#emily verse: long distance

[ghoulie-67-baby]

Haunted - BAU team.

Summary: A particularly difficult case leaves you with death haunting your vision.

Warnings: General criminal minds issues, mentions of: weapons, suicide, injuries, explosion, fire, imagined death, anxiety attack, panic attack, anger, angst, crying, grounding exercises, exhaustion and fatigue, praise, pet names,

Pairing: BAU team x reader (Platonic/ Otherwise).

Word count: 2,011.

Having anxiety was no secret. I never was the best at hiding it and the team were well aware of how bad it could be but I handled myself when I needed to. I had tried to hide it from the moment I met them but I'd never shown how debilitating it was at the worst times.

The case we had been greeted with this morning was an active shooter and we all barely got out alive. Through having to split up and me losing my partner in the flurry of bodies, we were lucky to make it home. There was no doubt we could all do our jobs properly, we were well versed in our line of work but the horror of losing them was at the forefront of my mind the entire time, haunting me through the case as my mind ran rampant with what-ifs. I should have known it was useless trying to hide my thoughts around a team of the most prolific profilers but god did I try.

We surveyed the building, kitted in vests and guns, deducing this would be his endgame and we were right. Prentiss had my six and we worked seamlessly to scout our section of the building. But he caught us off guard with his final move. We profiled him as narcissistic, arrogant, someone who wanted everyone to know his name but never as a suicidal maniac.

The profile had been right, up until it wasn't, until we recognised some of the floor tiles were fitted with timed pressure bombs. The whole building was a ticking time bomb and we didn't know how long we had until it blew. Our communication lines with each other screeched with shouted warnings of the issue and on three we all ran to the closest exit. Emily and I were the closest to the exit, and the rest of the team spread out further into the death trap.

My chest heaved as I ran as fast as I could, pushing Emily out of the door before she could argue, the pair of us skidding to a stop at a safer distance as the bombs blew the building to pieces and flames engulfed the remaining structure.

The feeling that flooded my body as flames licked at the sky was indescribable, throwing me straight into a rational panic. Frantically, I scrambled towards the building, dodging falling smouldering debris in search of my team, my family, begging for them to be alive. Arms snaked around my waist and yanked me back, my eyes wide as I tried to read Emily's words over the blaze, shattering and sirens. At least she was thinking straight. My heart and stomach were in my throat, tears blurring my vision as I gave up fighting her grip. Penelope's voice was the first thing that filtered through the racket, tears evident in her voice as she begged us to answer, for us all to be safe but I couldn't find my Voice.

My knees practically buckled beneath me as Rossi's voice cracked in my ear followed by the remainder of the team, confirming everyone was present and accounted for. We all got away with bumps and scratches, a sprained wrist or ankle from jumping the building but otherwise unscathed, at least physically.

The day played on repeat in my head as I stood in my office back at the BAU, fake scenarios trampling through my vivid imagination as I watched the team through my blinds. Even David and Aaron were out of their offices, relief clear on their faces as they laughed and joked together. Every so often, they would look over at my window and I would make out I was busy, knowing if I joined them I would bring the mood down and my body would shut down. They had seen bad days, they had experienced their own bad days but they hadn't witnessed me at my worst and I wasn't sure I wanted them to.

My knees trembled as I walked around my desk, sinking into the plushness of my chair but it brought me no relief. Often, I used my job as a way of coping or pushing things away so nobody would see me break but today that method was far too little for what I was feeling. An hour dragged by in a concoction of sweating hands, shaking limbs and the occasional faint laughter from my team. No matter how I tried to drown the world out, I just felt worse, each moment getting more unbearable.

"Jesus Christ," I grated out through clenched teeth, holding my hands behind my head as my chest tightened. "What am I doing?" The question seemed mocking in the silence as I ran my fingers over my face to gather myself. Steadying myself, I took a deep breath and towards the door, White-knuckling my files before exiting my office and walking along the catwalk to Aaron's. Eyes instantly locked onto me, following my steps as I fought to regulate my breathing as rapid breathing created spikes of pain in my chest and head. I let out a silent plea in my head for the world to swallow me up, grappling with my image to stay composed.

A shaky hand rose to swing open the door, stumbling slightly towards his desk as tears began to take my vision. The files all but fell from my hands as I doubled over, my hands gripping the edge of the desk as I poorly attempted the breathing techniques Spencer had told me about but instead, black spots danced across my vision. It didn't take long for the team to notice my blunder as the sound of footsteps filled my ears, curiosity and worry permeating the air.

I didn't move from my leaning position as they filed in, closing the door and blinds as I struggled to control the broken and ragged breaths that squeezed from my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry, not to break as they watched.

Not here. Not now.

The flare of pain in my chest shocked me as my hand slapped to my chest in panic, palpitations knocking my heartbeat off course. Images of their mangled bodies flooded my mind, each of them lying motionless at horrifying angles in the rubble of the building. The sight of my family lying dead in the dirt as though they were raggedy dolls caused bile to rise in my throat as I glared at the floor.

"Y/N," Emily's voice rang in my ears, her dead lips moving in time. "What do you need?" Scalding tears streamed down my face as I let out a cynical laugh. Why would she ask me that when she was the one lying ripped apart and covered in dirt and soot? What I needed was the least of my worries. Being caged in my own head scared me more than anything and anger quickly rose as I shook the bars, wanting to escape, wanting to move. What I would give to laugh and joke with them in this moment. And yet I knew it was in my head, knew that Emily wasn't really dead but my own brain refused to acknowledge it.

The anger quickly boiled over, becoming unbearable, as I launched an empty glass from Hotch's desk at the wall, sobs clawing from my throat as I dug my nails into the wood in an attempt to ground myself. I tried to filter the facts into my mind; I was safe, my team were alive and trying to get my attention, the world was locked out leaving us in the soft light of the office and I needed help. God, I needed help dealing with this, I couldn't do this one alone.

"Y/N, let's get you sat down." My head shook, betraying me as I let go of the desk, trying to straighten up. The action was instantly regrettable as my head screamed at me and my legs collapsed under me. I gritted my teeth in pain as my head throbbed, joined by pain radiating through my spine and butt. Wonderful, just to add to my plate, I was now ridiculously embarrassed. Heartwrenching sobs worked up in my throat and escaped, leaving me pained and vulnerable to my whole team who were scrambling around me, making sure I wasn't hurt.

My body was unexpectantly hauled into a pair of arms, fight or flight kicking in as I tried to escape them, the room filling with breathless whimpers and wet gasps from my cries. My eyes were tight as vices and the burn of their eyes simmered through me, witnessing my weakness. I loathed that they were seeing me like this, especially at work.

"We've got you, Y/N, We're here." I tried to focus on David's softened voice, gripping his arms as they held me, back resting against his chest. I felt a shift as someone knelt beside us and my eyes shot open, more tears forced from them as the blurry image of Spencer came into a wavering focus. Gentle fingers rested against the pulse point on my wrist as my body vibrated with effortful breaths. I stared up at the tiled ceiling, teeth chattering as I let the pains in my lungs and head run their course. The rest of the team has taken up space in the office, on the sofa, office chairs and even the floor. They'd made such an effort to make me comforted with just analysing the space around us and making themselves fit into it rather than towering over me and making it feel worse.

"Remember the breathing techniques I told you about, stay in the room with us." I nodded shakily, watching with haunted eyes as Spencer's hand circled my other wrist and placed it on his chest in an attempt to have me breathe with him. David's steady, strong heartbeat thumped against my back and I sunk into the feeling of them as JJ's hand came to rest on my ankle. The heat of it burned my cold, clammy skin as slowly but surely my breaths came easier, my eyes cleared of spotted vision and the tingling feeling in my hands and feet subsided. My breathing was still a little unsettled, hiccups emerging between small sobs as my team, my family, encouraged me.

"You're doing so well," Penelope's voice was gentle and sweet, similar to how you would speak to a scared child and the irony stung a little. "You want some water?" I nodded, scrubbing at my face only for silent tears to replace erased ones. A brightly coloured bottle was thrust gently into my eyes and I gratefully took it, gulping down the liquid to soothe the sear in my throat. Shivers began to run down my spine as I calmed down, teeth chattering as the chill overtook and my eyes geared up more as Aaron removed his suit jacket, wrapping it over me as a comforting blanket. My body was trembling as though my blood sugar had plummeted and fatigue set in quickly as all the energy drained from my body and I slumped bonelessly against the older agent.

"Hey baby doll, you got through it, you're okay." I took a deep breath, a small smile twitching on my face as Derek praised me. "We're proud of you."

My eyes began to flutter as I fought to keep them open, gentle murmurs of voices filling the space as the room settled down. Aaron and David's voices registered in a low, soothing hum, barely registering through my exhaustion. Time seemed to dawdle by until I was carefully lifted into strong, warm arms, carrying me across the space and laying me down softly on the sofa. I hummed a thank you as a blanket was draped over me along with the suit jacket and my head nestled down into Emily's lap as the smell of Penelope's lavender laundry detergent wafted from the blanket, lulling me to sleep alongside the gentle nails grazing my scalp.

[scheodingers-muppet]

doing a twist on my taylor swift album series and doing the record by boygenius as stranger things characters and ships 🫡

without you without them: jopper. while their past isnt a pretty one, they were able to reconnect and have a functional relationship due to those moments and the fact that these people shaped them into who they are

$20: ronance. they both tend to self destruct; nancy with picking fights and pushing people away and robin with her lack of confidence and selling herself short. i can totally see them just wanting to get out of hawkins and going wherever. i also love the comparison of the flower in the shotgun with them

emily i’m sorry: hopper to el, trying to piece their life back together after everything. “she called me a fucking liar” parallel with “friends don’t lie” “i can feel myself becoming someone only you could want” “i’ll get a real job, you can go back to school”

true blue: steddie. specifically steve about eddie. “you say you’re a winter bitch but summers in your blood” is so eddie the second verse being about eddie and the band moving to chicago to try and make it big. verse 3 is after steve moves up there and they get a place together. “you’ve never done me wrong except for that one time” *cough cough demobats* the chorus is really true to me. “i can’t hide from you like i hide from myself” and eddie being the first person we see acknowledge how much steve has changed, something that steve seems hard to believe

cool about it: the party with max between season 3 and 4. specifically, lucas first, then dustin, then mike. lucas trying to distract her to keep her mind off things, wishing max would either just talk to him but pretending that he’s okay with not talking to her. dustin trying to solve the problem, even though he can’t. he’s worried about her and doesn’t know what to do for once. mike struggling himself but knowing she wants distance from the party so he’s “pretending like he can’t read her mind,” not pushing her to talk.

not strong enough: el, mike, and will. “every clocks a different time. it would only take the energy to fix it” el doesn’t know why she’s so powerful. she doesn’t feel strong enough to win. she’s lost so much and while she’ll keep fighting, she felt so weak for so long. “do you see us getting scraped up off the pavement” mike feels like he’s destined to crumble, not knowing what he did to deserve it. “there’s something in the static, i think i’ve been having revelations” is VERY will. his “i don’t know why i am the way i am” being in reference to him being gay. the three of them always being the angels, never the gods

revolution 0: nancy. “imaginary friend” being reminiscing on her friendship with barb. i hc she knows piano and love the idea that barb taught her. “if this isn’t love then what the fuck is it” being about either steve/jonathan and trying to convince herself, or even barb/robin.

leonard cohen: steddie! eddie making steve listen to a song and ends up in the wrong direction. “i never thought you’d happen to me” about both. steve feeling so loved in a relationship, eddie being so comfortable in one.

satanist: eddie, robin, and steve. eddie is the satanist. “trying to score some off brand ecstasy” fits super well too. robin is the anarchist (i miss alternative robin from season 3) her lack of confidence pairs with “at least until you find out what a fake i am” steve being the nihilist. “if nothing can be known, than stupidity is holy” and the fact steve feels like an idiot

we’re in love: jopper. “will you still love me if it turns out i’m insane?” joyce was known as a bit of the town loon. i’d imagine she worries a lot about these rumors. “some october in the future…i’ll be feeling lonely” everything started in october; that fall hopper was gone was most likely very very hard for joyce. then a switch to hopper cause “if you rewrite your life, can i still play a part in it?” about understanding joyce needs a change to get away from all the trauma but wanting to be with her still. “i’ll be the boy…who looks like hell and asks for help. and if you do, i’ll know it’s you” hop knows joyce will always help him; she proved it with helping him in russia. “there’s something about you that i will always recognize”

anti-curse: eddie. “i never listened, had to see for myself” “making peace with my inevitable death” “tried to be a halfway decent friend, would up a bad comedian” “an honest fool with more bad habits than you can count” it’s very eddie coded

letter to an old poet: el with one/vecna. i think she really did used to love him. i think she still remembers the person who tried to help make her feel less alone. “you’re not special, you’re evil” “you made me feel like an equal, but i’m better than you and you should know that by now” “i wanna be happy”

[darkestrellar]

5 MUSE THEME SONGS

When you get this, list theme songs for your muse and why (i.e. explanation, lyrics). Tagged by @jocundcompany, thank you!

I'm gonna kiiind of cheat since I just did a 5 songs meme yesterday, and listed some of the major Svern vibe songs there. So I'm going to take the chance to talk more about 4 of those and then swap out the last one for something else. Under readmore since it gets a bit long.

"NO ONE LIVES FOREVER" by Oingo Boingo

I once said this is the Svernest song to have songed. Because it is.

The sound? Chaotic and offputting. The tone? Snarky, carefree in a nihilistic way. The lyrics themselves? Svern's code for living, presented in four minutes. There's a reason why I use this song as the title for his blog.

Everything's temporary, and nothing matters half as much as you think it does. You don't know when you're gonna die, either, so you may as well muck around and have fun while you're still alive! Some of the words might seem free, but it never lets you forget that there is an inescapable end (and this isn't something that you can, or should bother trying to flee from).

Plus I want to use these lyrics when I make him a promo one day:

I'm so happy, dancing while the grim reaper cuts, cuts, cuts... But he can't get me! I'm as clever as can be, and I'm very quick But don't forget, we've only got so many tricks... No one lives forever!

"CATCH ME IF YOU CAN" by Set It Off

It's self-explanatory babey!!! This is literally his in-character tag!!!

This song is all about running, being too fast to catch, living on the edge and being unapologetic about it. It's a taunt, too. Other people can't keep up with him and he doesn't care! Go ahead and try to catch him, he's always going to be a step ahead of you. He doesn't give a crap. This one is the fun Svern "main theme" instead of the existential one.

I already posted the chorus lyrics, so...

I pull out every trick, I don't regret a thing, no You're running after me, chasing apologies When you can't get a grip I paved my path somewhere hard to follow Outplayed, outclassed, I said...

(Catch me if you can!)

"BE AFRAID OF WHO YOU ARE" by Euringer

A song about Kids With Issues. Pretty straightforward. (Can you identify which lines I used for tags and blog theme cameos...)

For a while I wasn't totally sold on the aggression in some of the lyrics, but after getting more sure in his character... yeah, it's fine. The general sound is again, kinda edgy and unhinged, which is always a win. There's something not right with you, isn't there? Something that makes you dangerous?

Svern says, yeah, there is. And you better watch out! This is a song for the side of him born from others' treatment of him for being flawed.

Now, off like a prom dress Live in the moment Embrace the darkness

Now, king of the misfits Lines on the mirror Off in the distance

"MISERY LOVES COMPANY" by Emilie Autumn

This is actually pretty new on the list. The original topic of the song isn't really applicable but you know how it is with making character playlists, you need to stretch things sometimes.

The tone is aggressive, unapologetic, and resentful. It sums up Svern's inner feelings toward most people pretty well. He doesn't like them.

He's with others on a regular basis, both because he has to be and because being around them gives him something (fills the void a bit)... but that doesn't mean he feels positively toward them, no, not at all. At all times he maintains a mistrustful, jaded distance inside himself.

Shoutout to these two sections in particular:

You're so easy to read, but the book is boring me You're so easy to read, but the book is boring me You're so easy to read, but the book is boring, boring, boring...

Pray for me if you want to, pray for me if you care Pray for me if you want to, pray for me if you dare

"DREAM STATE" by Son Lux

Finally, the song that I chose to represent Svern's alt verse.

This song is about change. It opens with being impervious and invincible, goes through uncertainty and turbulence, and ends on a similar but different note with reminiscing about how things were in the beginning. Those days are gone; through everything that's happened, you've changed.

In the alternate verse, a catalyst sends Svern off the road he would otherwise, ordinarily, have gone down. He suffers a loss, experiences grief and confusion that he doesn't in his main verse, that he's never dealt with before, something he doesn't know how to handle, and the actions spurred by that change the course of everything else. The song's energy is driven, thoughtful and reaching, mirroring his mental and emotional journey.

And of course, the lyric I chose to use for the verse tag itself...

Out of the dark day, into the brighter night...

Love that light/dark theme. Not only is it aesthetically fitting, it also alludes to things diverging from their original course. It's not without suffering, but he ends up healthier here than if he'd continued on his original road.

[notanotherreidgirl]

can i request a blurb where spencer and reader having an eye contact for too long that team had to clear their throat or like shake them to bringing them back to world? and also this eye comtact might cause rising sexual tension between them🥵🥵

hmm, i feel like i missed the mark on the sexual tension? if it's not sexy enough lmk and i'll try again (seriously, don't be shy just be like lanie that wasn't sexy at all and i'll try and fix it)

wc: 738

Warnings: exhibitionism (but not really at all, trust me)

“My heart is doing a weird thing,” you announced.

“What? Beating?” Spencer swiveled in his chair to face you, looking insufferably proud of himself.

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Your tone clearly conveying that you didn’t think he was being funny in the slightest. He pulled a face and got to his feet, closing the distance between you with one long stride which only made your heart beat faster. You really should have been better at hiding your feelings for Spencer. You were an FBI agent, for Christ's sake!

But you were a goner the moment you met, the quirky little wave he offered in lieu of a handshake immediately catching your interest. And maybe that would’ve been fine but you just couldn’t conduct yourself like an adult, making fun of him and trading petty insults for the past five months. In your defense Spencer didn’t behave much better, in fact, he was even worse than you - fond of pulling pranks and teasing you at every opportunity.

But your little game was very quickly getting out of hand - he had taken to sarcastically calling you pretty girl, you crashed his date with Penelope’s friend by hiring a mariachi band, he paid a visit to your mother and found out all your embarrassing childhood stories. And recently there was an undercurrent to every joke - double meanings and hidden glances that had your mind going haywire.

He gave you a condescending look as he perched himself on your desk. “It’s probably the 4 cups of coffee you just had. Please tell me you know that caffeine is a stimulant.”

“It’s not that, you idiot.” You were well-versed in your own caffeine addiction and unfortunately 4 cups before noon was just a regular Tuesday for you. “Here, feel it.”

You grabbed his hand and dropped it onto your chest. Perhaps landing a little more on your boob than heart but, oh well, you weren’t an expert on human physiology. “Oh uhm y-yeah. It’s beating a little fast. Have you -uh- were you doing any rigorous physical activity just now?”

“Hmmm, rigorous physical activity?” you asked, emphasizing the last three words. He flushed a deep red. For once, the resident genius didn’t have anything to say. You smirked. “No, I’ve just been sitting here. Next to you.”

“R-right yeah. Ok - uhm” he looked down at his hand, almost surprised to see it still on your chest but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his eyes met yours and you swore time stood still.

Was his face always this perfect? The strong line of his jaw contrasting his warm eyes, obscured by delicate lashes and framed with those expressive brows - always furrowing in concentration and arching in delight when he had something particularly interesting to share.

Meanwhile, Spencer’s mind was going a mile a minute. He knew he was staring and he knew he should stop but every time he thought to look away you drew him right back in. The loose strand of hair by your cheek - how he ached to tuck it behind your ear. The drumbeat of your heart under his hand - if only he could feel it against his own chest. The cupid’s bow of your lips - what he wouldn’t give to kiss you right there. His body moved of its own accord, leaning in closer and closer.

“Hey, Earth to Reid and Y/N!” Derek shook Spencer by the shoulder, effectively snapping you out of your reverie. He pointed up at Hotch’s office. “I don’t think the bossman’s gonna be too happy with the two of you groping each other in the office”

Emily snorted, burying her hands in her face to muffle her laughter and accepting a 20 dollar bill from JJ. Spencer’s flush deepened to a shade of crimson. “No, Derek - it’s - uh- we weren’t - this is not what it looks like”

“Save it, pretty boy. I knew you two would break eventually,” he called out over his shoulder, already on his way to Penelope’s batcave.

Spencer whirled back around to face you, panic written all over his face. You regarded him for a moment. The air between you was electricity and you could feel the rules of your little game changing into something far more interesting. You patted him on the leg, hand falling to his inner thigh mere inches from his center. "Don't worry, doc. I know what it is now and it's definitely not the caffeine"

Blurb Masterlist

[ask-spider-man-61610]

"WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?! WE HAVE TO SAVE HER!"

Peter didn't even slow down as Vee screamed in his head, bounding up the first flight of stairs and rounding the stairwell faster than human eyes could follow. "We're not gonna save her by sticking around and getting killed," he snapped between breaths. "Unless you've got a way to keep us from dying on contact with her?"

The black suit didn't respond--well, not in words. As Spider-Man reached the third floor of the laboratory a black tendril resembling a webline burst from his back, anchoring itself to the door and hauling him backwards. Peter's feet left the ground and he squawked in surprise a moment before he found himself flying through a doorway. It dented beneath him and clanged to the ground, and as Spider-Man rolled into a kneeling position he felt a thrashing, straining vibration through the floor beneath him.

"She knows we're here," he hissed, the white eyes of his black mask narrowing. Although he couldn't sense her intent, not with that white symbiote coating her, he added, "And she's coming to kill us. Do you have a plan?"

Vee remained silent. The vibration changed shape, increased in intensity, and Spider-Man dove out of the way just before Emily's new claws punched through the floor where he had been an instant before.

"Do you have a plan?!" he demanded.

"No! Fine! I don't!" Vee said at last, and the two of them got to their feet as they watched the amorphous white thing that puppeted Emily Brock's body claw its way up through the floor. Its black teeth gnashed, white tendrils snaked out of its back and reached towards them, and Emily's dull blue eyes stared out of that face without a spark of recognition.

"We have to get out of here," Peter whispered, then yelped as he barely dodged a pair of tendrils that darted towards him.

Beneath the terror, beneath the outrage, beneath all the emotions that drove Vee to act against their current host, Peter could feel an undercurrent of confusion. As they crashed through one of the lab's many glass walls, tucking and rolling to avoid another attack, Vee hissed into his mind, "Where did this come from? How long has Spider-Man been willing to abandon someone who needs help?! Is it because it's Emily?! Or is it because you don't think a Klyntar is worth saving??"

"Get off your high horse." Spider-Man tore a table out of the floor and used it as a bat to knock a lunging Emily across the room and into the far wall. "It's because I don't know how to save her without killing both of us. And it's because this has happened before."

Vee was struck dumb by this. "...What?"

Emily peeled herself off the wall. For a second her face--blank, pained--was visible before the white suit covered it again. Reasserting control, the symbiote hissed at Spider-Man like a cornered animal, spikes flaring into existence all across its surface, posture tense. It sidled to the left. Vee and Spider-Man mirrored it to keep their distance.

"Four years ago," Spider-Man murmured. "Anarky was captured in her 'verse and I tried to save her. By the time I got there Gwen was consumed by a malicious and desperate Klyntar, in a lab a lot like this." He kept his eyes locked on the predator across from him, but Peter could feel Vee rifling through his memories to find the experience he described. "...I stood my ground. Tried to find a way to outfight the problem then and there. I made mistake after mistake--" the flamethrower in his hands, the roar of a Klyntar in pain, the explosion "--and I almost killed a child. For a while I thought I had killed him."

He could see it as clear as day in his mind's eye, the screaming Kaos in the city street. Vee could see them too. Their stunned silence in the back of Peter's mind was deafening; he could feel the suit they'd made around him waver and soften. The white symbiote, clearly sensing this, roared and dove at them, and Peter had to leap upwards and smash through the ceiling to avoid the lunge.

"...You're a bastard," Vee finally managed to say. "I should kill you for this."

Peter winced. "Maybe," he admitted. As the possessed Emily followed them through the new hole in the labs and launched a tendril their way, he went on, "But then nobody would protect you from this. I'm just trying not to repeat the past, Vee. I'm just trying not to fuck this up again."

They had to pause their talk, dodging another swipe of those claws by millimeters and crashing through a glass wall to earn some breathing room.

"...But we can't just leave her," Vee said. "She's in pain, and she's not in control. I need her, Peter. And she needs me."

"I know." He rolled under an operating table, kicking it at Emily. "And we need to save that thing too, if we can. But we can't do that here, not without a plan. Running is all we can do."

Emily's claws ripped the table in half as it hit her, and she screamed as each half crumpled in her fists. move, urged Peter's spider-sense, and he threw himself backwards to avoid the first half thrown his way. As that half of the table crashed into the wall, it knocked a drawer open, and Vee's attention locked on a small vibration on Peter's skin. The vibration of a small tube, probably glass and metal, that rattled within the drawer.

"No," Vee said. "There's something we can do now."

Spider-Man somersaulted to the left, dodging the other half of the table. As he stuck to the wall, his legs tensed to dodge again, a few black tendrils stretched from his shoulder and into the drawer. They emerged again bearing a specimen vial, a syringe, and a long carbonadium needle.

Peter opened his hand as Vee pressed the equipment into it. "You're a scientist," they said firmly. "A better scientist than any of the jerks who work here. You can come up with a solution, a real way to save my Emily. But you're gonna need samples."

Twirling the syringe in his fingers, Peter kicked a drawer at Emily's face to keep her from attacking again. "Maybe," he said, and took a deep breath. "I can try." He lunged forward.

[lazysublimeengineer]

life is death we’re lengthy at

Title: life is death we’re lengthy at

Characters: Hanagaki "Takemitchy" Takemichi & Kawaragi Senju

Summary: A lost, fragile moment between two kindred souls before Takeomi arrives and shattered the remaining threads of peace that bound them together.

(A/N: I own nothing from this franchise except this fic of mine. A guest reader of mine from one of my fics asked me if I write for heterosexual pairings like for Senju x Takemichi. And my answer is yes and this request is dedicated to you my guest reader of mine. I write fics regardless if they’re heterosexual or not. I always consider if a certain pairing has the chemistry and potential to be great or not. And I already wrote Sentake one-shots in the past. But this time it will be in-depth with Senju as a woman as a canon reveals in the manga and Takemichi as a man. Also, apologies if I wasn’t able to write it as a fluffy and light one with just them hanging out as requested and it ended up total angst. Writing pure fluff is a challenging concept especially in TR verse. But I’m still hoping that you enjoyed this and maybe in the future I will be able to write a pure lighthearted story for these lovely characters.)

life is death we’re lengthy at

- Emily Dickinson

“Hanagaki…” Senju watched Takemichi’s face who was blank yet his eyes were wrought with undeniable shock and misery upon learning Draken’s untimely death. She was unsure of how to approach him in his current state but seeing him like this made something inside of her break.

Takemichi wasn’t crying this time.

But Senju knew that it was much worse.

From the first few interactions that she had with the blond, she knew that Takemichi was always an emotional person who wore his heart on his sleeve. His emotions were always reflected in his expressive blue eyes that reminded her of the depths of the ocean. She didn’t witness directly on his notoriety of crying at the things that would trigger his active tear ducts and would be dubbed as the crybaby hero by the people who knew him better. But somehow, she preferred seeing his genuine tears rather than this. How his face was devoid of anything and his mind was too far, far away as if his soul had already slipped away from his body.

Somehow Takemichi’s lack of response right now was much more terrible. His silence alone was suffocating.

Senju wanted to reach out to him and enveloped him into her arms just like he did earlier when he saved her from the gunshots that were meant for her.

But she couldn’t. Her body froze and all she could do now was to watch his silent wretchedness in quiet misery. She clenched her fists inside her oversized jacket, blinking back the fresh tears that threatened to fall out of her eyes.

No. She couldn’t lose her remaining cool and grace in front of Takemichi. She needed to have a presence of mind. What Takemichi needed right now was a break and an anchor to lean on in this miserable situation that they’re in.

“Hanagaki!” She called out to him as she finally approached him. “What’ll we do now?”

That seemed to erase out the daze from his eyes and brought him back to his senses and he looked at her with a trembling yet apologetic smile on his face. “Ah, I’m sorry about that Senju. I didn’t catch what you’re saying. Can you repeat that back to me…?” His voice was like a dying candle, growing fainter in each syllable that passed from his lips.

“Hanagaki…” Her eyes grew serenely downcast as she watched him struggled to get his bearings back together in vain yet she knew that with just one mighty push he would probably crumble down to the ground and break down crying.

It made something snapped inside of her and her feet automatically walked towards him and closed down the remaining distance between the two of them. Her arms encasing him in a light yet fragile embrace, fearing that he would shatter like glass if she didn’t handle him properly.

“Hanagaki it’s alright if you feel like crying… You don’t have to try so hard to stop those tears and you can let everything go…” She whispered in a hushed voice.

She felt him froze in her arms for a few seconds.

Senju tried to steady her breath and calm down her stuttering heart inside her chest. Takemichi was the one who was suffering right now but why does it feel like she’s the one who needed to be cradled right now and calms down her thundering heart inside her chest?

Every second that passed them by seemed like a lifetime. It’s as if they’re both in a space of vacuum where everything seemed to melt into nothingness and all they could feel and hear was the beating of their hearts that grew louder as each moment slipped them by.

That was until Senju felt that Takemichi shook slightly within her arms, his shoulders were quivering beside her. He wasn’t whimpering or anything but she could sense that he was slowly crashing down from the abyss of misery and the remaining control that he had was finally slipping away.

“I don’t understand anything Senju… Why is everything turning out like this…? Draken… He…” Takemichi’s breath hitched as his voice cracked.

“He died in front of me… And I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it… Are we not allowed to be happy? Can’t we have a moment of victory without the asking price of taking someone’s life?” He added brokenly as his body quaked helplessly against hers.

Each word felt like a punch to the gut and Senju tried to have a tight grip on her emotions, refusing to cry in front of him. No. Takemichi does not need for her to lose control right now. What he needed right now was someone to lean on in his most vulnerable state. But hearing how defeated and tired he sounded didn’t seem to make it better.

“Hana-.” She paused before she continued speaking again and finally used his first name.

“Takemichi it’s fine if you feel tired… You can take a rest but I want you to know that you’re not alone in this fight. Draken is dead but I’m certain that he’s not blaming you for all of this and he still trusted you with his life until the very end.” She murmured as her hand had slowly moved in its own accord and rubbed on his back soothingly.

Takemichi’s breath caught in his own throat as he felt her soft hands on his back and his body went slack and pliant in her arms. The tight cord of tension in his body caused by his overwrought emotions was slowly replaced by a feeling of something peaceful and tranquil but the numbness was still there.

The gaping hole of wretchedness festered inside his heart.

Takemichi was only a breadth away from her. The opportunity was there to claim his lips in a gentle kiss to make him feel human again. To soothe his broken soul and troubled mind in the tranquility of her arms. And to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart from the onslaught of grief and anvil of burdens on his shoulders.

But was it the right thing to do?

In the end, Senju couldn’t do it.

Senju couldn’t take advantage of his defenseless state. She can serve as his steady rock in the storm of obstacles and his torment but she knew her place.

And it wasn’t inside his heart.

But for as long Takemichi needed her strength she will be there not because she owed him her life but because she wanted to.

That’s what her heart wished her to do.

‘As long as I’m breathing Takemichi you will never carry your burdens alone because I care about you too much.’ She thought with a wry smile on her face.

(A/N: This was inspired by the recent chapter of the manga. Wakui did really go there. At this point of the arc it was having a competition on who to traumatize more: Mikey or Takemichi. Reviews are fascinating. So, let me hear them from you.)

[blush-and-books]

i see you in the daytime (and i hear you at night)

collaboration with the magnificent @lydias--stiles - and when i say collaboration i mean collaboration. we both fully wrote parts of this. 

angsty/emotional juke one shot based off of the song “amen” by amber run. get your tissues. we have no regrets

"Jules!" he screams. "I don't care that I'm dead! I'm with you!" 

Tears pour down her face. 

"You should care! You shouldn't- you should want to cross over, Luke."

"Julie, its- it's going to be fine. We'll figure out a way to not cross over, we'll stay-"

"No!" Her voice rattles with sobs - she just doesn't want to be here anymore. She hates this situation. She hates the universe for doing this to her, to them, to everyone. "No, Luke, you have to cross over. I cant hold you back from that."

"But I want to be here. With you." 

She doesn't mean to say it out loud when she thinks it. It’s not one of those thoughts designed to be vocalized - it pops in, gets scolded and cowers away. But not now. She’s not strong enough. "Sometimes I think it'd be easier if I was dead," she whimpers. "At least then I'd be with you." 

Luke falls silent in horror, jaw slack and eyes like saucers. The words are like a sledgehammer to a mirror, shattering the perfect illusion they've created for two years straight. It’s true. Sometimes, late at night, when nothing can distract her, Julie wonders if it isn't just better if she dies and becomes a ghost. Then they can truly be together. Sure, it is tragically bitter and not ideal, but... Julie is tired. Exhausted. Every time he accidentally phases through, every time she has her birthday, every time she notices how his face hasn't changed since the moment she met him�� she’s tired of the perpetual ache. 

Alex and Reggie both have felt the tug to cross over. They can't describe it. It’s simply time to go. Julie understands. It hurts, but she's been emotionally prepared for them to leave since their first performance in The Orpheum. Here’s the stinger though: they all have to feel ready to cross over. And Luke? He’s resisting that tug. According to Alex, it doesn’t hurt like Caleb's stamps, but it isn't pleasant either. Which means that Julie was hurting them for loving Luke.

"Julie...", he whispers, shaking his head. "Don't say that."

"So, you can say you don't care that you're dead, but I can't say I wish I was there with you?" She seethes, crossing the dangerous distance between them. Face to face, the green of his eyes begs to keep the little space left. Both know that it’ll be game over if they kiss, and then they'll have to start all over again.

 He averts his gaze. "Jules... you weren't the idiot eating a bad hot dog. You deserve to live a life full of... of everything." 

She scoffs. "So... what? You'll just roam the earth? Pining for me? We're not- we don't have to pretend about how we feel anymore, Luke." Tightly grabbing his hands, she urges: "Cross over - please. Don't be selfish." 

He freezes. "You want me gone?" 

The tears cling to her cheeks, lower lip wobbling. "No... no, I don't. I love you. But I can't hurt Alex and Reggie like that." 

"Then let them cross over!" He begs her, taking a step back with the hope that he can prevent them from doing something they’ll regret. "Let me stay! With you!" 

Frustration spouts from her throat. "They can’t! You died together, you cross over together! And we're holding them back." Her arms cross. "Let me go, Luke. Please." 

"You're not doing anything," Luke hisses, pointing an accusatory finger. "Me and the guys have talked about this. This is us. Not you. Don’t you dare put that kind of blame on yourself." 

"Then let me go," she whispers. She doesn’t want to fight anymore. They've fought for weeks. "Let me go. Please. You and the boys deserve to have peace... whatever that is. Because this-" Her hands motions at the charged energy. "-is not peace."

The last thing that Luke has ever wanted to do, is leave Julie Molina. Anyone could see that. But to avoid her self destruction and the pain of his friends - he may have to break their hearts. 

He'll let her go. 

But he won’t be at peace until he does one last thing. 

"You're right," he says, defeated. It almost looks like tears are in his eyes. "This isn’t peace." Pain flashes across her face as she watches him cross the garage over to her, jaw clenched and eyes dark. 

"Luke-" 

Furiously, he winds a hand around her neck and tugs her into him. Julie whimpers into the kiss, his fingers digging into her neck and hers gripping his hair, to the point that they're hurting each other, but both need to feel. Both need the other close. She loves him. She is so in love with him. 

If she can, she’ll scream at the universe and ask for a redo. It isn't fair. They belong together and everyone knows it. He shakes his head, mumbling against her lips: "I'll never stop loving you though." 

"Luke-" she chokes.

"I'm doing what's best..." His lips curls into a grimace. Her heart aches at the sight, wishing her kisses are a solace and not the venom finalizing the pain. "-but I'll never stop loving you." 

Pressing herself into his body, she kisses him harder. She can’t say it back - as she means it - because it’ll only make everything harder.

He knows she won’t say it back. But what kind of guy was he be if he leaves her without telling her? It would be another thing on his long list of regrets.

Maybe, if he has a pen and paper on the other side, ‘Unsaid Emily’ will get a sequel.

But he doesn't want to think about that right now. Julie is pressing herself against him, closer and closer even though he’s sure they ran out of space the second their teeth clashed at the first touch of their lips. He pulls her hips towards his, ignoring the way that the tears on their cheeks are blending and brushing against one another - and almost wishes that if he has to cross over, he will do it now. 

He wants his final moments to be exactly, exactly like this. He doesn't want to feel anything else before he loses her forever. 

Her head drops to his chest, hands slipping to feel the heat of his skin and kissing his shirt, right where his heart is supposed to be. The final blow is hers to serve. "Goodbye, Luke." A tragic puff leaves her. "See you in seventy years."

As humorous as it sounds - she says it heartbroken. 

His lip twitches, coiling a curl around his finger. "I'll be waiting." 

And then they wait. 

Slowly, his skin turns luminescent. Soft, glowing. Not as solid and firm as before. They don’t move. Their eyes are fixed on each other, even when the green turns a lack-luster grey and his hair transparent. The grip on her hair falls away. She feels her fingers sink further into his skin until her hands meet. Only his eyes remain, unwavering. 

And then they shut. 

It’s only after she was confident that all that remained between her fingers was air and memories, that she allowed herself to admit it. It's barely a gasp when she says it; too busy trying to take in the space that once made up Luke's form and press it into her lungs in case any part of him wanted to stay. 

"I’ll never stop loving you, either.”

-

A week later, in music class, she sings it. 

Like when she sang ‘Wake Up’ for the first time, it's just her and the piano. Her class watches with dread, but she doesn't care. This was the only song she could think to sing after shutting down for a week. Her voice carries through the halls as she belts every note, feeling those atoms of Luke propel from her lungs the energy that he would want her to have.

The last verse, the last line, makes her voice break. She already knows her face is dripping with tears - if the splashing piano keys were any indication - but she can’t wipe them away.

"Sometimes I'd rather be dead, at least then I'm with you," she all but screams, followed with tearful “amens” that she repeats and repeats hoping that the boys can hear her. Yelling out for them. Cursing the world for taking them; tearing her vocal chords with one last prayer that she’ll see them again. 

She wishes she was there. 

Reminiscent of the day that she met the boys, she runs out of the classroom. 

Flynn follows her out. 

[hotchnersbiitch]

Worth Fighting For

A/N: SEND ME REQUEST PLZ

Request: @jojosgirlkat1dluvr​

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader 

Category: angst & fluff at the end 

Warning: kidnapping, violence. Heavily based off the episode titled Revelations 2x15, so if for some weird reason you haven't seen that episode this will contain major spoilers I guess??

Word Count: 2,003~ 8min

-

You groan as you woke up in a dark room that smelt awful. Your face was throbbing in pain, you went to touch your face when you realized your hands were handcuffed to a chair. Where were you? The last thing you remember was being with JJ to talk to a possible witness but you both discovered that he was the unsub. Tobias? You think that was his name, he ran around back you and JJ split up to look for him. Next thing you know you were hit in the head, now you're in a dirty cabin. 

“Shit.” You mumble out of pain looking down at your handcuffed hands trying to see if there was a way out. 

“Watch your language.” A loud threatening voice called out, the man from earlier was standing in front of you, your eyes went wide. 

“Colossians 3:8; But now you must also rid yourselves of all such things as these: anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language from your lips.” The man recited as he pulled out a revolver and one silver bullet holding the bullet up to your face. 

“This, this is God’s will.” He says loading the bullet into the gun and spinning the chamber before pointing it directly at your forehead.

“Y-you don't have to do this.” You stutter out, fearing for your life. 

“Yes I do,” he mumbled, next thing you heard was the pull of the trigger. click

The whole team was at Tobias’ house trying to find a way to get you back. Your best friend Spencer was losing his mind, he was so worried about you. You guys have been best friends before you even joined the BAU a few years after Spencer did. You both went to college together, you guys were inseparable. Hours passed with no luck, Spencer was worried sick but he was trying his best to stay calm and figure out where you were. Everyone was, you were the youngest of the group, everyone tried their best to protect you. 

“What are you doing? Don’t, please don’t” You beg as Tobias fills a syringe with a clear liquid, you had no idea what it was. 

“It helps.” He says calmly as he lines the needle up with your vein. 

“Please, I don't want it. I don't want it, please.” You were crying not knowing what was going to happen to you. 

“Trust me, I know.” He says as he sticks you with the needle slowly injecting you with the drug. You wince at the pain, you feel the liquid flow through your veins your eyes rolled to the back of your head. 

“Y/N? Y/N?” you sat up off the floor in an empty, completely white room, you saw your mom standing across from you, how was this possible, she's dead. Are you hallucinating? Are you dead? 

“Mom?” 

“Don’t be afraid to let go, sweetie,” she said in an angelic voice, it all made sense to you now.

“I don't want to die.” You cry out to your mother. 

“Then fight, what's something worth fighting for?” She asks

“Spencer.” You reply immediately, you loved Spencer so much. You don't want to leave this Earth without him knowing he’s the love of your life. You don't want to hide your feelings for your best friend anymore. You wanted a life, with him.

“Fight for him Y/N. Don't give up on him, you love him. He loves you too. Don't give up on him.” She says her voice becoming quieter and quieter.

“I love him, I love him..... I love him.” 

  “Guys! Guys! Get in here!” Derek yells from Tobias's computer room where Garcia was working to find you. The team rushes in gathering behind Garcia, gasping when they see the computer screen. Spencer's face went white and he started crying, JJ placed a hand on his back to comfort him, but there was no calming him down now. 

“He’s killing her,” Garcia said looking away from the screen where you were being beaten. The team watched intently as the scene unfolded in front of their eyes. 

“Answer me! How many members are on your team not including yourself?!” He yelled, he broke you you couldn't take anymore beating. You didn't know how much longer you could hold out. 

“Seven” You mutter your voice weak. 

“The seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound. The first sounding followed hail and they were thrown to the earth.” He says walking around you before standing in front of you again, you glanced at the camera that was filming you with a terrified look on your face. 

“Tell me who you serve.” He demands. 

“I serve you” You whimper out. 

“Then chose one to die.” 

“What?” You question your heart rate picking back up again. 

“Your team members- chose one to die.” 

“Kill me.” You meant it, you'd give your life for your team.

“Choose, and prove you'll do God's will.” He says as he pulls out the revolver again spinning the chamber before pressing it to your forehead. 

“Choose.” 

“I won't do it.” he pulled the trigger. Nothing. 

“Life is a choice, now choose.” 

“No.” he pulled the trigger again. Nothing 

“Choose.” 

“I...” You thought for a moment before a plan arose in your head. 

“I choose... Spencer Reid,” you utter out.

“He’s a classic narcissist, he thinks he’s better than everyone else on the team because of his intelligence. Genesis 23:4 “Let him not deceive himself and trust in emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility. For these shall be his recompense.” 

Spencer shook his head, immediately knowing what you were doing. 

“That's wrong,” Spencer says. 

“She doesn't mean it, man, she's under tremendous stress,” Morgan says and Spencer shakes his head wiping his puffy eyes. 

“I know that I'm not a narcissist. But she does know that I know what she means.” He says the team gives him a perplexed look waiting for him to elaborate. 

“Y/N and I argued about the definition of classic narcissism not too long ago, and she knew that I would remember that, and she also quoted Genesis, chapter 23, verse 4. ‘I am a stranger and a foreigner with you. Give me property, forbear a place among you that I may bury my dead out of my sight.’ She wouldn't get it wrong unless it was on purpose. She's in a cemetery.” He explained in a broken voice. 

“She's telling me where she is,” he adds. 

“Okay, uh....” Garcia says typing away on the computer. Hotchner leans over her and points to the screen. 

“What's that patch of green there?” He asks. 

“Marshall Parish. I think it is an old plantation” Garcia responds. 

“Wait!” Spencer says running to get one of Tobias's journals flipping it open before rushing back in. 

“Tobias wrote in his journals about staying clean and keeping away from Marshall,” Spencer says passing the journal around to the team. 

“Guys, there's a cemetery on the grounds,” Garcia says. 

“She's there guys, Garcia send us the address. We have to go before its too late!” Spencer yells running out to the SUVs with everyone else. He was so scared he’d never see you again, he had to hurry. 

You woke up to the man taking off your handcuffs, you panicked, what was happening? 

“What are you doing?” You ask as the handcuffs dropped to the floor, suddenly he grabbed you by the hair dragging you outside. You screamed out in pain as he dragged you out to the cemetery, he drops you before throwing a shove at you. 

“Dig,” he says sternly, you sobbed and did as he said scared as to what may happen if you didn't obey. You hoped Spencer got your message and the team was on their way to come save you. You dug for what felt like hours but was only several minutes, you felt weak, you needed to escape. You didn't think your team was going to find you in time. You looked at the man before you swung the shovel hitting him in the leg. He fell to the ground and you took this chance to run the best you could, you could see flashlights in the distance, was that them? 

“HELP! I’M OVER HERE! SPENCER! GUYS!” You screamed with all the power you had hobbling as fast as you could, you saw them coming closer to you. Suddenly you felt something hard hit the back of your head and a gunshot echo through the night. 

You woke up to bright lights blinding you, you groan closing your eyes again, your whole body ached. 

“Y/N?” You heard Spencer’s voice. 

“Is she waking up?” You heard Derek ask. You were alive, you were safe, you felt comfort wash over you. You forced your eyes open. 

“Thank God...I’m alive” You mumble looking around seeing your team all around you. 

“Yeah, babygirl you're alive,” Derek says quietly, you look over at him and smile at him. 

“How are you feeling?” Emily asked walking over to you. 

“Like shit.” You say with a small chuckle. 

“Yeah, I’d imagine you were hit over the head with a shovel,” Emily says matching your vibe with a small laugh. 

“That's what that was? I thought I got shot, I felt something hit me and I heard a gun go off and then everything went black.” You explain, the whole team was standing around now listening. 

“No, you weren't shot. Spencer shot Tobias right after he hit you.” Aaron explains, abruptly everything came rushing back to you. 

“Spencer...” you mumble looking over to him tears pooling in your eyes you grabbed his hand. 

“I knew you'd understand. I knew you would.” You mumble before you started crying. Spencer started crying too and nodded. 

“Yeah, I understood immediately. That was brilliant, I’m so glad you thought of that because otherwise... We may not have found you.” He says with a sniffle. You look around at everyone tears flowing down your face. 

“Thank you guys, so much. I was so afraid, I thought I’d never see you guys again.” You admit, JJ and Garcia were crying now too. Derek looked like he was about to, you were so happy to be alive. After a while, everyone said their goodbyes and said they would all be back tomorrow to pick you up since you had to stay in the hospital overnight. Soon enough it was just you and Spencer, you were grateful you two were alone now. 

“Spence, will you stay the night with me tonight? I’m scared to be alone. I know there are doctors around and stuff but I'm scared.” You admit, Spencer sat next to you and grasped your hand. 

“Yes of course. You don't have to explain yourself, I figured you would ask anyways.” He says softly, he looked like a wreck from hours of crying and worrying. 

“You were the only thing keeping me alive.” You say softly looking down at your hands that were intertwined together, you resumed. 

“You're the only reason I didn't give up. I didn't want to die... I didn't want to die before I could tell you I love you... I love you so much, more than a friend.” You said not making eye contact with him, it was quiet for a moment before you heard Spencer crying, which in turn made you start to tear up as well. 

“I was worried I was never going to be able to tell you I love you either.” He says with a small smile on his face as tears streamed down his cheeks, he continued. 

“I love you too, I've been hiding it for so long. I was so scared I'd never get the chance to tell you.” He admitted you smiled at him as he brought your hand to his lips kissing it gently. 

“You're my hero Spencer Reid, I love you.” You say looking at him with eyes full of admiration for him he smiles softly kissing your knuckles. 

“I love you too.”

[curvingsunsets]

Lost Your Sunshine

Luke X Reader (sorta?)

Summary: Everything was perfect. Then you lost your sunshine. 

Warnings: Mentions of Death, Angst, things of that nature. Highly unedited and written in a fit of sadness. 

A/N: Based off the Lizzy McAlpine song “Honeydew” I honestly might delete this in the morning.

Wait for me when I go

Live in color but don't forget my aching soul

I can see the blue moon

Late at night I wonder if you see it too

He’d bought you these silly necklaces. He had the moon while he let you have the sin, since he was always your sunshine to your moonlight. The necklace had always reminded you that he was with you no matter what would happen. And he would always prove to you how bright and colorful he was. Through a sappy chorus or a heartfelt verse, he proved that you were one of the most important people in his life.

But all too suddenly, you lost the sunshine. I feel lost without you Maybe you do too I feel like I'm no one Maybe I'm like you Faith and honeydew

Ever since he bumped into you at the music store, you were inseparable. You were with him always. And when he ran away from home, you were his first destination. You were his shoulder to cry on.  And he was yours. There was nothing one of you could hide from the other. You were each the constant reminder that life was real and completely worth living.

But, then you lost your shoulder to cry on.

I'm alone and you're not here

You can't run to me and comfort all my fears

Maybe that's a good thing though

Not dependent on someone else to help me grow

It was a silly fight. All over something you would have kept to yourself. Yet, you remembered that it was impossible to keep a secret with him. So, you said it aloud, watching his face scrunch into disappointment. You regretted every word that left your mouth after that. You watched him as he ran onto the stage and sang his music as if it was the last time he would ever be able to sing again.

What you both didn’t know was the fact that it was.

I feel lost without you

Maybe you do too

I'm so much like you

You hadn’t felt this distanced from him in a long time. When he walked out with the boys, something in your stomach twisted. You knew something was up, but you blamed it on the fact that you had been angry with yourself. You stood by as they talked to the beautiful girl behind the counter, a feeling of fear washing over you as the backstage door swung open, the three teens leaving the building.

I don't know how to get through this

I don't know what to do

Maybe if all these mountains drifted to you

The only thing you can hear is the heartbeat thumping in  your chest and the stray rocks on the pavement crunch beneath your feet. You feel everything happening around you, yet you still feel numb. You don’t want it to be true. And as you approach the scene of flashing lights, your chest tightens. You grip the charm that hung from your neck and tried to hold back the tears that fill your eyes, threatening to spill over and prove that this was actually true.

And then the rush of wind tells you to let it out. And your knees give out. And you’re kneeling on the ground, hard sobs raking through your body. You look up for a moment and in an instant, regret replaces everything. He’s on a gurney, head lolling to the side slightly as they lift him into the truck.

And you lost your sunshine.

Do you know if the sky is falling?

Do you know when it hits?

And all these mountains fall before their names hit your lips

Bobby was the one who got the phone call. You watched his facial expressions change, and when his eyes met yours, you broke down again. The world decided to crumble around you. No words were exchanged as you practically fell into Bobby’s arms, but it wasn’t the same. He tried his best to pick up the pieces, but he couldn’t stop everything from falling.

Our love cannot grow when it's suffocated

Not right now, but we both know, time will mend the craters

I tell myself that I don't mind this space but

Inside this face I'm

Lost

Your sunshine had suddenly disappeared, and it wasn’t temporary. No more late night visits, or calls out of the blue. It was just you. And you’re completely lost. Lost without the music. Lost without the boy you had accidentally fallen in love with even though you only knew him for a few months. Lost without the proof that living life to its fullest extent was what truly mattered.

Yet something inside of you knew that this is not what he would want you to do. He would want you to remember the good times and keep living. He wants you to keep that sunshine. And you would try. You would try to keep your head up as you spoke to Mitch and Emily. And you would continue to keep it up for the years to come.

I feel like I'm no one

Maybe I'm like you

Faith and honeydew

It felt empty. You’d lost a piece of yourself when he’d gone. Yet you had proven to yourself that you could move on. And it was always odd how you could always catch glimpses of him wherever life wanted to take you. Maybe he was there leading the way, maybe he wasn’t. You’d never know.

~~~~~

Tag List:

@sunsetcurve-h @joshy-obx @lolychu  @noncannonships @rudysbay @jortcourse @kiss-themoongoodbye @talksoprettyjjx @mysteriouseyes427 @Whatever-happens-imma-stand-tall

@walkingonsunshine  @wcnderwoo @talksoprettyjjx @lukedetails @thexhotmess @chennyetomlinson @carnationcreation @alwayssolo10

@lovesanimals @lukeys-giggle @thesmallest-ace @hxney-bunches-x

[letterful]

One brutal fact demands attention first: abandoned women exist. They have existed as long as women have depended on men. The testimony of history, the statistics of contemporary societies convey a grim reminder of how many women have been cast out of their communities or have fallen through the net of respectability into the gulf below. Their lovers or husbands desert them; they lose all social status; they turn, to support themselves and often their children, to any profession, however sordid, that offers a purchase on life. And even women whose circumstances are less desperate may spend a life mourning the one who has gone.

(...) The girl who grieves for Donall og has lost her name and turned into an archetype, but we cannot ignore the possibility that such a girl once existed. Indeed, she did exist—she or the many women just like her, across the ages in Ireland, who watched their men depart over the seas and waited in vain for a return. Those women have known their own truth. They have sung it, and listened to others sing it, and sometimes written it down. Such songs record a reality that gives the lie to some comfortable myths about women—above all the myth that men have always taken care of them. Abandoned women have learned they must live without shelter. 

Myths do not die so easily, however. If the historical victimization of women provides a factual basis for much of the poetry of abandonment, the poems themselves often channel those facts into a safer outlet. Few readers have wanted to look at Ariadne face to face or to wonder how she makes a living. Male readers in particular prefer to keep her at a distance; Theseus has never stopped running. Hence much of the poetry of abandoned women exiles its heroines from common humanity, painting them as inhumanly "good" as Griselda or inhumanly "bad" as Medea. A wash of sentiment or fear covers the actual unpleasant situation of the woman. In practice, most artists deal with Ariadne by reducing her either to a poor lost soul or to an avenging virago. (The color of her hair, blond or brunette, is usually an index to her temper.) Other literary women, when abandoned, have conventionally been assigned to one of the same two types, the waif and the fury—Penelope and Clytemnestra, Cio-Cio-San and Katisha, Ophelia and Grendel's mother. The myth allows only two resources, to waste away and die or to retaliate with savage, terrifying vengeance. A heroine who declines to cast herself into the deep blue sea must make a pact with' the devil. (...) The persistence of the stereotypes indicates how much both sexes need to come to terms with the facts of abandonment—if only to exorcise them, in the best Aristotelian fashion, through a discharge of pity and fear. 

Nevertheless, many women are unwilling to be exorcised. Despite the lure of myth, poets in every age have managed to convey some of the naked truth about abandoned women. Much of the vitality of this poetry turns on the refusal of the victim to accept her fate in silence. Precisely because the abandoned woman has nothing left to lose, she is free to describe her feelings with an honesty and candor that other verse seldom approaches. Thus poets like Sappho, Gaspara Stampa, Emily Dickinson, and Marina Tsvetayeva seem to wear their abandonment like a badge of honor or a pledge of authenticity. Tsvetayeva named her firstborn "Ariadna." When asked whether the name did not put too heavy a burden on the child, she replied, "Precisely for that reason." Society must not be allowed to turn its eyes away from Ariadne. The victim speaks back, in verse, and so do her sisters. Whether or not the poetry of abandoned women has been successful in recording and protesting the victimization of women, at least it has offered relief. 

— LAWRENCE LIPKING, from Abandoned Women and Poetic Tradition.

[tangledstarlight]

julie’s ready for a year away from home, studying and trying to refind the magic in music. luke’s about to start on a summer tour around europe opening for a band. they meet one night, sparks fly and emotions run hight. now they’ve just got to try and see if they can maintain a long distance friendship.

DAYS GO BY AND SEASONS CHANGE (LETS TRY AGAIN NEXT WINTER)

trigger warnings!! swearing and mentions of death (julies mum)

also on ao3 –– [ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | extras 1 & 2 ]

autumn

There was a parcel waiting for her at the school's little post office building. It wasn’t a very big box, about the size of a shoe box, if she had to guess. It was just a little too big to fit in her bag at least. The handwriting on the label was hard to read, the ‘j’ in her name looking more like a ‘t’ and her last name practically blurring together. Julie suddenly understands why the girl working behind the desk had taken so long to find it and looked so unsure when handing it over.

Julie thinks back to her last call with her dad, tries to remember if he’d mentioned sending her anything. But it’s definitely not her dads writing or Victorias, and Carlos’ is messy but never this bad. It’s only when she puts it down on her desk when she’s back in her dorm room that she notices the postmark from France.

Which explains the who of it all, but not the what or the why.

With a frown, Julie tears the brown paper away and unfolds the flaps of the plain cardboard box that’s waiting for her. There’s a folded sheet of paper on top of something wrapped in grey tissue paper and she picks it up, carefully unfolding it.

Julie,

You gotta get back into music when you’re ready to, not before and not for anyone else. But, for whenever you do, I thought you might like these. And if you never do, you can always use them for school notes or something.

See you soon.

Luke x

She holds the note for a moment, staring at the words as if they’ll stop her heart from racing the way it is, because she’s pretty sure she knows what’s hiding under that tissue paper now. Biting her bottom lip Julie puts the note to the side and picks up the gift, gently peeling away the sellotape until she’s faced with two soft notebooks.

The first one is dark purple, soft faux leather with a cluster of stars embossed in the top right corner and the words ‘shine bright’ in silver lettering in the opposite bottom corner. Slowly, as if in a trance, Julie runs her fingers over the cover, opens to a random page to see the clean lined pages made of the thick sort of paper that you know won’t tear easily.

The second notebook is a dark blue, but this one has little music notes stamped in the corner. There’s no words or phrases written on this cover and for that she’s thankful because anymore words of encouragement might push her to the edge. She puts the two notebooks down on her desk, side by side.

Sitting back in her chair, Julie simply looks at them for a moment. Let’s herself think about how she feels about them. Because this is more than just some pretty notebooks and a kind message. She wonders if Luke knows, if he realises what that they might mean. But he must. She’s told him all about her struggles with music, how she’s lost that spark that wanted nothing more than to sing and play and write.

And he’d understood it. He’d got it. He’d also told her she was magical when she played, something she tried not to think too much about, but still remembered.

And he clearly remembered her mentioning once, in passing, how her favourite type of notebook are the ones that are slightly flexible, but feel solid when you hold them. She’s going to try not to think too much about what that means too. 

Her fingers slowly trace over the lettering on the purple notebook as she thinks over his note.

‘When you’re ready’, which is part of the problem really. Because Julie doesn’t know if she’ll ever be ready to play or write properly again without her mom.

But, she’d written with him.

The thought hits her suddenly and out of nowhere, a breath leaving her lips in a rush as she lets it settle within her. She’d been writing with him. She’d been sending him melodies over voice notes. She’d been scribbling lyric ideas in the margins of her work for weeks now.

Over facetime at 3am and on phone calls while she made herself lunch and silly little texts throughout the day. She’d been writing with him. She’d helped him finish songs without that all too familiar sense of missingmissingmissingmissing creeping in.

Tapping her fingers along the arm of her chair for a moment, she bites her lip, before shaking her head once and carefully wraps the notebooks back up in their tissue paper and puts them back in their box and pushes the whole thing to the back of her desk. Out of sight, out of mind. Sort of. 

It’s one thing to suddenly realise she’s been slowly edging her way back into music, it’s another to dive head first when she’s not sure if anyone will be there to save her if she goes too deep, too soon.

(It’s two days later and after a facetime call with her dad that she pulls the purple notebook out of the box, picks up a pen, crawls onto her bed and writes something that feels real for the first time in nearly five years.

She calls Luke at 2am her time and 3am his, tears on her cheeks and rasp in her voice from lack of use and asks if she can play him a song. It’s a little rough and the second verse feels unfinished and she rushes through the last chorus too quickly, but when she’s finished the last note she feels more centred then she has in years.

“That was-” Luke trails off, and she can hear him breathing and suddenly wishes she’d done this as a facetime call instead, so she could see his face right now. See what he was thinking, feeling. Instead she’s left with bated breath and chewing on her bottom lip.

“Fuck Julie, that was amazing,” he lets out a short laugh, light and breathy like he can’t believe something, “You’re amazing. And talented and beautiful and a goddamn star.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, with so much conviction and surety in his words that for a moment, Julie believes him wholeheartedly.

“I think the second verse needs something, can you help me figure it out?” She asks after clearing her throat and brushing tears off her face. The simple ‘yeah’ she gets in answer makes her smile enough to think about the old notebooks carefully hidden in her suitcase and maybe finally looking at the songs she's avoided. )

//

It wasn’t until she’d started living in a different country, alone, that Julie realised how many different types of bread there were. Which was a weird thing to realise, she knew, but there were just so many to choose from. So many options. Too many options. She really hated having too many options. Decision making really wasn’t one of her special skills. And the longer she stood in front of the bread without Luke talking, the faster her thoughts seemed to loose all sense of focus. 

Holding her phone against her ear Julie picked up the closest loaf of whole wheat bread she saw, it was seeded and while she was sure Victoria would have had something to say about it, she didn’t. Seeded bread it was. Maybe next week she’d branch out and try the weird half and half down on the bottom shelf. God, she needed to get out of the bread aisle. 

Putting the bread in her trolley she pauses for a moment, head tilting to the side to try and hear if Luke had returned to his phone or if she was still on ‘hold’. His version of hold at least, which consisted of him saying ‘give me a minute’ and putting his phone down for much longer than a minute while he answered a skype call with his parents.

All she can hear is faint talking in the background, tone of voices but none of the words. Holding the phone with one hand and pushing the trolley with the other, Julie makes her way out of the bread aisle and mentally checks her shopping list in comparison to where she is in the store. She’s half way down the coffee and tea aisle, grabbing for the cheapest jar of coffee she can see, when a huff of air in her ear makes her jump. Clutching the jar close to her chest as she pulls the phone away for a moment and blowing out a breath. Luke’s already started talking when she puts it back, her mind filling in the blanks for what she’s missed.

“– that. Shit timing on their part. What were we talking about again?” There’s something off about his voice. She wouldn’t have noticed it a few months ago, but she can tell now, can hear the forced cheerfulness behind his words. And, if he wasn’t obviously forcing himself to sound happy, Julie would probably take a moment to appreciate she knows him well enough to know his different tones.

But there’s something wrong, and she wants to help him. So far, Luke’s been pretty quiet about his parents, so quite in fact that all Julie really knows about them is their names are Emily and Mitch, that they love him, they don’t get him and that the best way to describe their relationship is ‘strained’. All that she’d picked up from vague mentions and what Reggie had accidentally let slip.

Luke had helped her understand some of her feelings about her mom, listening to her cry at three in the morning, listened to her talk about her dad. She wants to do the same for him. She wants to make sure he knows she'll listen too. So she puts the coffee jar down and slowly starts walking out of the tea and coffee aisle while she talks.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks, the call, the ‘strained’ relationship, all the unsaid emotions clearly at war in his head. It’s quite on the other end of the phone, all she can hear is his breathing and Julie starts to worry that maybe she’s wrong. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it, or maybe he does, but not with her. Not sure which option is worse, she’s just opening her mouth to take it back when Luke blows out a breath and a flat laugh that sounds loud in her ear.

“They just- they don’t get it. What music means. What I’m trying to do with it. They don’t get me,” there’s a pause where Luke laughs again, flat and hollow and so, so wrong, and Julie thinks that’s all he’s going to say, but then he starts talking again. It’s like he’s been shoving plates into a cupboard without stacking them and now he’s opened the door and they’re all crashing to the ground.

“And it’s like, they don’t even seem to try. Not really. They listen to me talk about all these shows we’re playing and how we’re making all these awesome connections all over the world and how we’ve started recording a fucking album. And they’ve gotta be able to tell I’m excited, because Alex is always saying I’ve got no subtlety, and I’m pretty sure I’ve even said in those exact words. That I’m excited. That this is a huge deal for us. And they just - they listen to all that and then they-” he huffs out a breath, and Julie can almost see him shaking his head, at his next words, “And then they ask about what I’m going to do when I get back home. If I’ve given college anymore thought.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, because well. It is obvious how excited Luke is about the band, about the album they’re making, about music in general. You’d have to be blind not to see it, blind or just deliberately ignoring the obvious. And that’s even without ever having actually seen him play on a stage. If Julie could tell how good he is over staticy and unreliable voice notes and facetime calls, then anyone who’s seen him play live should know for sure.

“You know they’ve never seen us play?” He sounds small, and Julie wishes she was with him right now to give him a hug. 

That explained that, at least. They'd never seen them play. She’s standing in the fucking cereal aisle of a supermarket on a Wednesday afternoon, one hand gripping tightly to the handle of her trolley, and she can hear Luke sniff, wipe at his face and let out a wet laugh and it hurts. Julie thinks it’s almost worse than the hollow one and she feels tears spring into her eyes.

“Never?” She asks, because what else can she say? Her parents had never once missed an opportunity to see her play, she can’t even imagine standing on a stage again and her dad or Victoria not being in the audience for the first time.

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’ and blows out a breath. “And I mean, I guess I could understand them not supporting the band and trying to push college on me if they’d ever actually fucking seen us. But they haven’t. It’s like they’ve just - they’ve decided we’re not good and that it’s all a waste of time. Without any evidence for it. Because, I- I don’t wanna sound egotistical here but fuck, we are good. We’re fucking awesome. And they won’t even consider that as a possibility. That this could work.”

“That’s their loss then,” is the first thing that comes out of Julie’s mouth, “Because I’ve only ever seen people's shaky phone videos of you guys playing and that was enough for me to know that you’re good. That you guys are amazing.”

They were more than good really, Luke was right, they were pretty fucking awesome, and if his parents couldn’t see that. Well that was on them.

“Yeah?” he sounds unsure for the first time, and Julie’s reminded that Luke might be a pretty confident guy but even confident people need a little reassurance sometimes. She relaxes her grip on the trolley’s handle and smiles a little.

“Yeah. And if they can’t see that Luke, if they don’t even want to try to see that, that’s on them. And they’ll either realise it soon enough and sort their shit out. Or they’ll try to deny it forever and end up regretting it.” She really hopes they sort their shit out, that his parents wake up and see that their son is gonna be a star, one way or another. And that they’ll want to be there for it, that he wants them there for it, to smile and clap and cheer for him.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen us play,” his laugh this time is lighter, not quite up to his usual infectious quality, but maybe warmer. Softer. Julie doesn’t know how to describe it, but she wants to be able to hear it every day.

“I know, I’m a fake fan clearly.” Julie smiles, blows out a shallow breath as she blinks back the sudden tears that had found her eyes and lets him change the subject. She didn’t come to do her weekly shop expecting an emotional spiral in the cereal aisle of all places. The freezers with the ice cream might have been more appropriate.

“We’ll have to fix that when we’re back on the same stretch of land. Personal concert, just for you.”

The teasing tone is enough to make her roll her eyes and start moving again.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

//

“So we’re back in the UK on December 10th.”

The statement almost makes Julie choke on her drink. And she’s glad that she’d put her phone down while she’d reached for it so Luke couldn’t see her reaction. Theoretically, she’d known they were approaching the end of November, that the band had finished their tour last week and had been using their free time to do some exploring, that they’d be back in the same country soon.

That, despite all her worst thoughts and assumptions, they were still talking. They were friends.

Wiping her chin with her sleeve, Julie picks up her phone again, trying her best to keep her face neutral. There’s a chance Luke doesn’t even remember the sort of deal they’d made. It had been nearly twelve months ago and it had been late at night and they’d both been pretty drunk.

“Really?”

He just looks at her, an eyebrow slightly raised and she can see the way he’s biting down on his lower lip. He almost looks – Julie blinks, brow furrowing, he looks worried. Which she doesn't understand.

“Are you okay?” She asks, leaning forward to peer closer at her phone like it will be able to give her answers.

“Yeah, yeah I just –” Luke pauses and Julie watches as his eyes seem to circle around his screen (which is technically her face, her mind oh so helpfully supplies) in search of something, and whatever he finds seems to be enough because he blows out a breath and nods once, more to himself she thinks. “We’ll be in the same country again and you’re going home soon and I– I was wondering if you still wanted to try that um night again. Maybe just you and me this time.”

Julie isn’t sure she’s breathing. Her mind has gone blank and all she can hear is her heart beating and Luke is just looking at her. All wide worried eyes and bitten lips and curls escaping from his beanie.

He’d remembered.

And he was asking her – out?

That thought knocks her mind into action again. She opens her mouth to reply, to say something, anything, but all she can get out is a slightly strangled,

“I–” Because Julie had been so sure that if they’d made it to this point and were still friends that Luke wouldn’t want anything more then that from her. She’d cried on the phone to him, at least twice.

“I mean we don’t have to I was – it was just an idea y’know? But I mean it’s fine, we–” Luke starts, taking her silence for her trying to let him down gently and not just an internal freak out.

“No!” She doesn’t mean to shout it, but it comes out as a shout anyway, startling them both. Luke just looks at her, mouth still half open and looking confused. Julie has a flashback to seeing him look exactly the same way when she’d said she couldn’t kiss him and it almost makes her giggle. “I mean yes, yes, I want to – to – to see you. To try that night again.”

“You do?” She watches as his confusion morphs into relief and into a smile, lips tugging up and eyes brightening.

“Yeah,” she smiles back, it would be hard not to smile back at him. “So, December 10th. I’m free the weekend after?”

It takes them a while to make a plan, mostly because Luke keeps having to ask Alex or Bobby where they’re staying or when they’re in the studio or what day they’re flying home. And then they bicker over where to meet because ‘London is so cliche Julie! We’re not cliche.’ which she’s pretty sure their friends would disagree with, but Julie pulls up google on her laptop and they look through different cities and towns until they find one they both like the sound of.

Two hours later after they’ve said goodnight and shared giddy smiles, Julie lies on her bed staring at the ceiling and for the first time since that first night they’d met, she lets herself feel excited for what might happen between them.

[simp-for-spencer-reid]

Sugar with a Side of Coffee Ch. 3

A/N: This is the new, rewritten chapter three. Enjoy! :)

Ch.1   Ch. 2  Ch. 2.5  

Chapter 3: A Night Out

Friday came around fast, and with a rainy morning, so the girls opted not to put out the cart. The little shop was quite busy, filling with both cart customers and the regular shop customers. Between orders, Marta discussed her plans with Cate.

 “So, I was thinking that we could go back to yours, I could borrow some clothes, and then we can go straight out to the pub on 18th street!” It was clear that Marta had been planning this all along. Cate laughed and shook her head.

“I think you just have your eyes on that red shirt you found the last time you slept over.” Cate remembered when her and Marta got wine drunk together and had put on a bit of a fashion show for Shrimp. Marta had discovered a bright red long sleeve shirt, with a deep neckline. Cate had not worn it in years, the last she remembered of that shirt was a failed date. 

“Okay, you caught me, but it’s so cute!” Marta whined. “And I haven’t seen my cat nephew in like a week!” 

Marta had driven them both to Cate’s apartment in her car. Once in the door, Marta scooped up Shrimp and coddled him like a baby. He gently swiped a paw up to her face. Cate made her way to the bedroom to get down to business. 

“So if you’re wearing the red top, what does that leave me?” Cate called out, examining her hangers. “I have this green dress that's not too fancy? No, too christmas-y” she continues rummaging through each hanger. Marta walked in carrying Shrimp and stood next to Cate.

“What about that?” Marta pointed to the right side of Cate’s closet. Cate followed her gaze and pulled a black satin-like fabric tank top off a hanger. “Actually, I changed my mind, I’ll wear this and you can wear the red top!” Marta released Shrimp, who ran off, flicking his ears, and Marta traded her work uniform for the black tank top and white jeans. Cate quickly found the red top, discarding her white button up for it. She threw her work pants in the laundry bin and pulled on black jeans and tucked the red top into them.

“Okay, remind me again why you hate this top? It’s so hot!” Marta eyed her best friend. Cate grabbed some gold bangles to pull over the long sleeves. Marta grabbed her friend’s hands and spun her to face her. “Seriously, Cate!” Marta gestured to Cate’s cleavage that was now being shown off. Cate blushed, and grabbed a pair of heels for herself and Marta. 

The bar on 18th was shaped like a giant rectangle, with the bartenders in the middle tending to the patrons on the outer perimeter. Cate and Marta were sitting on one of the shorter ends of the bar. They were almost shouting at each other to be heard over the music.

“Did you get Spencer’s number from the other night?” Marta asked loudly after sipping her vodka cran. Cate looked at her water, thinking that she should order one for Marta so she would slow down her drinking.

“No,” she shook her head to make sure she was understood.  As she glanced around the bar, her eyes landed on an all too familiar face at the other end of the bar. There sat amongst a group was Spencer. Marta followed Cate’s gaze. 

“Well, no time like the present!” Marta stood up and tugged Cate out of her seat.

On the other side of the bar, Spencer was nursing a ginger ale while he watched JJ play darts with Emily. Derek was ordering another beer for himself and Rossi. The team’s casework was completed rather early for a Friday night, so the unit had gone out for a few drinks to celebrate. 

“I don’t know why I agreed to this.” Emily grumbled, getting smoked by JJ and her insanely accurate dart skills. 

“Oh, come on. I’m going easy on you!” JJ tossed another dart. Rossi laughed under his breath, taking his new beer from Derek. Spencer was still oblivious, watching the dart tournament between JJ and Emily. 

“Dibs.” Marta turned back to Cate after staring at Derek even when he turned away. The girls approached Derek and Spencer.

“Hi,” Marta said, looking at Spencer. His eyes widened, flustered, looking at the clearly buzzed girl in front of him. Cate rolled her eyes at her friend for putting on her flirting voice. “Didn’t think I’d see you here, sweater vest.”

“Um, I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked Marta honestly. 

“We’re pretty hard to recognize without the aprons.” Marta shrugged. Derek sauntered over as Spencer looked at him for help. Spencer finally saw Cate from behind Marta. When he pulled his eyes up to meet hers, he realized she was the girl from the coffee shop, wearing something very low cut. Cate exhaled, trying to calm her nerves. This is not how she envisioned tonight, babysitting a buzzed Marta, and standing in front of Spencer in such a scandalous top.

“That would be Marta.” Cate gestured to her friend. “Her parents own The Empty Mug.” She told Spencer, seeing as he’d been frequenting the coffee cart.

“And this,” Marta side hugged Cate tightly. “Is one of my bestest friends, Catherine.” Marta grinned widely, proud of her antics. “But you already knew that, didn’t you, Spencer.” Marta gave him a wink. Cate wished Marta hadn’t pregamed so hard at her apartment before they left. 

“What do we have here? Derek.” He introduced himself with a handshake. Marta giggled as she took his hand. Cate looked to Spencer, hoping he wasn’t getting the wrong impression of them.

“She doesn’t get out much” Cate tried to explain with a smile. Cate noticed the nonalcoholic drink in his hands.

“Ah, so I see you’ve gotten picked as designated driver too?” Cate raised her glass of water. Spencer opened his mouth, but nothing was coming out.

Hotch, JJ, and Prentiss watched from the distance of their table near the dart boards. Penelope and Rossi returned from the new age electronic jukebox. Penelope was the first to speak what was on the team’s mind.

“Who are those girls talking to Derek and Reid?” She looks towards JJ and Emily.

“No idea.” JJ spoke. Despite the curiosity, none of them made a move towards Morgan or Reid. 

“Poor Reid, his IQ must be flying out the window.” Emily watched Spencer as he watched the girls walk to the bathroom. She decided that now would be a good time to approach the boys about their new friends.

When they made it to the boys, Rossi bent down and pretended to pick something up. When he stood up, he held out his hand to Spencer. 

“I think you dropped this, kid.” Rossi told Spencer. Spencer looked at him quizzically. “It’s your jaw.” The team laughed, while Spencer just blushed. 

“I don’t know why I still hang around you guys.” Spencer laughed, shaking his head. 

“They work at The Empty Mug.” Derek spoke up. “You better work your magic, Pretty Boy, and get them to deliver to the BAU.”

“Oh, I second that! The coffee was great.” Emily agreed. The team scattered when they saw the girls returning, even Derek stepped back, leaving Spencer to fend for himself. 

Marta’s eyes found Derek all too quickly, and she grabbed his hand to lead him to the dancefloor. Cate shook her head at her wild friend, but smiled lovingly at her. 

“Looks like Derek met his match.” Spencer said to Cate, but he was watching Marta drag Derek to dance. Cate took a sip from her water, trying to hydrate her dry, nervous throat.

“What are the chances that you’d be waiting in line, when that kid stole my tip jar.” Cate laughed to Spencer. Derek had returned to the team with Marta in tow, filling them in on his little plan. 

“Well, the odds of getting robbed in the U.S. are one in 667.” Spencer shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s an average of 150 robberies a year per 100,000 population.” He rambles off, “And it’s just timing my job plus my love for coffee.” 

“How did you just know that?” Cate stared in amazement. Spencer stuttered before he managed a full sentence about his eidetic memory. “So you know like everything?” 

“Well, as long as I read about it or see it once, I can remember a lot.” Spencer could feel his blush creeping up his ears.

“Okay shut your eyes.” 

Spencer did.

“What color are my eyes?” Cate tested.

“Light Brown” Spencer answered fast. “But I knew that from when we first met.” He mentally face palmed himself for saying something so forward. His eyes were still shut.

“Okay then let me give you something harder.” Cate slowly swiveled her head, looking around the bar. “What color is-”

“That’s not really the best judgement of my memory, I’ve had FBI training on how to assess a room in less than ten seconds.” Spencer opened his eyes. “I can recite things from memory, which would be a better measure of my memory.” Cate was in awe. “Like, for instance, pick a book, any book. I’m well versed in most literature.” Spencer had now turned to face her. Cate was smiling up at him.

“Any book? Okay, how about the first sentence of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men?” Cate quizzed, picking the first obscure book she thought of. 

“ A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green.” Spencer recalled, almost immediately.

“Impressive.” Cate nodded, pursing her lips.

Derek and Marta were up to no good, huddled over a table. The rest of the team were watching Cate and Spencer’s awkward flirt exchange like a car crash, they couldn’t turn away. Penelope pretended to wipe her eyes.

“I’m just so proud. He didn’t even use any magic tricks.” JJ nodded her head in agreement. “I hope we get to add another girl to our girls nights.” Penelope continued.

“I’m just hoping we can get that coffee in our building somehow” Emily half-joked. 

Marta stood up from the table, and walked back over towards Cate and Spencer. She tapped Cate on the back three times, which was their signal to go to the bathroom together. Cate waited exactly ten seconds for Marta to get a headstart and it wouldn’t look suspicious.

“I should go check on Marta, excuse me.” Cate turned to walk towards the ladies’ room and entered. “Marta?” Cate saw only one stall was closed. “Everything alright?” The toilet flushed and the stall door opened to reveal Marta. She wore a devilish grin.

“What?” Cate looked through the mirror at Marta’s reflection.

“Look what I got from a certain friend of an agent.” Marta held a napkin up with numbers written in blue pen, pleased with herself.

“You got Derek’s number?” Cate gasped, surprised. 

“I wish.” Marta. “It’s Spencer’s number.” Marta held out the napkin for Cate.

“What?” Cate said in disbelief. “Spencer gave you his number?” Marta shook her head.

“Derek gave me Spencer’s number to give to you.” Marta picked up Cate’s hand and tucked the napkin into it. “Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you” Marta was smiling, then turned pale. “Hold that thought.” she turned on her heel and rushed to a toilet, emptying her stomach. 

Cate opened the door to the bathroom, feeling nauseous from the noises of her friend. Spencer was no longer in the hallway. He must’ve gone back to his seat. Cate thought. When she glanced over to where they had been sitting, they weren’t there. With no company, Cate turned back around to comfort her friend in the bathroom.

“Let’s get you home.” Cate said as she rubbed Marta’s back.

[corkcitylibraries]

Writing Techniques | Part 4

Lost & Found Poetry

by Dr. Sorcha Fogarty

A good poet must know things divine, things natural, things moral, things historical, and things artificial; together with the several terms belonging to all faculties, to which they must allude. Good poets must be universal scholars, able to use a pleasing phrase, and to express themselves with moving eloquence” – Bathsua Makin (1673)

 The ‘lost’ element of title refers to how poetry, like any other narrative source, can be mined from life experience whether first hand or otherwise. ‘Found’ refers to poetry that is already out there in the public domain, poetry in the guise of advertisements, notices in shop windows, horoscopes, recipes, bulletin boards, legal documents, ingredients on the side of a packet of tea (for example) or indeed, any text which doesn’t necessarily appear to possess poetic possibility.

"It’s not what you are looking at, it’s what you see" (Thoreau).

 Discovering texts and images which appear to be non-poetic but which are loaded with poetic potential is a tremendous way of honing critical faculties.

Using ‘found’ material, varying types of form can be applied in order to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. In general, form and content have a symbiotic relationship, the latter often determining the former. Form can range from a simple shopping list to a Shakespearean Sonnet. Making the form choice ensures that the work has structure and definition.

In its purest form, found poetry is poetry assembled from non-literary sources—can labels, road signs, clothing tags, picture titles, advertisements, etc. At some point it became acceptable to lift an entire section of text and arrange it using poetic devices. All of the text had to be used, nothing could be deleted and nothing could be added.

 Found poems take existing texts and refashion them, reorder them, and present them as poems. The literary equivalent of a collage, found poetry is often made from newspaper articles, street signs, graffiti, speeches, letters, or even other poems.

A pure found poem consists exclusively of outside texts: the words of the poem remain as they were found, with few additions or omissions. Decisions of form, such as where to break a line, are left to the poet.

Examples of found poems can be seen in the work of Blaise Cendrars, David Antin, and Charles Reznikoff. In his book Testimony, Reznikoff created poetry from law reports.

Many poets have also chosen to incorporate snippets of found texts into larger poems, most significantly Ezra Pound. His Cantos includes letters written by presidents and popes, as well as an array of official documents from governments and banks. The Waste Land, by T. S. Eliot, uses many different texts, including Wagnerian opera, Shakespearian theater, and Greek mythology. Other poets who combined found elements with their poetry are William Carlos Williams, Charles Olson, and Louis Zukofsky.

The found poem achieved prominence in the twentieth-century, sharing many traits with Pop Art, such as Andy Warhol's soup cans or Marcel Duchamp's bicycle wheels and urinals. The writer Annie Dillard has said that turning a text into a poem doubles that poem's context. "The original meaning remains intact," she writes, "but now it swings between two poles."

Found poetry is the literary equivalent version of collage. Much like the visual artist who combines multiple media (newspaper, feathers, coins, sheet music) into collage art, you can do the same with words, pulling concepts and phrasings from various sources to create “found” poems.

This is where your word artistry comes in. Start playing.  You can cut out words or phrases that speak to you and start rearranging them until a thought or theme jumps out at you.  You can start with a complete text and work backwards — start to erase words and sentences until something new emerges.  You can start with, for example, the directions to something and change out words.  Sometimes, it’s simply a matter of breaking up sentences in interesting ways.

 Example - Passage from Novel

from Holes, by Louis Sachar

There was a change in the weather. For the worse. The air became unbearably humid. Stanley was drenched in sweat. Beads of moisture ran down the handle of his shovel. It was almost as if the temperature had gotten so hot that the air itself was sweating. A loud boom of thunder echoed across the empty lake. A storm was way off to the west, beyond the mountains. Stanley could count more than thirty seconds between how far away the storm was. Sound travels a great distance across a barren wasteland.

 Found Poem

Holes

There was a change

For the worse.

The air became humid

Beads of moisture ran down

The handle of his shovel

It was almost as if

The air itself was sweating

Thunder echoed across the empty lake

A storm beyond the mountains.

Thirty seconds between the flash

And the thunder

Sound travels a great distance

Across a barren wasteland

How to write a Found Poem

 A found poem uses language from non-poetic contexts and turns it into poetry. Think of a collage - visual artists take scraps of newspaper, cloth, feathers, bottle caps, and create magic. You can do the same with language and poems.

 Writing this type of poetry is a kind of treasure hunt. Search for interesting scraps of language, then put them together in different ways and see what comes out. Putting seemingly unrelated things together can create a kind of chemical spark, leading to surprising results.

 You might end up rewriting the poem in the end and taking all the found language out, or you might keep the found scraps of language almost in their original form. Either way, found language is a great way to jolt your imagination.

 There are no rules for found poetry, as long as you are careful to respect copyright.

 Here are some potential sources of "treasure":

 instruction books

recipes

horoscopes

fortune cookies

bulletin boards

science, math, or social science textbooks

dictionaries

graffiti

pieces of letters, post cards, phone messages, notes you've written for yourself

grocery lists, lists of all kinds

 Here are some ideas you can use to write your own found poetry:

1) Take parts of instructions for some appliance such as a microwave. Replace some of the words that refer to the appliance, using that words that talk about something else. For example: "Lift the memory carefully. Caution: edges may be sharp..."

2) Try writing a love poem that quotes graffiti you have seen somewhere, or one that quotes personal ads in a newspaper. This could be very sad love poem, or a funny one, depending on how you decide to write it.

3) Write a poem called "Possible Side Effects." Use phrases from the instructions for some medication in your house, and combine these with language from another source, such as newspaper headlines, advertisements, a TV guide, or a mail-order catalogue. Put these two very different elements together and see what happens.

 Pulitzer Prize winning author, Annie Dillard, published a book of found poems—Mornings Like This, and she changed the rules. She lifted lines of text from various books (one book per poem), discarded the original intent, arranged the lines into a poem. Dillard dropped words from the text. She did not add any words of her own, except for the title. She always credited the source.

There are a couple of ways to write a found poem. Pick up a book, find a line you like, write it down—find the second line—create the poem as you go. This works well for free verse or haiku. If you are creating a form poem, such as a villanelle, sestina, cinquain, etc., you will need to gather lines you like and then see if you can arrange them to fit the chosen form. Rhyme is difficult but it can be done.

Writing found poetry can help you grow as a poet. You'll see new word relationships, new ways of developing thoughts. You'll put lines together that you may have never thought of yourself. You will hear sounds and you'll find fresh imagery. Some sources urge poets to start with "found" lines and then add to them. That is using "found" lines as a trigger. Adding your own words is not creating found poetry. Found poetry is all about being a good editor, having a good ear, learning how to "shape" a poem. It will push your poetry to another dimension as long as you are "crafting," not merely presenting a "list" of lines. Found poetry is not a poetry-generating machine. Good found poetry takes work.

 Erasure is a form of found poetry or found art created by erasing words from an existing text in prose or verse and framing the result on the page as a poem. The results can be allowed to stand in situ or they can be arranged into lines and/or stanzas.

"Radi Os" - Ronald Johnson's "Radi Os" is a long poem deconstructed from the text of Milton's "Paradise Lost".

A Humument - Tom Phillips' A Humument is a major work of book art and found poetry deconstructed from a Victorian novel.

Mans Wows - Jesse Glass' Mans Wows (1981), is a series of poems and performance pieces mined from John George Hohman's book of charms and healings Pow Wows, or The Long Lost Friend.

Nets - Jen Bervin's Nets is an erasure of Shakespeare's sonnets.

Hope Tree - Frank Montesonti's Hope Tree is a book of erasure poems based on R. Sanford Martin's How to Prune Fruit Trees.

The O Mission Repo - Travis Macdonald's The O Mission Repo treats each chapter of The 9/11 Commission Report with a different method of poetic erasure.

The ms of my kin - Janet Holmes's The ms of my kin (2009) erases the poems of Emily Dickinson written in 1861-62, the first few years of the Civil War, to discuss the more contemporary Iraq War.

"Seven Testimonies (redacted)" - Nick Flynn's "Seven Testimonies (redacted)" in The Captain Asks a Show of Hands, is an erasure of the testimonies from prisoners at Abu Ghraib.

Of Lamb - Matthea Harvey's Of Lamb is a book-length erasure of a biography of Charles Lamb.

Voyager - Srikanth Reddy's Voyager is another book-length erasure, of Kurt Waldheim's autobiography

Jonathan Safran Foer did a book-length erasure of The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz which he entitled Tree of Codes. Schulz was killed by an officer of the Gestapo during the Nazi occupation of his hometown Drohobycz, after distributing the bulk of his life's work to gentile friends immediately prior to the occupation. All of these manuscripts have been lost. Safran-Foer writes: “All that we have of his fiction are two slim collections, The Street of Crocodiles and Sanatorium Under The Sign of the Hourglass. On the basis of these, Schulz is considered one of the most important artists of the 20th century. Their long shadow--the work lost to history--is, in many ways, the story of the century." The Tree of Codes is Safran-Foer's attempt to represent the unrepresentable loss which occurred in the Holocaust by deleting text, rather than by writing another book about the Holocaust as a historical subject or context for a work of fiction. Safran-Foer's approach to the Holocaust as an "unrepresentable subject" recalls the use of negative space in the poetry of Dan Pagis.

Jenny Holzer's Redaction Paintings may be considered a work of erasure.

In Detained, Holzer exhibits new works including a series of paintings and a large LED configuration. Each painting depicts a handprint of an American soldier accused of crimes in Iraq, including detainee abuse and assault. Culled from documents made public through the Freedom of Information Act, Holzer’s hangs the hands of the charged next to those of the wrongly accused and those whose culpability has been lost, representing the fog of war. Her LED artwork, Torso, displays in red, blue, white, and purple light the statements, investigation reports, and emails from the case files of the accused soldiers. The installation lays bare that it is the individual who suffers and confronts the mechanics of politics and war. Detained makes substantial Wislawa Szymborska’s lament and statement in her poem “Tortures” that “the body is and is and is and has nowhere to go.”

The work consists of enlarged, colorized silkscreen "paintings" of declassified and oftentimes heavily censored American military and intelligence documents that have recently been made available to the public through the Freedom of Information Act. Beautiful in their own right, the works are also haunting reminders of what really goes on behind the scenes in the American military/political power system. Documents address counter-terrorism, prisoner abuse, and even the threat of Osama Bin Laden. Some of the documents are almost completely inked out, like Colin Powell's memo on Defense Intelligence Agency  reorganisation.

Anthropologist Michael Powell writes: "While the literal act of redaction attempts to extract information and eradicate meaning, the black marker actually transforms the way we read these documents, sparking curiosity and often stirring skeptical, critical, and even cynical readings. As redacted government documents make their way from government bureaus into the hands of citizens, a peculiar transformation seems to take place, one that seems to create a paranoia within reason.

Erasure in Philosophy

Heidegger practiced erasure as a way to define nihilism (in an indefinite sort of way). In a 1956 letter to Ernst Jünger, Heidegger wrote the term Being, then crossed it out: “Since the word is inaccurate, it is crossed out. Since the word is necessary, it remains legible.” Here erasure, or what philosophers call sous rature (“under erasure”), illustrates the problematic existence of presence and the absence of meaning.

Write a Found Poem

Carefully re-read the prose text you have chosen, and look for 50–100 words that stand out in the prose passage. Highlight or underline details, words and phrases that you find particularly powerful, moving, or interesting. Note especially examples that reflect your loving feelings or loving feelings of the subject of the prose text.  

On a separate sheet of paper, make a list of the details, words and phrases you underlined, keeping them in the order that you found them. Double space between lines so that the lines are easy to work with. Feel free to add others that you notice as you go through the prose piece again.

Look back over your list and cut out everything that is dull, or unnecessary, or that just doesn’t seem right for a poem about love. Try to cut your original list in half.

As you look over the shortened list, think about the tone that the details and diction con- vey. The words should all relate to love, since you are creating a love poem. Make sure that you have words that communicate your emotions or those of the person in the prose text.

Make any minor changes necessary to create your poem. You can change punctuation and make little changes to the words to make them fit together (such as change the tenses, possessives, plurals, and capitalizations).

When you’re close to an edited down version, if you absolutely need to add a word or two to make the poem flow more smoothly, to make sense, to make a point, you may add up to two words of your own. That’s two and only two!

Read back over your edited draft one more time and make any deletions or minor changes.

Check the words and choose a title.

Copy the words and phrases. Space or arrange the words so that they’re poem-like. Pay attention to line breaks, layout, and other elements that will emphasize important words or significant ideas in the poem.

Read aloud as you arrange the words! Test the possible line breaks by pausing slightly. If it sounds good, it’s probably right. Arrange the words so that they make a rhythm you like. You can space words out so that they are all alone or all run together. You can also put key words on lines by themselves.

Emphasize words by playing with bold face and italics, different sizes of letters, and so forth.

At the bottom of the poem, cite where the words in the poem came from.

[dwellordream]

“The plasticity of the notion of reading meant that it represented the medium through which middle-class Victorian girls passed many hours, but it did not bring a uniform message. Like their parents and advisers, adolescent girls who were writing about reading were of two minds. On the one hand, as William Thayer put it, reading could be a way of demonstrating rectitude and diligence; on the other, it could be a route to indolence and the shirking of responsibilities.

Mary Thomas, away at school in Georgia in 1873, suggested these dual meanings of reading as she imagined a newly virtuous domesticity for herself upon returning home: ‘‘I will sew and read all the time, I am not going out any where, but intend to stay at home and work all the time; no matter how interesting a book may be, I will put it down and do whatever I am asked to do, they shall no longer accuse me of being lazy and good for nothing, I will work all day.’’ In its contrast to engaging in a social whirl of visiting and flirtation, reading, like sewing, represented a becoming and modest domesticity. However, reading might also subvert good intentions, and tempt a girl to inattention to, or even disobedience of, the demands of others or of household work. In any case, reading had a meaning for the self, as well as for the family and the culture.

Reading good books was of course a way of demonstrating virtue. Measured reading of improving texts was part of the regimen of many Victorian girls. As advisers suggested, the reading of history was especially praiseworthy. When Nellie Browne returned home from school in 1859, her mother noted in her diary with pride, ‘‘Nellie begins to read daily Eliot’s History of the United States,’’ a parentally encouraged discipline which would both improve and occupy Nellie now that her school days were over.

Jessie Wendover, the daughter of a prosperous Newark grocer and another regular diarist, recorded a steady diet of history in her journal, justifying her summer vacation in 1888 with the reading of a two-volume History of the Queens of England, as well as doing a little Latin and some arithmetic. The popular British domestic novelist Charlotte Yonge wrote her History of Germany specifically for readers like Jessie Wendover, who began it the following year. What American girl readers took from the history they read is hard to ascertain, because unlike their rapt reports on novels, they recorded their history as achievement rather than illumination.

One can certainly appreciate the irony, though, in encouraging girls to read accounts of national travails, the stories of armies, wars, and dynastic succession, which were ennobled partly by their distance from girls’ real lives. One of the advantages of history seemed to be that girls could be expected to have no worrisome practical interest in it—in marked contrast to the reading of romances or novels.

Victorian girls could build character through a variety of other literary projects, prime among them the memorizing of poetry. Over the course of the late nineteenth century, the publishing industry issued a number of collections of snippets of poetry known as ‘‘memory gems,’’ designed for memorization by schoolchildren. The verse in these anthologies was to serve as ‘‘seed-thoughts’’ for earnest young Victorians aspiring to know the best, and these were the likely sources for many of the couplets which appear in girls’ diaries and scrapbooks.

Margaret Tileston’s daily diary, recorded religiously for her entire life, both fed and celebrated a variety of literary disciplines, including most prominently reading and memorizing poetry. She too read histories during the summer, along with keeping up with her other studies, noting one July day following her graduation from Salem High School that she had ‘‘read my usual portions of Macaulay [a 40-page allotment] and French, but only a few pages of Spencer.’’ Margaret Tileston also read advice literature, such as Mary Livermore’s What Shall We Do with Our Daughters? and two books by Samuel Smiles, Self-Help and Duty. (The latter she described as looking ‘‘quite interesting and full of anecdotes.’’) Margaret Tileston’s diaries suggest a life consumed with the rewards of self-culture.

At fifteen, however, she recorded a brush with another literary genre and mode of striving—a seeking not only for mastery of the will but for beauty itself. Poetry first appeared simply as a verse of romantic poetry copied on the page: ‘‘Why thus longing thus forever sighing, for the far-off, unattained, and dim, while the beautiful, all round thee lying, offers up its low, perpetual hymn.’’ Margaret Tileston was now away at girls’ school, where she had experienced something of an emotional awakening in the intense atmosphere of schoolgirl friendships.

Her turn to poetry seems to reflect the new culture in which she was briefly submerged. That summer, back with her family on vacation on the Massachusetts coast, Tileston again turned to poetry, and to beauty, in an uncharacteristic passage of effusion. ‘‘The moon was perfectly lovely in the sky and its light on the water. We quoted lines of poetry, and it was beautiful.’’ By January of the next year, however, poetry had been incorporated into her disciplines of order and accomplishment. After returning from boarding school, she had moved with her family from the farm where she had spent her formative years to the town of Salem, where she attended the local high school. There she embarked on another campaign of self-improvement, the memorization of poetry, perhaps as a strategy to gain control of alien surroundings.

Two months later she described a new discipline: the daily ritual repetition of all the poems she had learned, of which there were by then 111. On May 25 she reported that her extraordinary ability to memorize poetry was gaining her a reputation. ‘‘Miss Perry asked me if I knew about 250 poems. She said that one of the Goodhue girls had told her I did. I remarked something of the sort to Miss Perkins one day in recess, and somehow it was repeated.’’ By the end of July she noted that she was beginning to have trouble finding new poems to learn because she knew so many already.

Appreciation of the beauty of poetry had dropped out of her journal. Nor did she suggest that the poetry had any meaning to her at all. Yet she very likely gained some of the satisfactions from poetry expressed by Louisa May Alcott, some years before. After disobeying her mother, at the age of eleven, Alcott ‘‘cried, and then I felt better, and said that piece from Mrs. Sigourney, ‘I must not tease my mother.’’’ She went on, ‘‘I get to sleep saying poetry,—I know a great deal.’’ For those feeling guilty, sad, misunderstood, or wronged, repeat- ing lines of elevating poetry had an effect in a secular mode analagous to the saying of ritual Hail Marys. The verses established an alliance with a higher authority and suggested personal participation in a glorious and tragic human struggle.

And in fact, poetry, even more than history, was the prototypical idealist genre. In 1851 the British educational pioneers Maria Grey and Emily Shirreff proposed the reading of poetry rather than fiction, explaining the crucial distancing effect of poetic subjects. ‘‘In a poem, the wildest language of passion, though it may appeal to the feelings, is generally called forth in circumstances remote from the experience of the reader.’’ They suggested that in poetry there was a higher truth than that of superficial realism: ‘‘The grand conceptions of the poet are true in ideal beauty.’’

Writing fifty years later, Harriet Paine too suggested that poetry had generic qualities of elevation. ‘‘After all, in poetry itself what we read is not the important thing. We should read poetry to give us a certain attitude of mind, a habit of thinking of noble things, of keeping our spirit in harmony with beauty and goodness and strength and love.’’ Earlier Paine had commended the memorization of poetry as neces- sary to ‘‘take in the full meaning,’’ suggesting just such a regular regimen of repetition as Tileston had pursued. The spiritual rewards from internalizing poetry were revealed by Paine’s proposal that it take place on the Sabbath: ‘‘Surely we must give a part of every Sunday to such elevating study.’’

Elizabeth Barrett Browning had censured poets for their historical escapism in her 1857 poem Aurora Leigh, arguing Their sole work is to represent the age, Their age, not Charlemagne’s—this live, throbbing age, That brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, aspires. Yet it was in just its remoteness from ‘‘this live, throbbing age,’’ just in the ‘‘togas and the picturesque’’ disparaged by Browning that poetry was considered so appropriate for girl readers.

…If reading presented an opportunity to discover national allies, to demonstrate private virtue, and to suggest the triumph of the will against ennui or boredom, it increasingly endorsed another way of defining life: the excitement and the exercise of the feelings. Girls who read their daily allowance of Macaulay or the Bible with pride and self-satisfaction upbraided themselves for their difficulties in controlling their insatiable appetites for Victorian novels of all kinds. Reading for leisure or for pleasure invariably meant reading for ‘‘sensation,’’ reading for adventure, excitement, identification, titillation. In the process of this kind of reading, Victorian girls ministered to a complex of emotions.

…Perhaps leisure reading can best be defined by what it was not: study, sleep, or sewing. Girls chastised themselves for imperfectly learning their lessons, and sometimes blamed the distractions of leisure reading. Martha Moore, who had just begun to attend school in occupied New Orleans during the Civil War, confessed that she found the schoolwork hard and had had two crying spells before she ‘‘picked up an interesting story and with my old habit of procrastination, thought I would read that first, and then study.’’

She observed the inevitable consequence ‘‘that my lessons are very imperfectly known.’’ And even Margaret Tileston, whose discipline seldom allowed her to swerve from duty, could be seduced by light reading. At the age of fourteen: ‘‘I scarcely studied in my history at all, because I was interested in ‘Sir Gibbie,’ and wanted to finish reading it.’’ At the age of seventeen: ‘‘I undertook to spend the afternoon and evening on my Ancient History, but my thoughts wandered and I spent some time on papers and magazines.’’ At the age of twenty: ‘‘I did not study a great deal in evening, on account of my interest in my novel, but I read over my History lesson.’’

Girls also resolved to prevent reading from interfering with their domestic chores, usually their needlework. Treating reading as recreation, Virginian Agnes Lee observed, ‘‘I really am so idle I must be more industrious but it is so hard when one is reading or playing to stop to practice or sew.’’ Another Virginian, Lucy Breckinridge, set up a similar opposition, noting that she and her sisters had gathered together in her room ‘‘being industrious. I am getting over my unsocial habit of sitting in my room reading all day.’’ For Lucy Breckinridge private reading not only was not industrious, it was also antisocial.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Reading as the Development of Taste.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Ahhhh!! Your Spencer drabbles are amazing 🤩 Could you write one where Spencer had a long, hard case so Y/N reads to him??

You can already tell from the way Spencer’s body is slouched when he enters your shared apartment that he’s had a rough case. You immediately turn off your tv and pat the spot beside you on the couch, “C’mere, Spence.”

He sighs when he plops beside you, head leaning against your shoulder, “Kids. He was targeting kids. We caught him, yeah, but-but all of those young lives...lost. Gone. I wish we could’ve save them.”

You move to wrap your arms around him and you hold him close, “I know you do, Spencer, but what’s done is done. And think of it this way, you’ve saved a lot more children now by catching him and putting him away.”

“He’s dead. Emily shot him.”

You hummed, “Well I guess that’s better, isn’t it?”

He shrugged, “I guess,” he murmurs. 

You pulled away from him and stood up, “I’ll be back.” you head to your room and quickly come back out with a book in hand. You sit on the couch once more and tell Spencer to lay down. 

He places his head onto your lap and you open your book of poetry by Sylvia Plath. You begin to read:

Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue   Pour of tor and distances.

As you continue to read the poem, Spencer feels his eyes start to droop and body begin to relax. It isn’t until you get to the fifth verse that he falls asleep.

[tsuki-chibi]

Blueberry Peach (Adrien AUGreste) Part 9: Emilie

Or read it on AO3: Blueberry Peach

Also find the other parts of the series AO3: Fruitful verse

--------

Even the appearance of his father on set couldn't dampen Adrien's spirits as he waited for Marinette to return. He knew she wasn't thrilled at the thought of modelling, but she was willing to do it and he loved her for it. Sometimes it was hard to model with people he didn't know; some of the models could get very grabby or touchy in ways he wasn't comfortable with. Knowing that for once he wouldn't have to worry about that was really nice. In fact, he was almost grateful to that other model for not bothering to show up!

Or, well, he would have been if it hadn't been for the building tension on set.

"How long do you think it'll be before they get into a fight?" Chloé said from right behind him, and Adrien jumped.

"Umm... I'm not taking a sucker's bet," he said, glancing over at Audrey and Gabriel. The two of them didn't get along very well, so a fight - or at least, some tense words - was probably inevitable. Neither one of them was used to dealing with people who didn't bow down to them. And in Gabriel's case, this was one of the rare times he actually bothered to show up somewhere in person since Émilie had passed. That in itself had probably put his father in a terrible mood.

Chloé smiled humorlessly. "You're going to have a rough time with making them both happy, and now you have to deal with Marinette's incompetence."

"Chloé," Adrien chided. "Marinette isn't incompetent. She'll be new at this, that's all. At least I know that the two of us work well together." He looked at Chloé meaningfully, confident that both their teamwork as Ladybug and Chat Noir and their bond were going to give him and Marinette an edge.

"Right," Chloé said doubtfully, but she didn't say anything else, so Adrien decided to take it as a win.

He stood up as Marinette appeared, looking composed but with her nerves high enough to make Adrien feel anxious too. Part of her hair had been pulled up into a ponytail, with the rest falling freely around her shoulders in loose curls. Like Adrien, she was wearing a lot more make-up than she usually did, as she would have looked pale and washed out under the harsh lighting otherwise. She was wearing a beautiful blue dress that perfectly matched her eyes; the dress had a modest neckline with an empire waist, fitting tightly beneath the bust before flowing out around Marinette's hips.

'You look amazing,' Adrien thought.

Marinette flushed with pleasure. 'Thanks. I can't believe how pretty this dress is,' she thought happily, lightly brushing her fingers over the dress. As she got closer, Adrien realized that the dress had two layers. The bottom layer was dark blue, and the top was a paler blue, almost white. The interplay of the two colors as she moved was very interesting.

"Alright! Let's have our models on set!" Vincent shouted. "Everyone else, out!"

Adrien extended his arm to his soulmate and escorted Marinette onto the set, pushing waves of calming comfort in her direction. He thought, 'It'll be okay, Mari. Really. All you have to do is focus on me.'

'Easier said than done,' Marinette thought, swallowing. Beneath the make-up, her face was pale. He could feel her fingers trembling a bit where her hand rested on his arm.

"Let's start with the meeting," Vincent said.

"The meeting?" Marinette whispered.

"Pretend like we don't know each other," Adrien whispered back. He hated to leave her side when she was so apprehensive, but it had to be done. He moved a few feet away and angled his body partially to the side, facing the camera.

"Adrien, lift your chin!" Vincent said. "You, girl -"

"Marinette," Adrien supplied.

"Marinette, I want grace. You are effortless. You have no cares in this world!"

'What does that even mean?! I have all the cares!' Marinette thought indignantly, and Adrien choked on a laugh.

'Just pretend that you're Ladybug,' he thought back. 'Pretend that you're - that you're out for a fun night with me, and all we have to worry about is running around the rooftops. We've just beaten an akuma, and everything is good for just a couple of minutes.' He tried to remember what that felt like and projected it across their bond as best he could.

Slowly but surely, Marinette's nerves eased, and her confidence began to grow. By the time the two of them were actually able to interact, Adrien was pleased to see that she was actually smiling and meant it.

“No! No, no, no!”

‘Shit,’ Marinette thought.

Audrey stalked out onto the set and pointed at them. “What is this?!”

Adrien and Marinette looked at each other blankly.

“Um, what?” Marinette said finally.

“The colors in this photoshoot are supposed to be blue and cream,” Audrey snapped. “What is that?!” She jabbed a finger at Marinette.

Specifically, at Marinette’s ears.

‘She means my earrings,’ Marinette thought, horrified.

Adrien opened his mouth and then closed it, speechless.

Finally, Marinette squeaked out, “Um – they’re, um, they’re family heirlooms?”

“Take them off!” Audrey commanded. “They’re ruining the shot!”

“They can’t be that bad,” Adrien said, turning to Vincent in hopes of support.

But Vincent was shaking his head. “The red stands out too much.” His expression was full of disapproval, and Adrien’s stomach twisted. He knew how hard it was when things had to be edited out afterwards. He was frankly shocked that the stylists had let Marinette out here with her earrings in the first place. Maybe they’d hoped no one would notice?

“And you!” Audrey said, turning next on Adrien. “I don’t remember there being a ring on your hand!”

Adrien tensed and looked at his hand. It was true that the silver of his ring stood out starkly against the soft cream of his jacket and pants, but –

“Pére, I always wear my ring,” he said, looking at his father.

Gabriel’s expression was like stone. “That’s not a Gabriel original. It should not be in the photoshoot.”

“Take them off,” Audrey ordered.

‘Adrien, we can’t,’ Marinette thought, panicking.

Adrien didn’t know what to do. He’d get in trouble if he refused – and if Marinette stepped down, the whole photoshoot would fall apart –

“I’ll keep them.”

They both turned, shocked, to find Chloé standing right behind them. Her hands were outstretched.

“It’s okay,” she said, meeting first Adrien’s eyes and then Marinette’s.

Adrien swallowed, his heart thumping. ‘Mari?’

‘I – I don’t know,’ Marinette thought.

‘It’s up to you,’ Adrien thought, but the only other alternative was Marinette deciding not to do it. Her outfit didn’t even have pockets, and neither did Adrien’s for that matter. Hiding their miraculous on them would ruin the fit of the clothes; Adrien knew from experience that even the slightest wrinkle would be cause for a temper tantrum. And it wasn’t like they could leave their miraculous in Marinette’s purse with no one to watch them.

Slowly, Marinette reached up and took off her earrings. She hesitated before putting them both in Chloé’s right hand. So Adrien slid his ring off his finger and put it in Chloé’s left hand; he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt the moment when Plagg disappeared as a result.

Chloé closed her hands over both miraculous, and then brought her hands to her chest. Cupping the miraculous protectively.

“What are we waiting for? We’re losing time!” Vincent boomed.

“We’re behind schedule! This is ridiculous!” Audrey said, storming off set. Chloé followed, her hands still pressed to her chest, but stopped a short distance away from everyone else and within easy eyesight of Adrien and Marinette. Close enough so that, if something went wrong, she would be able to get to them easily.

Marinette still watched her anxiously as she thought, ‘This is such a bad idea.’

‘It’ll go fast,’ Adrien thought, grabbing her hand and pulling her close as Vincent shouted directions. He tried to ignore the unnatural nakedness of his finger and focused on smiling lovingly at his partner.