#the catholic guilt had to be eating him alive even before he died

[spacedace]

Maybe I've just missed it, but I feel like there's not enough discussion on Catholic Jason Todd and his feelings on being seemingly resurrected by God Jeesie-Chreesie style.

Like, we as the readers know that it was a reality bending punch from Superboy Prime that brought Jason back, but in canon no one has any explanation at all for how that happened.

The Lazarus Pit fixed him, but he was already alive (just in super bad shape) to be fixed. He woke up in his own coffin and had to claw out of his own grave and no one in-universe can explain how or why it happened.

And that alone would fuck someone up, but add in Catholic Guilt (TM) and references to the resurrection floating around every Easter and Jason's gotta wonder at least a little bit if the Big G brought him back and if so has to absolutely agonize over what he's done with his big second chance.

I just wanna read 100k words of Jason's complicated feelings on his death, rebirth (resurrection?), Red Hood, God, Bruce and what it all means, if anyone's got any recs please share them I'm begging 😭

#jason todd #batman #dc batman #red hood #catholic jason todd #catholic!jason #the catholic guilt had to be eating him alive even before he died #on account of it being catholic guilt and all #but AFTER he died??? man has to be at Mass four times a week and at Confession daily #the poor priest (who got the job after the last one got eh...*retired* by Red Hood for reasons you can imagine) has to be like #absolutely shaking in the confessional booth and questioning everything as THE Red Hood tells him about his many sins #like Father O'Malley just wanted to serve god and his community and now he knows all the Bats identites and has to grapple with #the idea that Jason “8 heads in a duffle bag” Todd qualifies as a miracle and possible might be up for sainthood

[yikesharringrove]

Nobody knows what's wrong with Steve Harrington.

He was there one day, and the next, he was a shell of himself.

It wasn't even really the mall fire that did it.

He was okay, seen around town a few times, although more withdrawn than he had been a few years ago, but that change has been slow. It's been happening for longer than just summer break.

But then the mall burned down, and Harrington could be seen applying to new jobs, tied at the hip with some weirdo incoming senior band geek.

And then, all of a sudden, nothing.

The weirdo band geek was all by herself.

The maroon BMW sat gathering dust in the driveway of the big house, the paint getting sunfaded.

The blinds on the bedroom window were drawn.

And Steve wasn't dead.

He just wasn't really alive anymore.

He sat, well, he laid, every minute of every day, in his darkened bedroom. IN his bed.

He barely moved. He barely ate.

And nobody knew why.

There were whispers around town.

He'd gotten injured in the fire. He was on house arrest. He'd skipped town.

But really, what no one knew,

was that the second Billy Hargrove's body was locked six feet under, Steve's heart was buried with him.

It had taken a long time to arrange a funeral.

Billy's body was burned and broken.

(And government property).

So, no open casket at the Irish Catholic mass that served as a funeral.

His dad spoke.

His sister spoke.

A teacher spoke.

A friend spoke.

And Steve Harrington sat in the very back row, twisting a piece of loose thread around his finger, over and over again.

He left early, slipped out the back before anyone could see the imminent breakdown.

And he hasn't been seen since.

He's thin.

Much thinner than he's been in a long time.

And he's pale. Really pale. His olive skin tinged a sickly yellow.

But there's no point in any of it anymore.

Because the love of his life died, and nobody knows.

There has been activity at his house, people going in and out.

The band geek trying to lure him into the shower. The loud know-it-all kid speaking in a hushed tone and begging him to eat.

But he didn't feel anything anymore.

And he didn't feel there was a point to his existence.

He thought that maybe, wasting away into nothing was easier than the stabbing pain, the guilt and regret he felt every moment of everyday.

Because he can't even mourn him.

He couldn't speak at the funeral.

Nobody knew they were friends, let alone more than that.

He couldn't cry over the grave.

He couldn't wear black and walk around like some Victorian woman.

Life goes on.

But he doesn't know how to keep going.

Because his life was Billy.

They would see one another every day. Sometimes more than once.

They would spend their nights together, they would drive together. They would sit on the couch and make fun on the whatever was on the t.v. together.

And now, he's alone.

And doing everything they used to do, it's agony.

It's agony when for a split second, he forgets that his love is dead and buried, and he wants to turn to say something to him, and finds empty air.

He doesn't know how he could ever cope with the crushing disappointment of being alone.

The typewriter is his mom's idea.

He took a typing class in school, just a semester learning about how to actually use one of the clunky things.

(He and Tommy used to take out the springs so that theirs wouldn't work and they didn't have to actually so anything in class that day.)

He woke up one morning with it sitting on his desk. Brand new. A stack of paper on the right, one piece already loaded in.

It took him six days to type anything.

And when he did, it was garbage. Nonsensical feelings covered in correction fluid and typos and tears. Stupid ramblings about his absolute misery.

But, it did help. A tiny bit.

He's never been good at writing.

Which is why he left the finished product in Robin's mailbox and biked away as fast as he could. (He doesn't really like driving anymore.)

He didn't want to face her as she read it.

He left a note, explaining what it was.

She never made a comment that she got it, but two days later the draft was back in his mailbox, red pen corrections and comments covering the pages.

He took her suggestions. Edited out what she felt should go, added in where she needed more detail.

And it took six months.

But he has a novel.

Or, something like it.

It's a sort of memoir.

All the events are true. All the feelings are true.

But nobody would believe it was real.

Certainly not anyone on the list of independent publishers Robin had slipped into his mailbox with her final round of edits.

Steve typed each of the five copies by hand.

It took him months, somehow longer than the actual thing had taken him to write.

But he sent them off, manuscripts in sealed envelopes. A queer romantic science fiction novel. Something with a devastating ending.

Something that most certainly didn't happen to himself.

He didn't receive any notice for several weeks, and the waiting would've been the worst part, if all of this hadn't been born out of the gory death of the love of his life.

But it was.

And the waiting was the second worst part.

Until a letter.

A publisher asking for a meeting.

Robin accompanied him on the Greyhound to Chicago, but she didn't come into the meeting with him. She had done enough already, it's time for him to finish the story.

The person he met with told him she cried when she read his story. Told him if I ever lost my wife the way that the Steve in the story lost his Billy, I don't know how I could go on.

The book was published under the name S. Hargrove.

Because if he couldn't have Billy, at least he could have his name.

#I watched a sad gay french movie and here we are #yikes writes #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove

[fumblingmusings]

How'd Eva view the Puritans and the general chaos of the 1600s in England? How would she react if America was found/raised in the New England Puritan colonies or in the interim absorbed their more radical teachings?

I would say read Chapters 1-3 of my fic hoho (silly plug). She was suspicious at first, and by the 1660, she held nothing but contempt for them. She likes to have fun at this point in her life. She likes to dance, to drink, to go horse-riding and shooting (arrows or guns), to play cards, to eat lots of rich and fancy foods and sweets, to grow her weird herb garden and cook with them in her weird bubbling cauldron (not suspicious...) and she doesn't see anything morally wrong with any of it. Nothing gets her hackles up then people getting in her private sphere and telling her what to do.

Alfred was found and brought to England before Jamestown and got very sick, so when Jamestown was properly settled, he was sent back with Evelyn intermittently spending time out there with him, or bringing him back to England for small periods too. She keeps him in Virginia for as long as she can.

When her Civil War begins, she gets her brother to go over and move Alfred to Maryland, which was experimenting with religious toleration for Catholics. After the wars end and Charles II has his bum on the throne, Evelyn is with Alfred always. No more weeks where she is in England and he in the colonies. She is glued to his side until the 1690s. They go to Providence (a tolerant colony for Protestants this time) or Philadelphia (Quaker haven), with the occasional stint in Williamsburg back in Virginia after Jamestown is abandoned.

As she was pretty much indisposed for the entirety of the Civil War and a good chunk of the Interregnum, she loses control over his wellbeing. Because the vast majority of the American colonies had declared for Charles II over Parliament save New England, and because she was locked up for a few years, Cromwell moved Alfred up to Boston. Alfred went willingly because the men who came to him said his mum had sent them, and at this time Alfred's only like five or six. He misses his mum, he'll and will do pretty much anything if he thinks it will make her happy or come home. He was away from her between 1639 and 1655. Over fifteen years without his mother. That's not good for a little one to not have a steady caretaker with them. I think it really messed him up, even more so cause he's stuck with puritans (worse - American puritans, the ones who thought Cromwell was being too tolerant).

Moving from St. Mary's to Boston would have been a shock to his system, but Alfred thought it was what his mum wanted, so he listened and tried to learn. It's why he's so confused by the end of the century because he thought she was the one who had ordered him to Massachusetts. Meanwhile, the thing that actually made her get up and fight her way out of gaol was being told Alfred had been moved.

Like, imagine being a parent and thinking, even though you miss your child, you know they're safe, maybe even with a family you trust, only to be told, no, actually, they're with the very people who you were trying to shield them from. Like she really did not give two shits that she had been whipped to death the previous week, she did care of the thought of Alfred being stripped of everything that made him warm and sweet and loving and made to carry a guilt of just being alive and sins that were not his.

She took that rusted nail, stabbed her guard, jumped in the moat and through to the river, stole a horse and rode down to Cornwall before the day was out. She books it to Falmouth, has a rough ride over the Atlantic, maybe falls overboard because docking is taking too long, and washes up on shore to get to Alfred. He runs right into her sopping wet arms and does not let go for days. She probably immediately keels over and dies for five minutes from exhaustion but shh don't tell Alfred that she's just napping.

Eva immediately punts them down to Providence and then it's let's never talk about that again. I think it takes a long time for Alfred to properly digest those years.

Evelyn does not like Puritans. She does not like Calvinism or her brother's Presbyterianism. She will not be hauled up in front of a congregation and lectured for playing cards and walking unaccompanied through town unmarried, nor will she listen to anything which states that her people are damned regardless of their actions and that any form of redemption is a fool's errand (projecting). She's too vain, and is a big believer in being left the fuck alone. What she does is between her and God. No middle man - Saint or Elder - required. So, she's certainly not Catholic anymore either.

She likes Quakers, does not mind Lutherans or Methodists, and is indifferent to Catholicism so long as she isn't made to be one, enough to let Matthew practice how he wants in private, and she herself is - rather reluctantly and mainly out of habit rather than genuine belief - High Church Anglican. She'd never admit it, but she likes the idolatry and superstition that reformers railed over. Makes it rather fun. From my understanding, I think most American churches, the dozens of splinter baptist/reformed/evangelical churches etc. tend to be low church? Or is that an oversimplification maybe. Probably. But I can see how, even to the modern day where maybe Alfred and Evelyn themselves aren't like particularly religious in their day to day lives, the impact of that split is still felt.

Nations and religiosity is an interesting topic, but I really only know so much about Anglo-Scottish religious development to comment on nationhood as a whole, and the world is so much bigger than two thirds of a damp island 🫡😅

The 'problem' with the English Reformation compared to many German states or across the border in Scotland is that it was so deeply led from the top down by a 'secular' monarch and nobility and not particularly by the actual clergy. Thomas Cranmer was put in place by those in power because he promised to get a task done for Henry (marriage annulment) and used the opportunity for his own ends. Meanwhile John Knox across the border was running around converting the Scottish nobility onside with one notable exception (the monarch, but to be fair she was like 14 and in France and we all know how well it went when she came back), if that distinction makes sense.

And I think, because the English Reformation was done for such selfish reasons primarily, then ecclesiastical ones second, things like the dissolution of the monasteries, the suppression of Cornish as a language, the taking over of the Common Land all spiral out from it. From Cornwall to Oxfordshire to Yorkshire to Norfolk to the Lake District, the people on the ground were protesting this hard only to be slaughtered by the thousands.

I think Evelyn would have exited her reformation incredibly jaded. Like of course the Catholic Church was (is) broken. What spilled out of it in England was equally so. I think Evelyn wanted to protect Alfred from that, but in many ways he was impacted by those splinters just as much as she was. It's just another one of her poisons which leaked out its container. English conflicts never have the courtesy to stay in England, it always has to be someone else's problem too. So guilt, mostly, to answer your question. She would blame others, of course, but also blame herself a lot. If she was just a better person, Alfred wouldn't have suffered needlessly.

#q&a #it's sort of related but the plaque at Norwich Castle commemorating Robert Kett & the rebellion I think has perfect wording - it says: #'this memorial was placed here by the citizens of Norwich in reparation & honour to a notable & courageous leader' #'in the long struggle of the common people of England to escape from a servile life into the freedom of just conditions' #like bruh we're *still* trying 500 years later #hetalia #hws england #fem!england #hws america #headcanon #fanfic ask #historical hetalia

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Here to Misbehave (Pt. 4 | S.R.)

Summary: Spencer and Reader go on their first date. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW 18+) Content Warning: Adults w/ Age Gap (10yr), exhibitionism, masturbation, fingering, spanking, penetrative sex, Prof/Student fantasy Word Count: 8.3k

MASTERLIST | Series Masterlist

—————————————————

When I was younger, I hated going to museums. Granted, I'd only ever really had the opportunity to go during school field trips. The crackling, barely coherent ramblings of a stranger through a loudspeaker had never been my idea of fun.

In fact, I'd been to that exact museum before. But the present time was a little different. That time, I was enthralled with the objects on the other side of the glass. With wide eyes and childlike wonder revived, I was hanging on every word out of Spencer's mouth.

I knew the guy was probably a genius, but I had no idea how much of a genius he was until he was recounting the entire history of civilization like he'd been reading straight from an encyclopedia. He looked like a hilarious mix of proud and embarrassed when he finally admitted his IQ. Meanwhile, I had to admit that I not only had no fuckin' clue what my IQ was, I was certain it was significantly lower than his. 

He didn't seem to mind.

In a way, I thought it was strange when he told me he wanted to bring me to a place like that. After all, I'd told him I wanted to learn more about him. I figured a museum would teach me about everything else, not him.

But seeing him in this environment told me more about him than I ever could have imagined. I learned about his avid love for the most trivial facts, the way his inflection changed when he got excited, and that despite reading probably hundreds of thousands of books, his hunger for knowledge was still very much alive and well.

Most of all, I learned that Spencer Reid was unlike any man I'd ever seen before.

It was a bad idea. Because when we finally made our way out of the final exhibit, I didn't want to leave. Not even close. If you'd told my mother I spent several hours in a museum and didn't want to leave, she'd never believe you.

"Hey, so..." I started, pausing outside the gift shop on our way out. "It's almost 5. Did you want to grab dinner before we head back? I have worked up quite the appetite listening to you for the past 4 hours."

"Has it really been that long?" he asked incredulously before glancing down at his watch wrapped over his shirt.

I tried very hard, and failed, to suppress a giggle at the habit.

"I'm honestly surprised you still have spit left in your mouth," I joked as I swayed closer to him, almost enough to touch him.

"Ha ha, very funny," he replied. A slight pout formed on his face. I almost enjoyed the swapped roles; it wasn't often that he was the one who looked so forlorn.

"Come on, I'm joking!" I laughed before slipping my arm around his and pulling him closer to me.

Spencer glanced down in surprise, staring at my chest that was now fully pressed against his arm. Although, the way he looked at me was nothing compared to the response he'd given after I showed up in a pleated skirt that better belonged on a Catholic schoolgirl.

But I mean, like I'd said, I used to go there on school trips. It was only fair.

"I love listening to you talk, Spencer. You know that."

The speed with which he looked away when I finished talking was enough to tell me that I had said the wrong thing. His goofy, playful demeanor vanished so quickly, I'd almost gotten whiplash. He didn't remove his arm, instead clearing his throat and pulling out a brochure from his pocket to look at nearby places to eat.

A bit reserved, he asked if I was interested in one of the closer casual restaurants, to which I agreed. At that point, I removed myself from his side and was only a little surprised to see the way his body immediately relaxed.

I wanted to believe he just didn't like to be touched, which I was certain was true, but he was behaving differently with me than he had before. We'd touched in public before, a lot more than that, and we'd known each other a lot less!

But of course, that was probably why. The closer we got, the farther away he felt.

The walk to the restaurant was slightly awkward, so after a moment I decided to break the silence.

"You said you grew up in Vegas, right?"

"Yeah, until I moved to go to school," he explained, looking around at the surroundings of the D.C. crowds winding down rather than turning his attention back to me. 

At least I was finally learning more about him.

"Where did you go?"

"Caltech."

He was keeping his answers short, but I feel like he might still be a little embarrassed at my little jab at the museum. That was fine, I knew ways to make him talk. I clasped my hands behind me as I walked by his side, still tempted to touch him somehow, however ill advised.

"Was it hard being away from your family? That's a few hours away, isn't it?"

He laughed awkwardly, a sure sign that I'd forgotten that him and I come from different worlds.

"Well, I was barely 13, so... My mom was kind of legally obligated to follow me."

He was so cute, and he definitely wasn't aware of it.

"Right, sorry, forgot about the genius thing for a minute. Don't know how."

The smile he returned was genuine, which helped my guilt for bothering him yet again. But in my defense, it was easy to do when he was a literal genius and I was barely scraping by half the time.

As we arrived, we were seated in a booth near the back of the restaurant. I offered him the booth with a view of the door because I'd figured he would want it. He gave me a strange side glance at my assumption, like I was hiding something from him that would grant me the knowledge that it would be more comfortable for him to be able to see the door.

I didn't want to talk about how I knew that, though.

Instead, I asked, "Do you like it here? In Virginia?"

He nodded as he flipped open the menu, speaking almost scripted answers absentmindedly, "I do, but mostly because it's been so long that everyone I know is here."

I'd already been here before, so I didn't bother looking at the menu. Naturally, he'd only required a few seconds to read it. When he made eye contact again, I spoke through my thoughts.

"You said you're a profiler for the..."

"Behavioral Analysis Unit."

His tone was a mix of pride and nerves, which immediately made me nervous.

"I haven't looked it up yet because I'm scared about what I might find. What do you guys do, exactly?"

The server brought us drinks just in time to pause his answer, which he seemed to appreciate. I figured it was either a tough job to explain, or he didn't want to share that part of his life with me just yet (or, potentially, ever). 

Spencer lowered his voice like he usually did when he talked about work.

"We profile the behavior of serial killers. Sometimes for research, but mostly to assist local police in catching them."

"Oh..." I started, stopping mid-sip of my drink. It was a lot to take in at once. "So... yeah, I'm glad I didn't google it."

He scrunched his mouth in that unsure way, like he wanted to explain to me how he really felt about his job. Something in the bags under his eyes told me he hasn't talked about this in a long time. At least, not like he should. But he didn't talk about it. He looked away, opting to say nothing at all.

"Doesn't it get to you?" I pushed, trying to offer him the platform to talk about the thing that no doubt consumes most of his life.

"Does what get to me?" His voice sounded so far away.

"Spencer, when I met you, you were whisked away at the crack of dawn to go talk about serial killers. On a weekend. The second time you showed up at my place after clearly not having slept, I'm guessing straight from work..."

His eyes narrowed as I spoke, like I was talking from a tightrope that I could plummet off any second. He seemed scared that I would speak something into existence he wasn't ready to face himself.

"You're surrounded by evil all the time. You're responsible for learning, recognizing, and manipulating evil. That can't be easy."

Spencer's eyes were glazed over in a way I couldn't describe. He seemed defensive, steeled, and absolutely terrified. He wouldn't look me in the eyes, opting instead to stare down at the menu in front of him.

He shrugged as he halfheartedly concluded, "I guess that's one way to look at it. We also get to see a lot of good."

"Yeah..." I nodded solemnly, recognizing the dismissive thoughts from my own experience.

He was downplaying the great likelihood of traumatic memories he carried, as if he could will away the damage. Like it would stop existing if he could convince himself it wasn't that bad.

I wondered what had happened to him on the job for him to already have forgotten that things didn't have to be the worst possible to matter. That he still deserved better. That hurt does not require permission.

I couldn't stop myself, needing to see how he reacted when I continued, "But which do you see more of?"

I never got my answer. The server once again saved him from a conversation that got away from him. The presence of a third, impartial person shifted the mood back to what it was in the museum. I wondered how much was an act, both back then and in that moment.

Deciding it best not to dwell on the thought, I tried to forget about the darkness brewing in those coffee colored eyes. Once our orders were in, he turned his attention to the cocktail menu still laying in the middle of the table with a smile.

"I'm almost surprised you didn't try to order alcohol," he half-joked.

I leaned forward on the table, bringing a hand up to my mouth and whispering, "I heard there might be an undercover fed here, so, never can be too safe."

The bubbly, childish laugh that followed renewed my faith in him. He had that kind of infectious laugh that made you forget that badness existed at all. Once our ruckus had died down, he looked at me with the softness that had drawn me to him in the first place.

"You're cute."

When the words registered in my mind, I couldn't believe I'd heard them. The way his expression changed shortly after the words left his mouth told me he hadn't meant to say them aloud. But their effect on me was not at all stifled by his momentary lapse in judgment.

I'd wondered if it was getting hotter in the building, or if it was just my nerves getting the best of me. But it wasn't bothering Spencer, who was about to down yet another cup of coffee in front of him. I cleared my throat, trying to not look like a schoolgirl whose crush had just checked 'yes' on a note asking if he liked me.

Pointing to the mug in front of him, I joked, "How do you sleep?"

"Honestly? I usually don't."

That was the goofy overly literal dork I wanted to see more of.

"I can think of one way to wear you out," I suggested, lifting my leg to press the top of my foot against his leg under the booth.

He raised his eyebrows, giving a simple glance down to acknowledge the contact. Then his eyes were back on me, staring deeply with a hunger that would not be satisfied by whatever dish they brought out to us.

"I can think of several."

Humming cheerfully, I continued to run my foot up and down his leg. My cheeks flushed with my growing desire that I'd managed to put off for several hours. I was honestly shocked that I'd spent the whole day with this man, and only then thought about sleeping with him.

"It's too bad we can't," I pouted. "My roommate is back in town. Not sure she'd appreciate all the noise."

That time as my foot drew up his leg, he shifted in his seat so that his legs moved closer to me, extending the contact for a few seconds longer.

"Not to mention, I don't think you'd like to deal with several 20-year-olds."

The way he behaved whenever I pointed out my age was endlessly entertaining. That time, though, he seemed significantly less bothered.

"One is already borderline for me," he teased back.

I gasped, clutching at my chest as I batted my eyelashes just dramatically enough to showcase my pride.

"You flatter me, Dr. Reid."

He almost choked on his coffee as he stifled a chuckle, putting it down as he shook his head.

"Only you would take that as a compliment."

Recognizing this repartee as the foreplay it had always accompanied, I leaned forward on my elbows towards him. He immediately mirrored the movement, putting our faces much closer to each other than they'd been all day.

"What can I say? I enjoy being a challenge."

"Yes, you do." He hadn't even thought about it, responding almost instantaneously, suggesting once more that he could actually read my mind.

"How are you so good at that?" I kept the question vague on purpose.

He didn't fall for it.

"I'm good at a lot of things. Which are you referring to?"

What a cocky bastard. A very handsome, ridiculously sexy, dork of a bastard.

But he wasn't the only one at the table that knew how to get someone hot and bothered.

"Your humility is my favorite part, Dr. Reid." I stuck my tongue out at the end of the sentiment, a cheeky grin that reflected on him just as quickly.

"Quoting me? That's bold."

Deciding it had been too long since I had touched him, I lifted my hand to press a single finger against his chest as I taunted, "You aren't the only person with a good memory."

He leaned back at this point, backing away from my finger and the heated exchange.

"I don't have a good memory. I have an eidetic memory."

He had been very proud of that fact earlier when I asked him why the hell he was able to list off every single word from a museum display we'd seen an hour earlier. I'd asked him if it was the same as a photographic memory, and he'd gone on a rant about the pejorative connotations of the term. I wasn't going to go down that rabbit hole again today.

Instead, I took the same hand that had touched him moments before, curling all but one finger into a fist.

"So you'll be able to remember this forever?" I cooed as I held up my middle finger.

"I'll just file that away with the most important memories, like birthdays and the works of Arthur Conan Doyle," he sighed in response, graciously admitting defeat.

I was not brave enough to tell him I had no idea who that was, but I was sure I'd learn one day. That one, I thought, was probably safe to google. While he filed away my crude gesture, I filed away yet another fun fact to surprise him with later.

"You are, by far, the most interesting person I've ever met," I implored, to which he immediately shot back, "I could say the same about you. And I regularly talk to serial killers."

Touché, Dr. Reid.

"I'm flattered," was the last word I got in edgewise before our food arrived.

The rest of our time in the restaurant went very similarly, with teasing comments that built the sexual tension that was already too big for this tiny room. Our legs never stopped touching throughout the entire meal. Maybe that was why, when it was finally time to leave, we both felt a strange mixture of excited and sad. Once we were no longer behind the booth, it was back to pretending like we weren't constantly trying not to pounce on the other.

The walk to the metro was equal parts long and tense. At one point I'd swayed closer to him than I intended, and our sides brushed up against one another. Unlike before in the museum, he hadn't moved away. I couldn't believe something so minuscule could made me so happy.

The metro was more crowded than I'd anticipated. The fact that the station is underground was usually enough to make me feel a little claustrophobic, but the number of people bustling around me felt especially overwhelming. I couldn't help but chastise myself for having worn a skirt, considering the stark number of perverted men in places like these.

Spencer's touch woke me from my reverie. His arm had wrapped around my lower back with such unassuming delicacy, I'd hardly registered it at first. He was looking down at me with concern covering his features as he asked, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, sorry, there's a lot of people here."

I had one hand holding my skirt down against my leg, the other crossed over my chest.

"Makes me nervous," I further explained.

"Can I help?"

Even though he was offering, I could tell the crowds bothered him just as much. Thankfully, his presence was enough for me.

"You already are."

There was something so calming about his presence that was hard to explain. It wasn't his ability to physically protect me, considering he didn't  have his weapon with him most of the time I was with him. It wasn't his emotional availability (or lack thereof). It was more like he  exuded some chemical that made me docile. It was hard to explain.

I just liked him, okay?

When our train pulled in it was relatively crowded, but we managed to grab two seats near the back of a car. I sighed in relief as I plopped down into the plastic chair, happy to finally be able to rest my legs.

With Spencer on the aisle seat and us on our way back to Franconia Springfield Station, I let myself relax. My head dropped down onto his shoulder without much thought, and my entire body slumped over with it.

"How am I supposed to stay awake for this when you're so comfy?" I mumbled, looking down at the hem of my pleated skirt as I fiddled with it.

"That certainly sounds like quite the predicament," he said in what I assume was jest.

He sat up, bumping my head off his shoulder for a moment. I interpreted it to be a subtle way of telling me not to do it, but once he had shrugged off his cardigan, he looked at me like he was confused I hadn't resumed the position.

Armed with a simper, I cuddled up even closer this time, wrapping my arms around his and resting my cheek against his shoulder. I wasn't sure why he had gotten so open to touch, but I wasn't going to complain. 

He didn't say anything when he draped his cardigan over my lap, covering my knees peeking out from under my skirt. A nice gesture, I thought as my body instinctively gravitated towards him. It wasn't until I closed my eyes that the pieces started to come together.

I was on the metro, in a skirt, with Spencer Reid's hand slowly but surely inching up my thigh.

My eyes shot open, and I tensed my grip around his arm. It was the only thing I did to betray my otherwise composed and unassuming position.

His breath was hot on my ear as he leaned over to me and began to whisper, "Do you know the idea that people fall asleep after sex is less true for women than men? Many speculate it's because women are just neglected in bed, but that's not quite it."

I didn't dare respond, hardly trusting myself to breathe as his hand continued to move closer to me.

"Both sexes do release the same chemicals during orgasm. Oxytocin to stimulate smooth muscle contraction and initiate the need to bond, prolactin to relieve arousal and signal satiation, and the leftover gamma aminobutyric acid, dopamine, and serotonin..."

I couldn't understand how he'd managed to make the lecture sound sexy, but I was too lost in the sound of his voice to bother thinking about it then.

"Still, women are less likely to fall asleep. Sure, they typically exert less physical energy during sex, but what about those women like you with a penchant for going for a ride?"

A woozy, lovesick smile spread across my face at the reference to our first encounter.

"Those women might still stay awake for longer and may actually be more invigorated after reaching climax. And it's all thanks to their naturally lessened refractory period."

I nodded dumbly, gasping lightly once I felt his fingers make contact through the flimsy cotton of my underwear.

"Which might sound like a curse. But it's not. It means that those lucky women can reach multiple orgasms in succession. Some partners just aren't willing to put in that kind of effort," he continued, tracing a finger up and down my folds through the fabric.

"But I'm not one of them."

His words were strong, and I buried my face into his shoulder, trying not to alert the entire car what was happening underneath his cardigan.

"I would much rather watch you come undone. Again, and again, and again. I want to make sure that when I'm done with you, you can't keep your eyes open."

My breath was getting quicker, and I let out a small squeak against his shirt as he pressed down on the bundle of nerves at my center, drawing circles around it.

"That being said, if you need something to keep you awake, I do have a solution. But if you make a single noise, I will stop."

I had to bite down hard on my bottom lip to prevent any noise from slipping out. My legs were wavering between opening and closing as I tried to keep them apart. I could feel how damp I was getting. My hips were moving with a mind of their own, rocking toward his hand. It took all of my concentration not to give us away.

I choked on my breath as a sly finger snuck into the side of my underwear, allowing entrance to the others that followed.

"Shhh," he hushed, pressing a soft kiss on the top of my head. Underneath my skirt, though, he was much less chaste. Slipping two fingers into my heat, I could have sworn I heard him laugh from above me.

I didn't dare look at him, nervous that the moment I did, I would lose all control.

"I had no idea it would be so easy to get you to follow directions. Are you that worried you might get caught?"

He could feel my heartbeat against his arm. He must have been able to, because I was suffocating against his arm. My hands clenched around him like he was the only lifeline in an ocean of pleasure.

"Imagine what they would think if they knew what you let me do to you. What you beg me to do to you."

My legs were beginning to tremble around him as he stroked me from the inside. All I could feel was him. His hands, his breath, his words.

"Is that why you wore this skirt? A naughty little schoolgirl fantasizing about an older man touching you like this?"

He quickened the pace of thrusting into me, his words getting more insistent as the train was almost empty now, closing in on our stop.

"Is it everything you thought it would be? No. Can't be. You wish there was something else of mine in between your legs."

I couldn't explain how, but my climax snuck up on me. When it happened, it smashed into me like a wave crashing onto the shore. I gasped for breath against his arm, and he thankfully took mercy on me. Despite definitely making a noise, he continued his motions, palming at the crest of my folds to give me one last boost of stimulation.

I shook around him, my thighs tightening onto his arm as I finally found release. I could hear the announcement calling for our station, but it felt worlds away. Still, Spencer pulled his hand out from underneath our pile of clothes, wiping the evidence of our escapade against the inside of my skirt before also removing his arm from underneath my tight grip.

"Son of a bitch," I puffed, relaxing all my muscles at once as I tried to retain control over my pulse. I could barely think straight.

"You're welcome," he beamed, as if he hadn't just gone full dominant as he finger fucked me on the metro.

I didn't understand how the hell he expected me to get up and walk off like nothing happene, but somehow, I managed. I stood with wobbly legs and a flustered state of mind until he linked his arm with mine and led me off the car and into the station. I clung to the assistance, grateful that he was once again taking pity on me.

However, it felt like it wouldn't last long. Once we'd gotten to his car, he helped me in before climbing into the driver's seat. It was silent for a moment, like he wanted me to ask him a question that I wasn't willing to ask.

I didn't want the night to be over, but if he asked me if I was ready to go home, I'd have to say yes. After all, it wasn't proper form to invite myself to his apartment. Especially with how weird he got whenever I got close to him.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

The pity was gone.

I didn't think before I spoke, immediately responding as a joke, "Not unless it's yours."

The silence was back.

Oops.

I realized that I'd spoken out loud at the same time he delivered his response; I was going to stop him, but he was too quick.

"My place it is, then."

I couldn't help but smile, my cheeks burning as I asked quietly, like my volume might change his mind, "Really?"

"Sure, why not?"

I didn't have an answer. We didn't talk for a moment, enjoying the contented silence as I texted my roommate to tell her that I was going to be late home, if I came at all. I was hoping for the latter. Once that was sent off, I returned my gaze to the man paying almost full attention to the road.

"You know, I have to get you back for what you did back there."

He smirked, not breaking away from the road as he replied, "I did you a favor."

"A cruel favor," I whined, turning in my chair as I buckled my seat belt so I could get closer to him.

"No such thing," he corrected, although I think we both knew there very well could be such a thing.

"Uh-huh."

I watched him for a moment, trying to decide the best way to get back at him. I could always try the most relevant payback...

He didn't even notice my hand reaching out until it was already sliding up his thigh at a rapid pace.

"What are you doing?" he asked, as if it weren't already obvious.

"Getting you back," I snickered as I finally made it up his leg, palming the quickly forming erection under his pants.

"I'm driving!" His voice was so high pitched it was heartwarming. It was like our roles had switched, even just for a second.

"I'm not stopping you from driving!"

Obviously trying to compose himself, he grabbed my wrist and held it in the air and out of reach of him.

"Unless you want to crash this car, you'd better wait until we get back to my place."

It was a valid warning, but not one I wanted to hear.

"Spoil sport."

"At least you're alive!"

It was back to the sexual tension from before in the restaurant. I wanted to touch him, and I was guessing based on the visible tent in his pants, he wanted me. So, I got to thinking, and I figured that if I wasn't allowed to touch him, that only left one other person.

"... What are you doing?"

It was a valid question. He'd glanced over to see my hand traveling up my own skirt as I parted my legs just enough to maneuver beneath my underwear.

"Nothing," I hummed, now looking at him with half-lidded eyes as I rocked forward onto my hand.

"That's cruel." He sounded so devastated to see that I was doing what he couldn't, despite the fact he had his hand in this exact spot not that long ago.

My fingers dipped between my folds, collecting the remnants of the orgasm he had given me as I crooned, "What? You said I couldn't touch you while you're driving. I'm not touching you. You're welcome."

I opened my eyes just enough to see the way he tightened his grip on the steering wheel while trying not to look at me. Couldn't drive distracted. That was the entire reason why I was touching myself and not him.

"Unless, of course, you do consider this part of me as your property. In which case, I'm not going to stop, anyway," I snickered. 

Rewarding myself with a soft moan, I tried to prolong the experience the best I could. It was hard when every couple of seconds he would look over at me. I hadn't thought that I would find his anger that attractive, but there I was, coming apart at the seams already based on nothing but a look. 

He was thoroughly unamused, which only egged me on, honestly. I didn't care if I was being overdramatic as I touched myself, I wanted him to think about what he was missing. Which was why I didn't stop myself from moaning. Pants and gasps echoed throughout the car as I picked up my pace.

"I hope you're ready for the consequences of this very poorly thought out decision."

On the contrary, Spencer. I had very clearly thought it through. I was thinking it so clearly I could picture his hands where mine were, among other parts of him.

Thinking about how to dig an even deeper hole for myself, I found the perfect mechanism.

"Mmm, Professor Reid," I cried, recognizing that it would either infuriate him or bring him a great sense of pride. I was fine with either.

I closed my eyes so I could better envision the fantasy that was actually just a memory. For now. With my eyes closed, I couldn't tell much of what was going on outside of my touch, trying to ignore the man beside me as best as I could. I wanted him to suffer.

Spencer, however, had other plans. With both eyes still on the road, his hand had found its way to my legs, where it shot up to join mine. He removed my hand quickly and replaced it with his own.

There was no subtlety or warm up this time. Without any hesitation, he dipped a finger into my heat just to remove it and begin rubbing harsh circles over my clit. I couldn't stop the yell that resulted, and seconds later I came undone against him.

As soon as the spasming stopped, he removed his hand, not speaking a word or even looking at me. I'd realized at that point that he'd only finished me off because he hadn't wanted to grant me the satisfaction of doing it myself. He was asserting that yes, in some sense, he viewed this as a part of his property.

I was oddly okay with that.

"Is the silent treatment my punishment?" I asked with a pout after a few moments of nothing.

He laughed bitterly back, finally looking at me for a moment before vaguely replying, "No. Your punishment will be much more fun for me."

I had to admit the implication that the silent treatment wasn't fun for him was flattering, at least. I was glad to hear that he enjoyed talking to me as much as I enjoyed listening to him talk.

But for the moment, I was sort of exhausted. Not in the way that would make me fall asleep, but in the I-just-had-two-orgasms-let-me-recoup way. Even though we enjoyed talking, those moments were refreshing in their own way. The best kind of connections were the ones that could always be maintained, even in the quiet.

Despite it not being my punishment, Spencer remained fairly quiet the rest of the way home. I wondered if part of that was due to him brewing a plan for what would happen when we got there.

God, I hoped so.

As we pulled up to the nondescript building, I had to admit I was a bit disappointed to find Spencer didn't live in some whimsical fantasy like I'd always envisioned. The building looked like every other one. But, at the same time, I couldn't want to see the inside. If I had to bet, there would be a lot of books and a stark lack of computers.

Walking into Apt #23, I was only a little surprised by what I saw. The warm green tones of his walls were complimented by red and brown accents, and my theory was quickly proven correct.

"Whoa," I mumbled under my breath, "It's like a library."

"You must go to some pretty small libraries, then."

I rolled my eyes. Like his usual attempts at humility, Spencer failed horribly.

I spun around on my heels to face him, but at the same time as I heard the lock flip into place, I felt his hand around my arm. Spencer's movements were quick as he gripped tightly on my wrist and pulled me towards what I could only assume was his bedroom.

Weirdly, I was still trying to take in my surroundings rather than focus on fucking him. It made sense, I figured. I had already experienced two orgasms today, whereas he had none.

Oops. Guess I really was a spoiled brat.

But seriously—I was in his apartment! I wanted to snoop, dammit!

Spencer wasn't going to give me an opportunity, though. He'd even made a point of shutting the door to his room once we were inside. Something told me he would keep a close eye on me as long as he could. That was probably deserved, considering that within the first few hours of interacting with him, I had answered a call from his boss.

In my defense, it had been fucking hilarious.

He led me to stand in front of him, and out of instinct and habit, I moved forward to kiss him. I never made it to his lips, though. Spencer pushed me aside toward the bed, and I laughed as I leaned over it, making a point of flipping up the back of my skirt.

"I've been bad, Professor," I giggled, turning to glance back at him from the position I had happily assumed without being told.

He had that dark fire in his eyes that usually came before a storm.

He looked like he was ready to break me. I was ready to be broken.

"Are you going to teach me another biology lesson?"

When his hands touched me, they were as tender as ever. He caressed my hips where I had turned the skirt up, hooking his fingers around the waistband of the underwear and casually removing them.

"No, I'm afraid not."

He sounded delighted despite the words he spoke.

"This will be a very different kind of lesson."

Oh, I realized all at once.

"A lesson in discipline?" I inquired, swaying my hips underneath his hands and waiting for confirmation.

The loss of his hand on one side caused anticipation to build. I could hear the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

It was hard to tell which happened first. Instantaneously, his hand came down hard on the soft skin of my backside as he responded, "Yes."

The adrenaline that coursed through my veins in response shook any feelings of fatigue I might have sustained throughout the day. I welcomed his body heat against my back as he leaned forward against me, and used his weight to press me down into his bed.

"Unless you've changed your mind."

"No!" I shouted back much too forcefully before gripping onto the sheets in front of me. "I deserve to be punished, Professor Reid."

He withdrew from me and, within seconds, brought his hand down on me again, that time striking the other side. The snapping sound of the contact was enough to elicit a response. I clamped my legs together and gave a soft mewl. Appreciating my vocal response, the next two hits came in rapid succession. I could feel the warmth building in the skin, the breeze from the motions acted as a buffer for the delicious sting.

He roughly grabbed both cheeks in front of him, for no reason other than wanting to. I groaned at the sensation of the tender flesh being handled, which only led him to release one to smack it once more. He followed with the other, appreciating the balance required of this particular punishment. I wasn't going to stop him. I was happy to continue. But something told me that he was breaching the point of comfort in his own conscience.

He was always so worried he would break me. I couldn't say it wasn't endearing. That didn't stop him from giving each side one more forceful blow, however, which earned him a mangled cry from deep in my chest. His body was against mine again, one of his hands reaching around to tilt my head up, despite not being able to see him. I was beginning to think he just enjoyed manipulating my body at will. To see how far I would let him.

"I think you're starting to get it, (y/n)."

"Yes," I responded, not caring if it didn't make much sense in response.

Despite the fact he'd already finished me twice today, I somehow already wanted him again. Maybe it was the allure of finally being able to fuck him in his own bed, or maybe it was the desire to see him fall apart as a reminder that I'm not the only one desperate for the other's touch.

So quickly he returned to the gentle, barely there traces along my skin.

"Punishment looks good on you," he praised, and something about the way he said it filled me with pride.

"You look good on me, too, sir," I slurred as he continued to draw feathery markings on the abused skin. He chuckled, finally moving up along my back before I interrupted his thoughts and appreciation once more.

"Fuck me," I begged. I wanted him and didn't care how I got it. "Let me help you feel good."

The hands that had inflicted pain moments ago were now gently massaging my shoulders through my top. I sighed, relaxing further into his touch. So easily I had become complacent to his desire. I let him do whatever he wanted, trusting that he would never do anything to truly, honestly hurt me. 

"Something tells me you're more interested in making yourself feel good," he asserted — quite correctly.

"Can't we have both?"

His silence told me he was considering my words. I knew that he didn't want to, since that would ruin the whole idea that this was a punishment in the first place. Then again, I didn't think he was fully committed to that idea anyway.

Dragging his hands once more down the plane of my back, he stopped to grip my hips and shift me backwards until I was pressed against him.

"You're lucky you look so fucking cute in that skirt," he growled.

I felt dizzy again already, drowning in the way his bed smelled like him.

"Mmm, I wore it just for you," I admitted, rubbing myself gently against his crotch now pressing into my bottom.

"Smart girl," he responded.

It felt like I was in a dream, to be there with him like that. For a long time, I'd thought I'd never see him again, let alone be laying on his bed.

I could hear him stripping behind me, and I peeked over my shoulder with a modest smile.

Time was not moving fast enough, I thought, but it was also moving too fast. Because as badly as I wanted him to ravish me, I was afraid what would happen when it was over.

I couldn't think about that in that moment, though.

Once he reached into his nightstand, I giggled with anticipation. He raised his eyebrows at me, unable to contain his own laughter.

"Oh, you're happy with yourself, huh?"

"A little bit, yeah."

When he returned to me, his hands were still gentle as they pushed my skirt back up where it had fallen. He revealed my body to himself, and I didn't have to be able to see it to know that my arousal spread down my inner thighs. I had, after all, already had two orgasms before now thanks to the man behind me.

"I'm also pretty happy with you," he whispered as he leaned over me.

With no warning, he fully entered me with one swift thrust. I whimpered at the feeling of him hitting against angered skin, mixed with the pleasure of being full once again. I clutched at the sheets and wished that they were him, wishing that I could somehow be even closer to him than I already was. 

"We'll see if you still feel like smiling after I'm done with you."

It was the last thing he said before he began to ruthlessly pound into me. I struggled to scream as loudly as I wanted to, but I couldn't make any noise at all. My body seemed to have relented all control to him within seconds; I didn't put up a single battle. Although his grasp held me in place, I still attempted to cant my hips forward to allow him better access.

My chest and face were warm with friction from rubbing against the bed, and my knuckles were blanched from the force exerted to try and remain grounded. Each movement seemed so purposeful, much like the way he thrashed at my skin with his hand.

"Fuck me," were the first words I managed to string together.

With one forceful thrust, he held me down on him as all the moans I couldn't make previously came pouring out of me. I thought I might actually cry from how overstimulated the day was  becoming. Seemingly reading my mind, Spencer pulled out of me entirely. I tried to reorient myself, but he stopped me. Using one hand to grab hold of my arm, he flipped me onto my back beneath him.

I hadn't even realized I was still wearing basically all of my clothes until he had to force my skirt back up again. Missing him between my legs, I began to crave him everywhere else, too. I struggled to pull my shirt over my head.

Spencer didn't stop me, just watching while he playfully rubbed his arousal at my entrance.

"Please, sir," I pleaded once I was finally able to lift my legs. I wrapped them around his hips and pulled him closer to me without letting him slip into me just yet.

"Just as impatient and needy as ever, (y/n)."

I chewed on my bottom lip, looking up at him with the puppy dog eyes that had always worked on him up to that point. It must have worked again, because he was sinking back into me before I knew it. My arms spread out across the bed, holding onto whatever I could reach as he set another brutal pace.

Our bodies melding together in a chaotic fusion of skin and fluids, I let myself get lost in the bliss of Spencer Reid laying claim to my body. I threw my head back, my eyes clamped shut as one of his hands came up to caress one of my breasts through my lacy bra.

"With undergarments like this, I have to wonder if you planned this all, young lady," he teased, no doubt referring to the matching underwear now discarded on the floor.

I opened my eyes to meet his, and for a second I was left breathless at the sight of him pumping into me. How I managed to say anything at all is a miracle.

"Never a plan, sir. But always a pleasure."

A flirtatious sparkle in his eyes, he slowed down as he pressed, "Did you wear them for someone else, then?"

The way I arched my back caused him to push even further into me, and I had to pause to moan before I continued.

"Are you jealous?"

His hips snapped forward, producing a simultaneously jolt of pain and pleasure. His voice was breathy as he tried to hold himself together while speaking, "Should I be?"

Our eye contact caused tension so powerful that I was certain it was palpable. A devilish grin and a bit of a snicker was the provocation he needed to drive into me harder once again. I didn't even try to suppress the noises he elicited from me, tightening my grip around him with my legs.

"Take me," I whispered under my breath, almost hoping that he wouldn't hear me.

I couldn't tell if he did, but his hand switched sides of my chest, and our faces grew closer together.

"I'm yours," I slurred. I truthfully hadn't thought about the words when I gifted them to him, but he clearly took note of them. That time, it was his moan that filled the air in the room, and I had never felt so excited by one of his responses. I chased after the feeling, locking eyes with him as both his hands grabbed my hips to begin the race to the finish.

"I'm yours, Spencer."

I didn't stop to wonder if I could play this off as part of the fantasy. I mean, it was part of my fantasy; the fantasy of being his, and him being mine.

He didn't object to my words then, either, and he had definitely heard me that time.

I smiled, barely noticing that he'd placed his fingers back on my heat, swiping frantically at my clit until I lost all composure underneath him. My hips rocked at no apparent rhythm, and distorted versions of his name broke through my mouth.

I hadn't even come down yet when he rammed into me with full force, bottoming out once again. I felt his cock twitch inside of me, followed by my muscles pulling everything out of him that they could.

The view of his satisfied face through my lust-filled daze was angelic. It appeared that he saw the same in me, but I couldn't be sure. Just as quickly as the moment had come, it had passed, his arms giving in to his weight as he collapsed onto my chest.

His hair tickled my collarbones, and I laughed at how incredibly out of shape he was. Especially for an FBI Agent. Even if he did go on the field often, I figured the resident dork didn't need to be totally ripped, anyway.

And, hey, he was strong enough to treat me like a ragdoll, so who was I to judge?

"Tired?" I asked, taking a shaky hand to his head, playing with the soft brown curls damp from sweat.

"You aren't?" he slurred, his words smothered against my skin.

"I am fucking exhausted."

That time, we both laughed. He was clearly pleased that, despite any perceived weakness, he was still able to thoroughly wear me out. When he moved to leave me, I dropped my legs. I was surprised I had managed to hold them until then, honestly.

He fixed his hair that had fallen in his eyes first, and I smiled at the peculiar priority. It was cute, though.

"Do you have to take me home?"

I tried not to let the disappointment bleed into my voice, but it did. He tried not to notice. He didn't answer as he cleaned himself up, and I sat up to look at him — once the world stopped spinning, anyway.

"No."

The butterflies spiraled out of control, spreading through every inch of my soul. I must have been beaming, because he looked so very nervous.

"Thanks."

His response came in the form of an unsure smile, followed by a genuine appreciation.

I briefly wondered if he realized just how transparent he was, but then decided I didn't want to think about it. I excused myself to clean up before bed, taking a long moment to rub my skin with aloe from under the cabinet, only to realize that I had basically nothing clean to wear. I rolled my eyes at the situation, wondering how many red flags it would set off for me to ask Spencer for some of his clothes.

I could just be naked. He seemed to like me that way.

I padded back into the room, expecting him to be waiting up for me. He wasn't. Spencer had passed out on the bed before he even had a chance to get under the covers. I stood at the door for a moment, trying to appreciate the value of this quiet moment while I still could.

Stripping off my clothes as quiet as possible, I was careful not to wake him. However, that also meant I couldn't climb under the covers, either.

It isn't exactly snooping if I'm looking for something innocent, right? That's what I had to tell myself, regardless. Because I was not going to freeze my ass off over a hookup's paranoia. Glancing at the dresser, I almost convinced myself it wouldn't be an invasion of privacy to open it. Luckily, I didn't have to. Directly next to it was a hamper of clean, folded laundry, with a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt on top. While disappointed that I had lost my excuse, I was grateful I had stripped myself of the choice.

He deserved better than me trying to pry into his life like that.

Slipping into his clothes, I stopped to hug myself in the soft fabric. With him asleep, I felt comfortable taking a moment to revel in the position he'd allowed me to exist in. I was in his apartment, in his clothes, and I would soon be back in his arms.

For now.

I chased the inevitable end out of my thoughts, slinking onto the bed and shimmying over to him until his hands found me in his unconscious state. I faced him, my hands pressing softly against his chest to feel his heart happily working under my touch.

His eyes fluttered open for a second, just long enough to see the wonder in my own. A smile crept along his cheeks, and he wrapped a lazy arm around my waist.

I wondered if he recognized his own clothes, or if he even realized this was real. Then again, the alternative was him assuming that it'd all been a dream... and it was a pleasant one, it seemed. 

"I'm happy," he confirmed in a hushed tone.

My heart almost stopped, and I peeked up at him, inching up so I could better see his face. His breathing evened back out as I felt the way he relaxed, quickly retreating back to the comfortable embrace of sleep.

"About what?" I whispered back.

Our legs twined together, and a soft sigh left his lips. I waited with bated breath  for his response, although I don't think I could have ever been prepared for what followed.

"I'm happy that you're mine."

... What?

 —————————————————

| Part 5 |

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

[ziracona]

The tendency in fandom to take every white girl with short hair, regardless of the status of their canonical interest or lack of interest in women and explicit interest and/or sexual history with everything but, proclaim them a lesbian queen, and then ignore or absolve them of every single horrific act they take in fiction because of this. Is not doing feminism. Women. Lesbians. Or anyone. Any favors. It’s just bad.

Somehow. Some people really do apparently need to hear that...being any specific sexuality...is not a personality trait.

And also. Women aren’t inherantly less vile than men (or anyone non-binary, agender, fluid, etc, else), and whatever bad deeds they do should be judged based on just that—on the deeds, and their context. Not their sexuality, imagined sexuality, or their gender. Becuase none of those things effect whether committing murder is bad. At all. Not even a little. And none of them. Is even a personality trait. Affecting the character’s value as a person.

It’s cool, and good, to see characters with minority identities. And it’s real nice. When it’s whatever you are. But them being whatever. Is not a personality trait. Just a fact. And sometimes. People of any type. Are not good. Pretending any minority status—gender, sexuality, race, disability, neurotype, etc—is a get out of jail free card? Is not. Doing them. Or anyone. Any favors. Personality disorder. Doesn’t make you bad. Also doesn’t make you good. Your actions do. Acting like Amy from Gone Girl did nothing wrong when she date rapes her boyfriend & then frames him for doing that to her & ruins his life, then blackmails her husband who is terrified of being murdered by her into staying with her for the sake of the child she made at a fertility clinic with his sperm without his consent, bc she’s a woman. Isn’t good. Men aren’t more deserving of violence than women. Neither is anyone else. Jane. Left an infant child in an unheated car in subzero weather in a snow storm with zombies around that easily would hear it cry and go eat it. So she could lie and say she already let zombies eat it to bait a man with easily triggerable PTSD who had just lost his family to zombies for the second time into starting a fight. Because he was injured, unarmed, weak, down an eye, and 50, while she was fit, mid 20s, healthy, and armed with a hunting knife. Because she wanted an excuse to kill him without looking bad, because she wanted the 11 year old girl she was co-parenting with him, all to herself. And her immediately responding to the dude throwing a punch by stabbing him in the stomach to escalate the fight from brawl to life or death, then losing her knife, and instead of telling him the baby was alive & she’d made it up to start a fight which could have at any point ended the fight, begging the 11 year old child to gun down her oldest surviving friend with her own hands in cold blood so that she’d get what she wanted? Is evil. As is crying on the 11 year old and using pity as a weapon to get her to stay with her if she gets mad and wants to leave when she realizes Jane staged the whole thing for an excuse to murder, and so is after realizing like a month later that she is pregnant, committing suicide, and leaving the 11 year old that she just manipulated into killing her oldest surviving friend/completely isolated on purpose so she could have her to herself, totally alone in the apocalypse to care for an infant. Jennifer’s Body? Is a fantastic film. And Jennifer didn’t deserve any of what happened to her. But not one single boy she kills during the course of that film deserved it—and explicitly so. Even the guy who could easily have been a meathead jock bully is outside alone crying becuase his best friend just died and he loved him before she decides to lure him off and eat him alive. And acting like it’s totally fine & Needy should have just let her keep eating boys instead of killing her? Is fucked up. None of them deserved to die. And no one deserves death innately more because they are or are not something that is just a factual designator of their makeup as a human. The exchange student was scared and alone and nice, the catholic kid was sweet and Needy’s friend, Chip is a bad boyfriend but he meant well and being stupid doesn’t mean you deserve to die. And this girl ate them alive. That’s not funny. Or cool. Or fine becuase they were dudes. Gertrude Robinson? Chose again and again to betray people who loved her, or trusted her—sold out victims of awful trauma to their worst nightmares. Killed friends in the worst possible ways, like it was nothing. Michael loved her, and trusted her, and tried to care for her, and she without faltering fed him to his worst nightmare and forced him to become it. There is nothing excusable about that action.

Jude Perry? Has 0 redeeming features. Didn’t even stay faithful to her poor gf & was creepy obsessed w Agnes. Literally murdered her co-worker friend just because he was happy, and she wanted to destroy things: that’s it. She didn’t even dislike him. Murdered him because he had a wife and kid and house and it seemed fun, then burned down his house, took his wife’s money, and now checks in on his kid every so often in case he ever recovers from the trauma she inflicted enough to be fun to kill. There is literally nothing good about this woman. Yes. I mean that. Because being a lesbian? Is just a thing. There is no g/b tag, there is no tag at all. Amanda Young? Got kidnapped and tortured and forced to choose between killing a man who couldn’t resist but was conscious to watch her, and letting herself die, and she killed him. Then, instead of responding to that trauma with guilt or responsibility or anger at her captor, joined up with him and started helping him kidnap people just like her. She was not forced, she was not lied to. It does not matter if John was manipulative; she is a grown ass woman and like all grown ass adults, responsible for her own actions and choices. She did not get manipulated pitifully into this—she did not go unwillingly. She volunteered, with a happy vengeance, became obsessed with John and in love with him, despite his complete lack of interest. And she did not even just do what he did. She decided on her own that no one deserved redemption, & she killed them for fun in traps that wouldn’t let them go even if they did whatever awful thing the trap demanded as a price for life, just for the fun and power trip of watching them die helpless & in agony. That was all her, & her alone. She sat in a house full of people slowly dying from organ decomposition over the course of a few hours, for no crime worse than drug addiction—the thing she of all people should have been most sympathetic to—knowing full well at any time she could have saved them and stopped the game, and did nothing. She held a woman in her arms and stroked her head lovingly while she let her die in one of the most inhumane ways possible for the crime of having not been able to break an addition. She got saved by a 16 year old child multiple times, who had done nothing more than shoplift, and stood by while he had to watch a man get his brains blown out, another burn to death in an oven. As his organs slowly dissolved too. Watched the kid kill another human being & massively traumatize himself to save her life. And responded to that by attacking & knocking him out, tying him up, locking him up for days in a tiny safe bound and gagged with an oxygen supply to keep him alive, to be a piece in another game. Left his father, who had shown up to try & save him, to starve to death in chains in a horrible abandoned rotting room, & never even told him his son was alive. Let every other addict die horribly, let that kid sustain permanent damage to his organs that will kill him young, antidote taken or not, took his dad from him, & went back to torturing without a second thought. Kidnapped a woman whose worst crime was being a doctor & dating someone while maybe separated instead of divorced from her husband, put her in a trap that would take her head off with shotgun blasts, threatened her for fun, & then killed her even after she did everything she was asked, because it was more important to her that the old man she was obsessed with think she was special and great, than for the other woman to get to stay alive another day & go home to her daughter. There is nothing sympathetic about Amanda. She’s just not only evil, but too spineless to take responsibility for her own choices & actions, & tries to hide behind a “UwU I am sad & lonely & damaged & having trauma means I can literally torture people to death to feel special & it’s really tragic and sympathetic about me, not evil. Uhm. Some people??? Commit torture-murders?? To cope??” And acting like she’s somehow a victim in this becuase she is a pretty white girl with short hair? Is fucked. Up.

But every. God damn. Time. I see this. Please. It needs. To stop. People go: “UwU pretty girl short hair want” & I go “Ok. I see where u. Come from. Indeed.” But then. They go. “Girl pretty I like. So she was blameless. For this atrocity.” Those words...

Every day. I wake up. Thinking of Janic saying. Iconically. “At least me and Regina George know we’re mean,” and I weep inside. Because I cannot fathom. Or stomach. The lack of responsibility. I will kill. Characters who cannot admit they are bad. Myself. But somehow. They become. Flames. To moths. Of the “UwU pretty white girl short hair. We stan. Victim. Queen. Love her. Never done wrong.” Boy. We all done wrong. Even all my faves. At least once. I think. ...not if we count dogs probably, but people, yes. Ok. Anyway. All this is to say. Characters. Should be judged. Based on what they did. And why. And the aftermath. Not a grouping tag. I don’t mean any of these. Make bad characters. At all. Amy is a great character. So is Jennifer. So are most of them. I have quite affection even. For Jeneffer specifically. But you can like. Character. Without proclaiming. Them perfect humans. Who never did a thing wrong. Or their acts somehow. Justifiable. And ok. And you better stop saying. Ok. Because done. To men. Men do not. Deserve violence. Any more. Than anyone else. No one deserves violence defacto for factors. Outside their control. Wtf. Really people. It’s ok too. For character. To do much bad stuff. And still like character. Villains. And often just complex characters. Sometimes just characters. Do stuff. That is bad. It’s not supposed to be not their fault. Or ok. Also. Women are not a sisterhood. Of flawless beings. Who never hurt anyone or do any bad stuff. They can. And are. Often purpotrators. Of awful acts. And when they are. It is still. Very bad. Still. An awful act. Same level. Even. Of awful. Wild.

In conclusion.

Having short hair. While a girl. Doesn’t make her a butch queen. Who is absolved of all responsibility for that murder she committed. It just makes her a girl with short hair. That did a murder. I’m gonna. Kill someone. Too. And if I chop my hair off. I guess I can get away with it.

#personal #*dances wildly to abba music while delivering speech* #some of you all apparently really need a girl to come fuck up your life bc the lengths to which some of y’all so devotedly seem to believe #women are less evil is astronomical. and let me tell you. from personal experience? a girl can ruin your life. just as easily. and with as #little pity. guilt. remorse. or afterthought. as a man. and it aint any more ok. & you know what? so can a fluid person. or a nonbinary #person. legit anyone. can be bad. or good. and do bad. or good. theyre not defacto worse for coming from X starting point. and theyre also. #OuO not. better. #not everyone who likes or is sympathetic to these specific characters even be like that either like u know what? its possible to both be #sypathetic to a character & not excuse & atand their actions. I like & feel bad for Jennifer. a lot. one of my bros in college loved Jane #from twdg. Not bc she thought it was totally fine she’d been super evil though. its *dances* not that hard actually #also nothin against lovin evil lady characters or evil characters in general. just me or anyone else loving them does nothing to make their #evil deeds suddely ok or vanish into the mist #people have some real trouble w nuance huh. folks like a character & assume that means stanning everything theyve ever done. hate a charactr #and suddenly forget how to factor any outside factors into their view of said person’s actions. its a wild bad ride yo #like i get it. im a girl & ive had plenty of men ruin my life i truly get it. but is there anything truly more detrimental to feminism & to #just treating people decent in general than the WomenDoNoWrong mindset & apologism thrown up like its actually a decent counter t patriarchy #? probably actually yeah im sure there are worse. but its still REALLY not good!! feminism is just a stance that all people deserve equal #treatment & an investment in pursuing that reality. if youre excusing people of horrible actions bc girl & treating violence against non- #women as fine youre not a feminist u actually just suck generally as a person #i also lose my mind how half the characters i see get this treatment aint even lesbians & often explicitly like men yet get both assigned #that & treated like that sexuality is a hall pass for human rights violations. im dyin #this entire thought rant was prompted by reading a post earlier today about bi-phobia & gettin mad about how bi people get treated idk how #spagheti brain exactly went there to here so /fast/ but anyway. same brand of problematic. & i am v tired :] of this :] specifically :] #every time i see that post abt women killers in horror i am like ‘OP hiw are your points so good but all your examples so /terrible/.’ rip #i guess this is just life. and i feel excessively better after screaming jnto the void of my blog #also i get it gertrude robinson wanted to stop the apocalypse but fuck gertrude robinson she has no excuse. nothing could justify what she #did to people who loved her. and shes a well written and layered character whonisnt like just pure evil but she is VERY bad and i WILL kill #her (again) myself if given the chance & i have every right to. #spoilers #again. great charcters. amanda an iconic saw villain. gertrude fascinating. etc. but also. they be doing mad evil deeds & tis not ok

[brihana25]

Daniel: 13, 17, 19 ❤❤

13. What gets them flustered

Confronted by anything concerning, in or around Cobra Kai, he loses almost all ability to function. If whatever it is also triggers a flashback, forget about even basic functions. He freezes up entirely. I honestly think that when he saw the sign from the street, he sat there for a long, long time just staring at it, because he was completely lost. Cars would have driven around him, honked at him, people would have screamed and cussed at him … but I think he just sat there. 

17. Regrets

Not spending more time with his dad while he was alive, taking him for granted (as all young children tend to do) and passing up opportunities to do things and build memories with him. I think his dad was sick for a long time before Daniel was told, because honestly, who knows how to tell their 7 or 8-year-old son that their parent is going to die? And he understands why they hid it from him, but he also really wishes they hadn’t, because if he’d known, he’d have been a “better” son than he was. 

And then, after promising himself that he’d never take anyone for granted again … he feels like he did the exact same thing to Mr. Miyagi, when he fell under Terry Silver’s spell. He got out - Mr. Miyagi pulled him out, literally - and he had time and chances to make it right, but he doesn’t feel like he ever did. Mr. Miyagi forgave him without hesitation, but that doesn’t matter to him, because he never forgave himself. 

19. People they’ve hurt or indirectly killed, and how it affected them

He’s never killed anyone, but having been a little kid when his father died, there’s this part of him that remembers thinking it was somehow his fault. Kids blamed themselves for all sorts of things they can’t control, and he’s no different. He knows it had nothing to do with him, but every now and then, that little voice in his head will creep back around, and tell him his father’s death was punishment for something he did. 

That’s also a very Catholic thing, and as I’ve said before, I think he was probably raised in the Church, at least when he was younger. 

He doesn’t feel guilty for anyone he’s hurt in a fight, because up until this point in his life, everyone he’s fought has come after him, not the other way around. He does feel guilty that Kumiko and Jessica both got caught up in the trouble that seemed to follow him around like a shadow when he was a kid.

Despite what he said about it, he does feel guilty about what he’s done to Johnny in the past year. He regrets scheming to get his rent raised, not only because that was a horrible thing to do to anyone, but also because of how many innocent people he hurt by doing it. He was striking out in fear, and he honestly didn’t realize he was hitting the wrong people until Amanda told him. But once she did, it started eating away at him just how far he’d fallen from where he’d thought he was.

He also feels guilty about Johnny’s car. In his mind, he knows that was Louie and his biker pals, and he know he didn’t send them and he even told Louie point-blank to leave it alone, but he feels like he should have tried harder, like he maybe should have physically stopped Louie from going there and doing that, like if he’d been more emphatic about it, it wouldn’t have happened.

His biggest issue - as always - is what he did to Mr. Miyagi. He’s never even tried to justify that to himself. He’s got every explanation needed right at his fingertips for it - starting with being a 16-year-old kid, being played and manipulated by someone he trusted, never having encountered anyone like that before so having no defense against it - but he doesn’t use any of them. In his mind, everything that happened was his fault and his doing, and he should have known better (even though there is no way he could have). He carries that around with him to this day, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get rid of it. He also really thinks he deserves to carry that burden, pain and guilt with him for the rest of his life.

#rynnsama #headcanon meme

[grimhappenings-blog1]

Alexander Pearce was an Irish convict who was transported to Van Diemen’s Land (the original name used by most Europeans for the island of Tasmania, now part of Australia) for seven years for theft. He escaped from prison several times. During one of these escapes he allegedly became a cannibal, murdering his companions one by one. In another escape, with one companion, he allegedly killed him and ate him in pieces. He was eventually captured and was hanged and dissected in Hobart for murder.

Early life

Pearce was born in County Monaghan, Ireland. A Roman Catholic farm labourer, he was sentenced at Armagh in 1819 to penal transportation to Van Diemen’s Land for “the theft of six pairs of shoes”. He committed various offences in Van Diemen’s Land, and on 18 May 1822 was advertised in the Hobart Town Gazette as an absconder, with a £10 reward for his capture. When caught, he was charged with absconding and forging an order, a serious crime. For this he received a second sentence of transportation, this time to the new secondary penal establishment at Sarah Island in Macquarie Harbour.

Escape and cannibalism

On September 20, 1822, Pearce along with seven other convicts of Macquarie Harbour Penal Station: Alexander Dalton, Thomas Bodenham, William Kennerly, Matthew Travers, Edward Brown, Robert Greenhill and John Mather escaped while working on the eastern side of the harbour. Greenhill, who had the axe, appointed himself leader, supported by his friend Travers, with whom he had been sent to Macquarie Harbour for stealing businessman Anthony Fenn Kemp’s schooner in an attempt to escape. About 15 days into the journey, the men were starving and drew lots to see who would be killed for food. Thomas Bodenham (or perhaps Alexander Dalton) drew the short straw and Greenhill killed him with an axe. At this point three of the company — Dalton, Kennerly and Brown — took fright and decamped. Kennerly and Brown reached Macquarie Harbour, but Dalton seemed to have died of exhaustion. That left Greenhill, Travers, John Mather and Alexander Pearce. With Greenhill and Travers acting as a team, it would be Mather’s or Pearce’s turn next. Pearce seems to have sided with Greenhill and Travers at this point, and Mather was the next victim. It was then that Pearce had some luck: Travers was bitten on the foot by a snake. Greenhill insisted they carry him for five days, but when it became clear he would not recover, killed him.

After that, it was a cat-and-mouse game. Greenhill had the axe, but they were both starving, and they had to sleep. In the end it was Pearce who prevailed. He grabbed the axe, killed Greenhill and dined on his body. He later raided an Aboriginal campsite and stole more food. When he saw sheep, he knew he had reached the settled districts. He was lucky again, as the shepherd who came upon him eating a lamb was an old friend. Pearce was inducted into a sheep stealing ring, and was eventually picked up with William Davis and Ralph Churton, who were both hanged for bush-ranging and escaping from a military escort.

In total, Pearce had been on the run for 113 days, a little less than half of which was spent in the wilderness. Locked up in Hobart, Pearce made a confession to the Rev. Robert Knopwood, the magistrate and chaplain. However, Knopwood did not believe the cannibalism story and was convinced the others were still living as bushrangers. He sent Pearce back to Macquarie Harbour.

There are inconsistencies in Pearce’s story. He made three confessions — the Knopwood confession; a confession to Lt. Cuthbertson, Commandant of Macquarie harbour when he was in hospital after the second escape (in this version, Dalton is the first victim); and a confession to Father Phillip Connolly, the colony’s Catholic priest, the night before his execution — and some of the details differed. What is incontrovertible is that eight men went into the bush at Macquarie Harbour, and only three came out; and of the four men alive when Dalton, Kennerly and Brown decamped, only one survived.

Within a year, Pearce escaped a second time, joined by a young convict named Thomas Cox. Pearce was captured within ten days and taken to the Supreme Court of Van Diemen’s Land in Hobart, where he was tried and convicted of murdering and cannibalising Thomas Cox. Observers noted Pearce did not look like a cannibal. He was only 1.6 m (5 ft 3 in) in height, which was under average for that time, but had a strong wiry frame. He did not seem to be someone who was “laden with the weight of human blood, and believed to have banqueted on human flesh” as the Hobart Town Gazette wrote on 25 June 1824. His captors had found parts of Cox’s body in Pearce’s pockets, even though he still had food left, and his guilt was beyond doubt this time. Pearce confessed he had killed Cox because when they reached King’s River, he discovered that Cox could not swim. Pearce was the first felon to be executed by the new Supreme Court and the first confessed cannibal to pass through the Tasmanian court system.

Alexander Pearce was hanged at the Hobart Town Gaol at 9am on 19 July 1824, after receiving the last rites from Father Connolly. It is reported that just before he was hanged, Pearce said, “Man’s flesh is delicious. It tastes far better than fish or pork.”

This article uses material from the Wikipedia article Alexander Pearce, which is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share-Alike License 3.0.

Alexander Pearce was originally published on Grim Happenings

#Australia #cannibal #Ireland #murder #Tasmania #theft #true crime #tcc