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Evil het. You can do it.

Evil het my beloved! (criminal minds, Spencer Reid/Cat Adams)

Cat knows not to trust men: it’s the first thing she knows, the most important thing she knows, sometimes the only thing she knows.

She’s fashioned herself into a weapon in service of that ideal, shed everything unnecessary to be the best, most lethal that she can be.

Cat knows not to trust men, especially when those men are FBI agents hunting her down, but when she sees Spencer something takes over. It’s a terrible sensation, like creepy-crawlies down her spine, heat flushing through her like—like love. She’s ready to follow him down the rabbit hole, to drag him down there with her, anything to keep him close.

And then he tricks her, proves every rule she’s set for herself is right, but Cat can’t stop thinking about him. She’s alone for days, weeks, months, in a windowless box and the only thing anchoring her, the only thing keeping her from breaking completely, is thoughts of Spencer.

She imagines forcing him to his knees, imagines how his skin would feel under her hands, how his pulse would race, how he wouldn’t be able to help the way his body reacted to her—they never can, after all, she knows that. She imagines taking him apart, making him hurt, but as the days-weeks-months go by she imagines worse, imagines him curled up warm against her as she shivers alone on the cot, thin scratchy blanket pulled over her head as she tries to fall asleep.

Then, one day, after she dreams of drowning and Spencer breathing air into her lungs, she wakes up and she knows, knows exactly how she’ll see him again.

Cat crosses her arms behind her head, looks up at the ceiling, and smiles.

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Taemin's 'Guilty'. It's in my head, do what you like I double dare you

/proceeds to take the “loving you’s a crime” line literally

John doesn’t feel guilty about it.

It’s cognitive dissonance, maybe, but the only people he knows in the military who aren’t operating under some form of cognitive dissonance are the ones who are dumb enough to be scary, no matter where they fall in the chain of command.

So, no, John doesn’t feel particularly guilty about his personal violations of the Uniform Code, never has.

It’s just—things are different, with Rodney.

It’s more than John’s ever had, more than he knows what to do with, and the fact that he’s sure Rodney feels the same way is both comforting and frightening.

They fall into Rodney’s bed together, late nights after whatever latest life-threatening disaster, and John can feel it in the way Rodney holds onto him, hands big and hot on John’s hips, the desperate way he whimpers John’s name against his neck. It’s slow, except when it’s fast; rough, except when it’s gentle, but what it always is, from both of them, is grasping, taking hold of something they’re not supposed to have and clinging hard.

And then, every time, John has to leave before the sun comes up. Every time, he dresses in the darkness and watches Rodney’s back, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

He thinks about what it might be like to see Rodney when he wakes up, to see the sun stream in from the window and light the soft curve of his profile in gold. He thinks about sharing kisses, touches, coffee, about two toothbrushes and a drawer with some of his clothes in it.

He shoves his feet into his boots, checks the hallway with the life signs detector Rodney leaves out on his desk.

John doesn’t feel guilty, but he’s not sure what he does feel is any better.

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idk but i feel like this could be a good fic song (thx spotify for making my mix something called "obscure mix" lmao)

It's Criminal Minds day but these two have me by the neck so.

-

She's humming Here Comes the Sun, stretching her naked torso up in the morning light. It reminds him of something, of sometime in his past when he was bouncing between The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, and a teenage crisis of identity surrounded by bad choices of women and college life.

Not that he was sure who he was now, here in his seventies (when did that happen?) - Dave knew he probably leaned more towards The Beatles now, a quieter life with a slight mix of psychedelia only his day job could bring.

But her - Prentiss, Emily, whatever name he chose in the moment - made him feel a little more Mick Jagger and less Paul McCartney. She was ageing too, he knew, but it was almost like he couldn't see anyone in front of him but that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed woman in her thirties trying her hardest in a field even he found too hard, sometimes.

She was a standard, a heartbeat in a dark room; her smile brighter than the song she was currently filling the room with, her brain a marvel. They always found a way to fall together, to take chances on each other without pushing the envelope too far - but suddenly he wants to try to pull rather than push for once and see where this took them.

It wasn't about settling down - he'd done that, restlessly, technically four times - it wasn't about forgetting Krystall or marriage or building a home. It was about taking chances - something he knew he was always taking in brief breaths and long thoughts, because he was trained to be soberly extroverted with words and actively introspective with thoughts.

She made him want to tell her his misunderstoods, to let her profile him; to open up and let her hold him without a single word said against winter nights and open fires.

It was a pipe dream, a red tape bureaucratic nightmare, and he runs a finger down the bare skin of her back, eliciting a "hey!" and a smile that could light a room. To light his life, and he reaches for her - fuck the red tape - kissing her with touches of the unknown and a gusto he knows surprises her from her reaction.

"Dave?"

"Move in with me," and it's out before he can consider it a mistake, hanging in the air in such a way he can't play it off as a joke. There's a silence, a waiting, the wild chance she could take that he just took himself almost visible in the room; her face is one of confusion and a dropped mouth, and he finds himself waving his hands and blustering a bunch of words to try and cover up what must have been a momentous fuck up on his end. Then -

"Okay."

"What?"

She shrugged. "The brass will hate it, but I'm pretty sure the BAU boss doesn't care, she told me -" he laughs at this - "and I like your bed better than mine." Emily leans forward, her hair caping around her shoulders, and kisses him meaningfully. "Don't bitch about Sergio."

"An old cat and an old man. You ready for that life?"

Here Comes the Sun plays in the back of his mind as she smiles at him, wholly.

"Sign me up."

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something with SLIGHTLY more substance lyrically than Juice to get you going!!!!!

(shinee's back)

I like my OTPs together and happy, this is a hard one so one for you.

-

"You may never be free of her."

Rossi's blunt reenforcement hangs in Spencer's head like a swinging light bulb, a statement he already knew in his heart - still, he hadn't wanted to hear as directly as Rossi had put it, when Spencer had cornered him in the office after his mother was kidnapped and asked why a Black Widow was stuck in his head like glue.

Cat had a hold on him. A strong one, an impossible one; Spencer finds himself remembering their brief fantasy play over an interrogation room table and he feels ashamed masturbating to the memory. She was everything he was not and one hundred percent everything he was - she sat in his synapses like honeycomb, and he lays back on his bed, spent and confused.

A woman like that could not be reformed, he knows, but he imagines a world where she could be. What would that be like? Nothing like he could have had with Maeve - but he thinks of The Cleavers, white picket fence and happy living with a woman with two hundred kills and a killer smile and for a moment, it seems correct.

He knew he was fucked up, he was a mess of a human that seemed to be getting worse as much as he was getting better since Mexico, and Spencer decides to visit her in jail. To unstick the glue, to outweigh the guilt and the curiosity she piqued in him, to put it to bed in the least sexual sense he could.

"Don't," Rossi mutters to him after he tells him his plan for safety, but Spencer slings his bag over his shoulder and throws a wan smile Rossi's way.

"I need to be free of her," and he walks out of the BAU and wonders what games will be played next, and knew he was ready for the hand about to be dealt by a woman of his dreams who was nothing more than a nightmare.

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TW: Alcoholism

With Atlantis grounded, home feels less like reality and more of a construct for John, who starts to unravel when his feelings for Rodney are forced suddenly to the forefront.

A little bit about this fic before you go in.

Please don't let the "alcoholism" tag scare you off - this is, at its core, a McShep angst-with-a-happy-ending fic, I promise.

But.

This fic was started on the twentieth of November, 2022, during which I was battling with situational alcoholism, much what John experiences in this fic. What started a fic for personal catharsis turned into a John character study I am extremely proud and grateful for - and for the show and fandom, which were integral to the sobriety I live today (note the show and fandom are not the only reasons I am sober; hard work, a loving spouse and friends and a support network from my time in AA were the keys, SGA was a welcome and loving distraction).

AA is a tenuous subject, and I had John join the program as it is the most accessible for readers to understand due to its prevalence in popular culture and - sadly - our everyday lives. There are other ways on the path to sobriety if you do not align with AA (I do not any longer), Google is an amazing tool.

Situational alcoholism and alcoholism as a whole can happen to anyone - I am an example of that - and if you know anyone in this situation, please seek out help in your local area. There are amazing human beings and resources out there for addicts, and sobriety is one minute, one hour, one day, one month, one year at a time.

Thank you for reading this fic. I'm proud I finally finished it, and most of all, I'm proud of mine - and John's - sobriety.

/end personal crap lol

PS: bonus points if you get the Straya reference to a beloved song I slipped in.

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Rossi/Prentiss, Teen and Up.

Grief, hope, the small parts that make Dave who he is and who he was with Emily.

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Well hello, Darling...

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Mr. Freeze and Penguin recounting how Batman defeated them, then antagonizing him the moment they spot him again:

Live Batman Reaction:

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[x]

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Fluffbruary

I have decided to stop with Fluffbruary this year because I'm simply feeling middling, useless, like a big loser, pity party and just...stuck right now. Mental health is a bitch, and I was feeling overwhelmed just even thinking of writing two hundred words. So, out of necessity, I will break from it for now. For the one of you that cares LMAO.

I think I will pick up some of the prompts this month but not all twenty-nine; I'm trying to do best by me, and was playing it safe with pairings and fic and not finding the moxy to push out of my comfort zone due to my current headspace.

C'est la vie, expect a few drabbles however.

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Evan Lorne "Tabula Rasa"

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Jon Cattapan (Australian, b. 1956), Fall of the Valley Kings, 2016. Oil on linen, 175 x 259 cm

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Control poster WIP

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Hi, I’m here for the Stargate Atlantis revolution of 2024.

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