fault, but the red roses are our thing and I-”
Luna’s rambling was cut off by a forehead kiss. 
“It’s okay. I know I’d feel jealous,” Ina admitted. “It’s cute that you’re a little jealous. But I’m yours. And yours only.”
Luna sighed in relief. 
“Is this why you’ve been acting weird?” Ina asked.
“I guess. Sometimes I feel jealous, but other times I know that it’s always been us. Not anyone else. My feelings have changed every couple moments.”
Ina gave her another forehead kiss. 
“It’s only you,” Ina smiled while Luna leaned in for a kiss. The jealousy she felt dissipated. Their relationship had only been strengthened by the secret admirer. The two broke out into raucous laughter. It was a weird situation, but they had gotten through another hurdle together.
“Who do you think sent it? ‘Cause I think we need to have a little chat,” Luna said, cracking her knuckles in a fake overprotective nature.
Ina laughed, but racked her brain.
“Do you think it was a frat boy?” Luna hummed.
Ina shook her head. “Gifts from those students tend to be more...flamboyant and never anonymous.” Ina recalled getting serenaded by the football team on various occasions.
Finally, Ina gasped. “Oh my god...it’s Professor Alvarez!”
“The new professor of sociology?!” Luna laughed.
“Yes! Just because I was being nice to her doesn’t mean I was hitting on her!” Ina followed. “Wait...she’s married...to a man. Hold on! She mentioned she was going to send me a gift for helping her adjust to Belvoire. That’s why she was looking at me in the faculty meeting. She wanted to see if I figured out it was her! The cheap ass! I guess that’s what was on sale because of Valentine’s Day.”
“What’s your definition of nice to her? Because being nice to a friend is different than being nice to your girlfriend.” Luna whispered in Ina’s ear, her hot breath hitching Ina’s own breath. 
“Come here so I can show you what nice is,” Ina said, straddling Luna’s hips.
~
Luna woke up to the smell of something pleasant. That can’t be Ina, she thought. She threw on a satin robe and walked to the kitchen. Her jaw dropped.
“Ina! You didn’t burn your apartment down?” Luna snickered.
Ina rolled her eyes, but didn’t turn around. “I have to focus!” she said, pointing at the iPad next to her. It was playing a very detailed video about cooking eggs and bacon. “Go back to bed.”
“Aww, breakfast in bed?” Luna smiled.
“Mhm,” Ina hummed back. “Now go before I actually burn my place down.”
“Simp,” Luna said under her breath, turning to return to the bedroom.
“I heard that!” Ina laughed.
Ina came with two plates of bacon and eggs in her hands. 
“I know you felt off after yesterday, but Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” Ina said. “I’m yours, and yours only. Also, I didn’t want to buy anything because Valentine’s Day is the epitome of a capitalism-”
She was cut off by Luna reaching up and kissing her forehead.
“Babe, I’ve heard this rant before. You’re such a nerd, but I love you,” she said pointing at her lips. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Ina put the plates down, kissing Luna with everything in her. 
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suckmysupernatural · 4 years
Text
I Got You - Chapter 1
Word Count: ~1300
Pairing: Professor!Dean x Reader
Warnings: alcoholism, shitty boyfriend
Summary: Y/N is used to dealing with her drunk boyfriend, Brandon. That is, until returning to college after a five year sabbatical. Y/N decides to take a fun history class and she ends up meeting Dean, or rather Professor Dean. 
A/N: I am so stoked to share my first series!! Thank you to @emptycanvasposts for betaing every chapter. Tune in the next couple days, I’ll be posting all 9 chapters within the week. Happy Reading!
Series Masterlist
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You couldn’t help but be nervous. It had been over five years since you stepped foot on a college campus. 24 doesn’t seem that old to restart your education, but everyone around you looked fresh-faced, and it made you feel old, tired. But, you weren’t going to let anything stop you this time around. You were going to get your degree, get a great job, just like you had always planned. 
You had survived two classes already that day, English Literature and Statistics, and now it was time for your history class. You were excited about this class, unlike the other three that you were taking. It wasn’t some basic U.S. History bullshit. Walking into the classroom, coffee in hand, you survey the room. 
There were about 25 chairs, desks arranged in a semicircle facing a whiteboard. There was a small table in front of it, clearly for the teacher. There were about 13 students already in seats when you walked in, choosing to sit at the edge of the table. You liked being up close; it helped you focus and not have the temptation to look at your phone. 
By the time class began, about 20 of the 25 seats were filled, and there was no sign of a teacher. A couple of minutes passed as people started to chat with others next to them. The door swung open and a man sauntered into the room. 
He must’ve been your age, maybe a few years older. He was incredibly handsome, with a strong jaw and emerald eyes. He wore dark jeans and a grey henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. A pair of square-framed glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. In one hand he held a laptop and in the other a cup of coffee. At first, you figured he must be another student. That was, of course, until he set his things down on the front table and faced the class. 
“Evening, class. Welcome to Mythologies and Monsters. I am your professor, Dean Winchester. You all can call me Dean. I am way too young for anything else,” the class let out a small chuckle at his joke, “I trust that you have all looked over the syllabus, if not I suggest you do so before the next class. Today, we will just make introductions, say a little about ourselves. The class is a small one, and we are stuck together for 16 weeks. Might as well make some friends.”
Dean pointed at the person across the circle from you, letting them go first. Once it had gotten to your turn, you knew that you were the oldest in the room, the second being 19. It wasn’t upsetting, but something to make a note of. 
“Hi, I’m Y/N. I am 24, and this is my first semester back at college for five years. I am a Creative Writing Major, with a minor in History. I decided to take this course because I like writing science fiction, so learning about different mythologies can help my writing in the future. That’s about it,” you smile at the rest of the class. Dean nodded before finishing up.
“As I said before, I’m Dean. I am 27, an Aquarius. Um… what else… well, this is my favorite course to teach. I would rather talk about monsters and gods than the founding fathers. I am a pretty easy grader, so lucky you guys. Just show up, chat, get an A.” Dean coughed, standing from his seat on the table. “Well, that was fun. It’s the first day, so get outta here. I will see you all on Wednesday.” 
Before you could get up, you felt your phone buzz. 
Hey babe. Won’t be home for dinner, work stuff. Sorry.
You sighed; this was so typical of Brandon. At this point, you didn’t know if he was actually at work or out with his buddies. All you knew was that he stayed out late most nights, and you hadn’t gotten laid in five weeks. 
“You alright, Y/N?” a voice bringing your eyes away from the disappointing message. You looked up to see Dean. 
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. See you Wednesday,” you smile, grabbing your things. He simply nods, smiling back at you. Damn, that smile was intoxicating. You couldn’t think that way for many reasons. You were in a committed relationship, and he was your professor.  You quickly left, making your way to the student parking. 
Making dinner seemed pointless, as it was just you tonight, so you grabbed a burger and some fries. It always sucked, going home to an empty apartment. You and Brandon had lived together for about two years now, but most of the time, it was as if you were alone. 
You made your way up the stairs to the fourth floor where you lived. If you were going to have greasy fast food, you might as well forgo the elevator. You got to your apartment, opening the door to be met with darkness. Of course, he wouldn’t leave a light on. Not like you had asked him a million times already. 
You spent the evening on your couch, eating not only the take-out but also a pint of ice cream. Binge-watching your favorite show, you ended up passing out on the couch. 
It was around 2 AM when you woke up to knocking on your door. Shuffling your way over, you looked through the peephole to see Brandon. Opening the door, he stumbled his way in, reeking of tequila. 
“Ugh… seriously, Brandon?” you roll your eyes. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, but it annoyed you that he couldn’t even get the key in the door. 
“Oh, whatever… buzzkill,” Brandon slurred before making his way to the couch, passing out almost immediately. You rolled your eyes again. You always frustrated yourself on nights like tonight. Why were you with him? Why wouldn’t you just walk away? You were too afraid to admit the truth to yourself; you were afraid of being alone. 
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Wednesday came quickly, and you once again found yourself walking to Myths and Monsters. You stopped at the coffee cart; exhaustion showed clearly under your eyes. You had spent most of the night before arguing with Brandon. He had come home wasted, yet again, this time trying to get you into bed. You had been so furious, saying that he needed alcohol to fuck you. The fight went on for hours. You got in line, trying to fight a yawn. 
 “Long night?” you turned around, seeing your professor had just gotten in line behind you. 
“Yeah, you could say that,” you replied with a small smile on your face. 
“I can’t do evening classes without a cup of coffee. I’ll start drifting off half-way through the lecture,” Dean chuckled at himself, “you the same?”
“Yeah, caffeine is my acceptable drug of choice,” you nodded, “Let me guess, you drink your coffee black?” 
“How’d you know?” Dean cocked his head. 
“You seem like the type, although I bet you sneak a frappe every once and a while,” you laugh.
“Shhhh… don’t tell anyone,” he winked, “what about you? Latte mochaccino-whatever?”
You let out a laugh. “No. Just two creams, three sugars.” He simply nodded, and before you knew it, he had moved in front of you. 
“Coffee black, and another with two creams and three sugars,” Dean said to the barista. Your eyes widened, not even realizing the line was down to you. Dean turned back to you, two steaming coffees in his hands.
“You sneaky son of a bitch,” you say in disbelief, taking the coffee Dean offered you.
“Well, I am a professor, we tend to be pretty smart,” Dean chuckled, taking a sip of his drink, “let’s go, don’t wanna be late.”
You both headed into the classroom, where you took your seat. Dean put his things on the table again, facing the class. 
“Evening people. Today we are gonna talk about the Aztecs…” 
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drprettyboyspence · 4 years
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Spencer Reid can dance?
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Dr. Spencer Reid/reader
Summary: Y/n has been planning to take a ballroom dance class for a while, but what she hasn’t planned on was needing to find a partner four hours before the class. With no one left to turn to, she asks her best friend and secret crush Spencer Reid. As it turns out, the night couldn’t end any better.
words: 3.3k
warnings: some mentioning of anxiety, there’s one kiss scene, nothing else to my knowledge, it’s a lot of fluff!! :)
a/n: I thought this was a cute idea, it isn’t a part 3 of Beach Day and A Perfect Date, that will come sometime soon! (This is set in season 14/15). I hope you guys enjoy!!
“A partner?” Y/n asks the male voice on the opposite end of the phone, “I wasn’t aware that I would need a partner for this class, yes I understand there are no refunds, alright, I’ll find a partner, thank you.”
Y/n hangs up the phone and sighs heavily, finding herself in a tricky situation all of a sudden. She had signed up for a ballroom dancing class, I know, sounds stupid, but she’s almost 36 years old and she’s never learned how to dance, so she figured why the hell not. The problem is, she had figured it was a “you don’t need a partner, we’ll set you up with someone” type of deal, turns out, she’s expected to come up with a ballroom dancing partner in the next, oh lord, 4 hours before the first class. She debates blowing it off altogether, but it was expensive, and Y/n wants to learn how to dance. She sits down at her kitchen table to think, the obvious choices would be Emily or Garcia, they’d be up for it and it would be a fun girls night. Plus, it wouldn’t be awkward when they see how ungraceful she is on her feet, ironic, an FBI profiler who chases down the worst of humanity every day is nervous to walk into a ballroom dancing class.
Right as Y/n is about to send a text in the BAU girls group chat, she’d go with anyone from that group, even Tara who she honestly doesn’t know that well, Y/n remembers that Emily took Garcia and JJ to Memphis for a lower-profile case centered in technology, and Tara is off on a sabbatical teaching a lecture and interviewing serial killers, so Y/n finds herself back to the drawing board once again. An idea pops into Y/n’s head that seems so absurd she almost pushes it out immediately, but she’s desperate and hey, what’s the worst that could happen? She dials the phone number before she can find herself too nervous to click call.
“Hey Spence! I have a question for you, what are you up to tonight?” Y/n says to her best friend Spencer Reid, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice from the genius profiler on the other end of the line.
“Hi Y/n, I was thinking about having Doctor Who marathon and maybe reading some Chaucer, but I’m honestly free, why?”
Okay, now Y/n has no excuse to hang up and forget any of this ever happened, Spencer’s free, which means he can totally come to a ballroom dance class with her this evening.
“I know this isn’t something you’re usually into, but I signed up for this ballroom dancing class, and I didn’t realize I needed to bring a partner with me, all the girls are busy and I have no one to go with, so I was, um, wondering if you would come with me, please Spencer?”
“Oh Y/n you know I would do anything for you, but I’m really not the dancing type, you don’t want to see me dance, trust me, I wish I could help, I’m sorry.”
Y/n has to frantically turn this around, because Spencer is her last option, she tries to use what she’s actually good at, profiling. Her mind jumps to a few months ago, she had been in the elevator with Luke and Spencer, her and Luke having a conversation about their weekends, and they'd been playfully teasing each other, you know, as friends do. After the elevator ride, Spencer had been so grumpy and confrontational towards you for hours, Garcia teased you for days about Spencer’s obvious crush on you, but you figured he was just sleep-deprived or stressed about his mother, you know, plausible reasons for Spencer to be distressed.
“Alright Spencer thanks for telling me, you know I’m thinking about Luke to come with me, he looks like the kind of guy that would be good at ballroom dancing, you know? I’ll give him a call right now. Anyone, thanks-”
“Wait, you know what, maybe I can spare the time after all Y/n, I’d hate for you to have to go with Luke, plus, you never know when ballroom dancing might come up on a case, I’ll go with you.”
Y/n smirks to herself, honestly shocked that had worked but excited to tell Penelope about it when she gets the chance.
“Spencer thank you so much! I owe you one, can I pick you up at 6:30? The class starts at 7.”
“Yes I believe that will work fine, should I wear something special, I obviously don’t think I have the correct ballroom dancing attire but uh, I’ll try and find something appropriate, see you then Y/n.” The click of the phone hanging up makes Y/n realize the truth of the current matter. To be honest, Y/n has had a huge crush on Spencer for years, like a lot of years, she had been secretly thrilled when Garcia decided that Spencer was pining for Y/n as well, but she had kept it hidden, not letting herself belief that someone as handsome, funny, and brilliant as Spencer would ever be interested in someone like her. No matter how many times Spencer says he isn’t the dancing type, Y/n is sure she’ll be twice as awkward and ungraceful, but she lets herself, for just a split second, think that in a few hours she’ll be dancing with Spencer, pressed up against his lean but muscled torso. Y/n isn’t ready for this, that’s for sure, but she only has a few hours to get ready for the class, she better get started.
“Spence! Thanks again for coming with me, if it makes you feel any better, dancing isn’t really my thing either, it’s part of my ridiculous New Years Resolution to learn new hobbies that don’t involve studying the likelihood someone will become a cold blooded serial killer, I figured ballroom dancing might be fun.”
“I’m sure you’ll be great Y/n, there are very few things you aren’t good at, I’d despise you if you weren’t so funny and nice, its unbelievable.”
Y/n laughs and hides her blushing cheeks as Spencer’s words sink in, he thinks she’s funny and cute. It’s embarrassing really, Y/n is a 35 year old woman, laughing and blushing over a simple conversation with her best friend who she has a goddamn crush on, it’s like high school all over again. Before long Y/n pulls into the dance studio, feeling anxious but rather excited, which when she thinks about it, is how she feels whenever she’s around Spencer. “You alright Y/n?” Spencer asks, noticing she seems rather pale and sweaty all of a sudden.
“Yes Spencer, I’m just feeling rather anxious to go in for some reason. It’s funny isn’t it? We’re FBI agents, we follow armed unsubs into darkened basements and chase down psychopaths in high speed car chases, but I can’t seem to get over the fact that I’m going to look ridiculous in there, and everyone is going to judge me.”
“Oh Y/n, it’s totally okay to be feeling anxious about something like this. Did you know that 6.8% of the United States population suffer from social anxiety disorder, which is characterized by intense anxiety of being judged in a social situation, and obviously not everyone who feels anxious in a situation like this has the disorder, so it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Plus, don’t you worry, remember this is a beginners ballroom dance class, I’m absolutely sure that every single one of the people in this class are sitting in their cars nervous about the same things you are right now. Besides, if even one person judges you, we can employ the one and only Penelope Garcia to totally legally cyber stalk them and embarrass them back, that’ll teach them to mess with the BAU.” Y/n giggles, she knows Spencer is too respectful to ever sick the powers of Garcia on anybody, but his joke does it’s job, it gets her to laugh, and she feels that she can overcome her anxiety and enter the class now, which is good because it’s 6:58 and she’s really not looking to be late. By the time the two of them walk into the class just as the clock chimes 7 p.m., the room is already filled. It’s a large room with high ceilings, it’s well lit but not overly bright, and there are two people at the front who are obviously the teachers, the man being the one Y/n had spoken to on the phone earlier that day.
“Welcome to the ballroom dancing class! This class is a no-judgement space and it’s specially designed for beginners, so don’t feel nervous, we are going to take you step by step and by the end, you’ll be on your way to being a great ballroom dancer! Spencer leads Y/n to the middle of the room, not the very back but not the front either, which Y/n is grateful for. As the class begins, Y/n realizes that somehow, she and Spencer had not been shockingly off the map with their choice of attire. She had read an article that recommended a loose skirt or pants with a comfortable blouse for females, and a dress shirt with dress pants for males, she assumes Spencer and probably most of the others in this class had read a similar article. She does notice that Spencer is the only man in the room wearing a tie, which is so on-brand for Spencer that it makes Y/n smile, Spencer is always the best dressed member of the team, wearing formal wear every single day, even when they’re not on a case. Y/n likes the teachers more than she expected to, she expected them to be bossy and pretentious, plus the man on the phone had been border line rude, but they are kind and explain each move in detail, so even Y/n and Spencer can keep up. They haven’t done anything too awkward yet, they’ve spent a while warming up, the teachers explaining that they must be warmed up because ballroom dancing takes more muscles and flexibility than one might think, and they don’t want anyone pulling a muscle or injuring themselves in any way.
“Imagine that,” Spencer whispers to Y/n “I can see it now, Emily disappointedly asking why I have a sprained ankle, and we have to shamefully admit that we were ballroom dancing.” Y/n laughs just a little too loud earning her and Spencer dirty looks from the older couples around them, which honestly causes them to laugh more.
“Alright, it’s time for us to turn to our partners, the taller partner should place their hand on the back of the shorter partner’s shoulder, they should place their hand on the front of the taller’s shoulder. The couple should hold hands with their other hands.” Y/n’s lessened nervous feelings come back full force when she realizes this is the moment she’d been anticipating, she’s about to be holding hands with Spencer and dancing with him. Spencer waits for Y/n to make the first move, she places her hand on the front of his right shoulder after she nods at him, getting his consent to do so.
“You can put your hand around my shoulder, Spencer, it’s alright.” Y/n says with a hint of teasing in her voice, but she’s secretly very happy that Spencer is so respectful and doesn’t want to push her past her boundaries or anything, he’s so sweet. Spencer nods and Y/n sees just the hint of a blush on his face, she assumes she’s adorned with the same by now, which deepens when she feel Spencer’s strong hand wrap around her shoulder and stay there. The two of them raise their free hands and intertwine them, this surely isn’t the way Y/n had imagined the first time she holds hands with Spencer, and she’s imagined it a lot if she’s being honest with herself. They’re then instructed to start moving their feet back and forth, just back and forth, Y/n can handle this. It’s awkward at first, Spencer steps on Y/n foot then profusely apologizes, which Y/n finds adorable, but they get it rather quickly, and they sink into a rather choppy rhythm, but a rhythm nonetheless.
“You’re doing great Y/n, see, I told you you’d be good at this.” Y/n smiles up at Spencer and their eyes meet, it’s all of a sudden like they’re the only two people in the room, the other couples and the teachers fading into the background as the two of them find themselves enamored with each other. It’s honestly something unlike anything Y/n has ever experienced, she feels more comfortable in Spencer’s arms in this moment than she ever could have expected she’d feel at a dance class. She’s suddenly overwhelmingly graceful that the BAU girls had been out of town, this moment is nearly magical and it ends too soon for both Y/n and Spencer, judging by the disappointed looks on their faces that they both try and hide. The class is over so fast it’s almost laughable, Y/n had spent so much time being anxious about something that she actually enjoyed, how ironic. There’s a sort of silence that follows Y/n and Spencer as they descend the stairs and walk out into the parking lot to Y/n’s car. It’s bordering on awkward silence by the time Y/n is pulling out of the lot to drive Spencer home. “Did you have fun Y/n?” Spencer asks, Y/n grateful that he finally had the courage to break the strong tension the silence had created.
“You know what Spencer, I really did, I can’t thank you enough for coming with me, I was thinking about just blowing off the whole thing.”
“Thank you for inviting me, you better not tell the team this, but I enjoyed myself too.”
“Dr. Spencer Reid likes ballroom dancing! I can just see the headlines now! The unsubs are terrified!” Spencer laughs and playfully swats Y/n’s arm in response to her unabashed teasing. The two of them are about 10 minutes out from Spencer’s house when he suddenly asks Y/n to take a turn in the opposite direction, leading them to a park.
“Spencer what’s up? What are we doing here?” Y/n says in confusion, she’s been to this park before a few times, with Spencer actually, they’d gotten coffee here when they were getting to know each other years earlier.
Spencer gets out of the car and they walk in the summer evening, it’s almost dark but not so dark that Y/n feels unnerved by the absence of light. They sit down on a park bench not far from Y/n’s car before Spencer begins speaking. “What you said about New Years resolutions earlier, it got me thinking, we’ve known each other for almost five years now Y/n, and in that time I’ve been to jail, gotten out of jail, been reinstated, and seen enough horror for a lifetime, you’ve been through a hell of a lot too, but here we are, and that’s why I need to tell you this. You don’t have to say anything, but I don’t express my feelings enough, I guess I’m afraid of getting disappointed, but I need you to know.”
Y/n’s heart is racing with the same combination of nervousness and excitement that characterizes her moments with Spencer, but now it feels exaggerated, because she can’t remember another time she’s seen Spencer like this, so honest.
“You can tell me anything Spencer.” She says to him and he nods, grabbing her hand lightly, which makes Y/n’s heart jump almost dangerously.
“I’ve never met someone that makes me feel like you do Y/n. I know there’s no such thing as a perfect person, it’s impossible in every definition of the word, but if there were, it would be you. Your imperfections only add to your perfection, you’re hilarious, brave, kind, brilliant, and gorgeous. You’re the most independent and strong woman I’ve ever met in my life, you inspire me every single day to be the best I can be and when I look at you, any doubt I have about if I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing in life disappears, because I met you, I’ve been falling in love with you over the last five years Y/n. The first time I realized how much I cared for you was right here, we were drinking coffee and you saw a kid fall of his skateboard across the way, you jumped up and helped him right away, and I suddenly realized, wow I could fall in love with her. It terrifies me but I have to get this out, because who knows what is going to happen tomorrow, it could be my last day on this Earth, and the thought of leaving this life without telling you how I feel is more terrifying than any unsub I’ve ever come into contact with. I know this must be a lot for you to take in, but just say the word and we can forget any of this ever happened, I will never stop being your best friend Y/n, and if that’s all you want me to be, then that’s all I will ever be.” Y/n finds herself with tears in her eyes, Spencer’s loving words making her extremely emotional, too good to be true. She knows she needs to respond before Spencer begins regretting telling her all of that, but she doesn’t know how to respond in a way that would ever accurately express her feelings towards the amazing man in front of her. Y/n leans forward and kisses Spencer, attaching their lips together firmly but not over aggressively. Spencer seems startled but leans into the kiss after a split second, he reaches up to cup Y/n’s face and she reaches her hand up to tangle her hand in the back of Spencer’s hard, causing him to let out just the smallest noise of pleasure. The kiss ends too soon, the two of them breathing way too heavily after just a 15 second kiss, their eyes glazed over as they look at each other passionately.
“I love you Spencer Reid” Y/n says, feeling like she’s in a dream, the words that had been hanging over her head for the last five years had just left her lips, and she momentarily worries that the last 10 minutes had been some sort of daydream, and Spencer would laugh in her face and walk away.
“I love you Y/n Y/l/n.” She says back. They sit there in silence for who knows how long, it honestly could have been hours and the two of them wouldn’t be any the wiser. They eventually get back into Y/n’s car, the two of them having seen way too many late-night park abductions and murders to allow them to stay any longer. As they’re pulling up to Spencer’s apartment building Y/n says teasingly,
“So Spencer, I’m guessing you’ll be accompanying me to the next ballroom dance class, would that be okay? Or should I ask Luke?” Even in the dim light of the car Y/n can see Spencer’s eyes darken almost imperceptibly, most likely with jealousy of hearing Luke’s name once again. He grabs Y/n’s hand and responds “You’re mine and I’m yours now Y/n, I’ll ballroom dance with you for the rest of my life if that’s what you want, and Luke Alvez surely isn’t lucky enough to ballroom dance with the goddess that is you, text me when you get home please, goodnight.” Y/n giggles and lets Spencer kiss her hand like a true gentleman. Driving home she feels like she’s in a trance, this evening having been better than she ever imagined. Ballroom dancing, who knew?
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dailyniallnews · 4 years
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The rock reinvention of Niall Horan: 'I don’t see myself as a superstar – I live a normal life'
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Niall Horan strolls into the lobby of a London hotel wearing a sweatshirt advertising the Eagles European Tour 1996. It turns out this is not just some retro affectation. The former boy band star is a bit of an old rocker at heart. “I actually saw this tour,” the 26-year-old Irishman proudly explains. “It was my first show of all time, in Dublin, with my dad.” Horan would have been three years old.
“Don Henley is the main man, he’s my all-time songwriting hero.” These days, Horan has Henley on speed dial. “It’s mad. I send him my songs, to get his view. He’s quite a blunt man, for better or worse. But I love the honesty. There’s a lot of a–e-licking yes men in this business. Don still has that small‑town Texan thing. He tells you what he thinks.”
Horan is small (5ft 7in), gregarious and friendly, with a strong Irish accent. “There’s a humble side to being Irish that is quite appealing. Of course, a humble person wouldn’t say that! But I don’t see myself as a superstar or anything like that.”
He grew up in Mullingar, in County Westmeath. All he ever wanted to be was a musician. “I was the family show-off. I led the school choir. I was in garage bands playing Arctic Monkeys songs or playing acoustic guitar around pubs.” He was frustrated by his small town environment. “Dublin was an hour away, but it feels years away when you’ve got no money and you’re just walking to school in the rain, playing guitar, doing homework, going to bed to get up and do the same thing again.” He was 16 when his teacher filled out his application for The X Factor. He wound up in One Direction; the rest is history.
Between 2010 and 2016, One Direction sold more than 50 million records. “It was incredible. But we got tired. Not tired of it, just tired out. Five albums, five tours, in five years. We were all knackered. I can never really remember any major bust-ups, just brotherly family nagging, s—-y arguments like that. But we were gonna end up killing each other. We all sat down one day, had a chat and it was like, we need to take a break. Step back, chill out and try something new.”
Horan admits the prospect of a sabbatical made him nervous. “There was no timeline on the gap. I would have preferred if someone said five years, and it probably will end up something like that. I’m enjoying what I’m doing, but if one of the lads were to pick up the phone and say it’s time, I’d do it.”
Within 1D, Horan was not initially considered one of the stars. “I was a couple [of places] down the ranks in terms of the best singer.” He was rarely considered for lead vocal parts. “It used to make me angry but, in hindsight, I was 17, so I was angry anyway! As I grew up, and went through puberty, the voice got better, the guitar-playing got better. And when the songwriting kicked in, I started to have a bigger role.”
Horan’s debut album, Flicker, drew on his obsession with classic Seventies singer-songwriting. It went to No 1 in the US Billboard charts in 2017, the third solo album from a 1D member to achieve the feat. “There’s no rivalry. Maybe cos we’re all doing different types of music.” He likes Louis Tomlinson’s new single, Kill My Mind. “He’s shaping a sound that suits him, that north of England Britpop thing.” He characterises Liam Payne as “R’n’B hip hop” and Harry Styles as drawing on “the English side of Seventies pop. That would be the closest to me.”
He doesn’t mention Zayn Malik, the first to depart the band in 2015. “There’s no hard feelings. He’s doing his own thing and I don’t know what would happen with Zayn if the conversation came up to get the band back together.”
With his superior musicianship and songwriting focus, Horan was always among the likeliest to find solo success.
“There’s a piano in my living room, always a couple of guitars lying around. [Songwriting] is a hobby, not a chore. Sometimes I wake up in the night and write down lines from my dreams. I did it last night.” He fishes out a leather-bound notebook and reads: “Writing all my dreams down to make a new memory of you.” Then he shrugs, bashfully. “When you read it back in the morning, it could be the biggest load of crap.”
With a second album in the works, Horan says the real luxury is being able to spend time recording. “I’ve written 60 songs for this album. I can be rational and irrational, spend three days on a chorus, write 10 crap songs to get one good one. Sometimes you bump into a hit along the way, and that’s the best feeling in the world. There’s no better.”
The first single, Nice to Meet Ya, is released tomorrow. It’s a bit of a departure, a playful pickup song with a rocky groove and a touch of swagger.
The playfulness, though, covers emotion. A romance with American actress and singer Hailee Steinfeld ended last year. “It was a sad time,” Horan gloomily admits. “That’s where most of these songs have come out of.”
He is in a much better frame of mind now and says he doesn’t miss 1D mania. He made his own way to the interview, walking unmolested through the streets of Soho. “I can live a normal life. I’m a chilled-out fella but it was frustrating being hidden away. You had a fear of going out cos you’d get stopped every five seconds.”
And yet, last year, he experienced an epiphany when he made a guest appearance with Taylor Swift at Wembley Stadium. “I was like, ‘Oh my God!’ There’s a power trip to feeling like you’ve got the crowd with you and they want you to succeed. I’ve missed the hustle and bustle of the police escort and the madness of it all. I still feel like a 14-year-old in my bedroom. I’ve got my guitar and I want to be a rock star.”
Niall Horan’s single Nice to Meet Ya is released by Capitol tomorrow
(source)
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doctortreklock · 4 years
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AU-gust 21 - Professional Rivals AU
For this. On AO3.
Aziraphale hummed under his breath as he erased the whiteboard in the front of his classroom. He had to admit a bit of melancholy at the loss of the chalkboards that had once been so ubiquitous. To his mind, nothing quite said learning like the smell of chalk dust in the air. However, needs must.
And, he had to admit to himself as his hands hovered over the wide array of markers at his disposal, chalk never came in quite such a variety of brilliant colors.
He plucked a blue one off the ledge and began to refill the board with his neat lettering, perfectly practiced to ensure maximum legibility.
“The Parallel Postulate,” he announced when he was finished, capping the marker and turning on his heel with a flourish. “Euclid’s Fifth Axiom. Who can define it for me?”
It had been in the reading, and Aziraphale was heartened to see a dozen faces who looked confident in their answer. Only Anathema, seated in the second row, raised her hand, however.
“Yes?”
“The Parallel Postulate states that for every line l and point p not lying on line l, there exists one and only one line that both contains point p and does not intersect line l.”
“Correct. Now--” Aziraphale leaned forward “--what does that mean?”
There was a pause. Then, from the side of the room, one of the sophomores put his hand in the air. “Parallel lines are unique?” Wensleydale guessed.
Aziraphale nodded slowly. “That is a more or less logically equivalent statement,” he allowed. “But what does it mean that this is a postulate, and not a theorem?”
The pause was longer now as his students mulled over the question. Then Adam Young stuck his hand up from the back of the room. “It hasn’t been proven.”
Aziraphale smiled and tapped his nose in delight. “That’s it exactly! In fact, mathematicians like Gauss have proven it to be unprovable!”
He beamed at the class, but received only a few looks of comprehension, and the rest of the students looked lost.
“The important point here,” he told them, trying not to look too discouraged, “is that the Parallel Postulate cannot be proven based on our current set of theorems. Instead, we must set it as an axiom.”
He might get a thrill from understanding the complicated way postulates and theorems fit together within the rules of mathematical logic, but for many of his students, the goal was a general understanding of the course material and a passing grade.
“As you may have noticed, the model of geometry we primarily work in - the Cartesian plane - holds that the Parallel Postulate is true. Parallel lines are unique, as Wensleydale pointed out.”
Aziraphale was now getting enough nods and looks of comprehension that he felt comfortable with where he was leaving it.
“Since the span of human observation has agreed that the world is Euclidean, for the purposes of this class we will be assuming--”
“Oh, come off it!”
Aziraphale broke off mid-sentence, turning his attention sharply to the source of the disruption.
A dark figure lurked on the threshold of his classroom, where he’d left the door ajar to help with air circulation. It was one of the newer teachers, an adjunct filling while Dr. Beelz was on sabbatical.
Aziraphale straightened up as much as he could. “Professor Crowley,” he said coldly. “I do not believe I recall inviting you to observe my class.”
The students watched the pair quietly, eyeing Crowley in curiosity. Aziraphale knew most of the students wouldn’t have had a chance yet to meet him, but he didn’t feel charitable enough at the moment to make the introduction.
Crowley ignored Aziraphale’s remark. “Don’t listen to him,” Crowley advised his class. Aziraphale bristled. “Just because the world looks Euclidean doesn’t mean it is.” Crowley looked up and met Aziraphale’s eyes. “The world looks like a lot of things at first glance that don’t turn out to be remotely true.”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Mathematical models are meant to allow us to describe the space around us, particularly in geometry. There is no point to using overly-complicated hyperbolic models when Euclidean geometry is clear, simple, and reflective of the universe around us.”
Crowley snorted - actually snorted - at him. “That’s such a narrow way to look at mathematics,” he said. Then he tipped his head and held Aziraphale’s eyes, his gaze almost hypnotic.
“Haven’t you ever looked at a non-Euclidean model?” he asked, his voice low, the moment surprisingly...intimate for one happening across his classroom with an audience of two dozen math majors.
“Sat down with a ruler and compass and started doodling Klein disks just so you could calculate the angles?” His eyes were very bright, Aziraphale noticed, almost gold, and vibrant in his animation.
“It’s just so much more elegant, don’t you think? Do you ever just stop and look at a Poincaré disk and marvel at the wonder of the universe?”
He hadn’t, Aziraphale thought. He’d always found non-Euclidean geometry to be too fussy, preferring infinite lines in infinite planes to working within a bounded space with complicated rules and equations.
But with Dr. Crowley looking at him like that, Aziraphale had to admit to himself that there was some poetry in the idea of an infinite world trapped in a finite shape.
Before he could open his mouth to try and respond, or to try and futilely remind his students of the problem set they had due next week, he was interrupted by the shuffle of feet and murmur of conversation in the hallway.
Aziraphale glanced at the clock. Class was over. His students were already packing up and heading out of the room.
When he looked back at the door, Crowley was gone.
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