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johnpriceslamb · 5 months

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𝓽 𝓱 𝓻 𝓮 𝓪 𝓭 𝓮 𝓭 𝓮 𝓵 𝓮 𝓰 𝓪 𝓷 𝓬 𝓮

🪡 Before you joined the gang, you used to be a tailor. An event was coming up soon which involved looking fancy, meaning that you had to take his measurements for a new suit.

𝓑𝓔𝓕𝓞𝓡𝓔 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓟𝓡𝓞𝓒𝓔𝓔𝓓 ! ⋆ female ! reader ⋆ hyper-feminine ! reader ⋆ very suggestive content w/ javier ⋆ close proximity ⋆ reader is mentioned to be physically smaller than said chars ⋆ poorly google translates spanish >.> ⋆ not proof read nor edited ⋆ wrd count/1.2k

🪡 arthur morgan ⋆ charles smith ⋆ john marston ⋆ javier escuella (sep) x f! reader

🪡 𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓱𝓾𝓻 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓷,

“stand still!”

You prattle on for the umpteenth time this evening. The loyal enforcer of the gang grunts at the feeling of the cold tape measure wrapped around his bare waist, as he begrudgingly lifts his arms up to avoid messing up the measurements.

“For someone so little,” He groans at the feeling of the flexible measure tightening deliberately around him, “You sure do have a lot of attitude.”

You ignore him, of course. You scribble down the exact number of his measurement down on a piece of paper with a slight hum. The beads of your delicate necklace hang delicately off your neck as you bend over the edge of the table a bit, elbows propping your demure head for support. Arthur couldn’t help but boredly take a peak of what you were writing down, before ultimately sighing as he hopes for this to go a little quicker.

the cigar in his mouth hangs low on his bottom lip, embers flying out from the tip. He takes another slow drag, before letting it out with a gentle sigh- to your direction. You throw the man a puffed-cheek glare, your little nose scrunching up at the smell.

He wouldn’t admit the fact that he felt warm when your fingers would touch his body so subtly when measuring him. Or when your face was so close to his ragged skin, he could really feel your soft breath. Did you always look that pretty when you’re concentrated?

“Hey, Arthur?” That familiar high-pitched voice catches his attention. His hands lazily grab ahold of his low-hung belt, before leaning in.

“Mh?” He lowly grunts, squinting his eyes at the sight of your beady eyes staring up at him. He chews at the end of his cigarette, letting out a huff when the smoke unexpectedly enters inside his body.

You cheekily smile, tinkering your dewy lashes at him to feign innocence. The pencil in your grip is tapped multiple times on the paper, “Wouldn’t pink be a suitable colour choice for your suit?”

“[name].” You’re lucky you were blessed with a cute little face, otherwise he’d have no issue throwing you in the lake nearby.

🪡 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓮𝓼 𝓼𝓶𝓲𝓽𝓱,

“..I’m not familiar with getting measured, I apologise if I make anything difficult.” Charles quietly explains to you in that baritone voice he had. You can’t help that sweet fluttering in your chest at the apology.

“Nonsense!” You wave him off with a toothy smile, “All you’ll have to do is stand still.”

The gentle giant in-front of you slowly nods. He’s not uncomfortable, but he’s kind of on the edge since this was new to him. But since it’s you, he can feel some of the tension in him melt. Usually, he tends to avoid interacting with other people at camp.

But you? Something about you made him draw closer.

“Just a matter of standing still? I think I can manage with that. No trouble with me.” A ghost of a smile slowly etches onto his dark skin at your expression. Almost.. puppy like.

You’re about to measure his full height to ensure the exact proportions of the suit are balanced, only to realise..

Your height (lack thereof.. oops.) comes in as a bit of an issue here. For plot purposes, there aren’t any stools around nor could you go on your tippy toes to measure him fully.

“..Ah.” Charles blinks at the situation. Amusement crosses his face, before gesturing to hand over the end of the measuring tape. He holds it just at his head, patiently watching you peak at the number it falls down to at his ankles.

“Oh my..” You let out a tiny squeak at the number, a shy smile appearing on your sweet face before scribbling it down on a piece of paper nearby.

“Oh my?” He repeats you, “What? Is that.. Is that bad?”

“No, no!” You stammer, meekly brushing your hands over your light pink petticoat, “You’re just.. Y’know. You’re tall.”

“Oh?” He smiles lightly, lovingly looking at your light expression, “I hope that won’t be too much of a problem.”

“It’s not a problem. Quite the opposite, actually.” You quietly mumble the last part. Oh dear, you can feel his gaze, practically warming up your soul, staring at you as if you hung the stars. You feel your cheeks heating up.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing!”

🪡 𝓳𝓸𝓱𝓷 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓷,

never in your life have you wanted to smack a man in the face so badly.

“Woah,” John grins like a newly wet dog from running through a puddle, “Y’here to take my measurements or to feel me up?”

All you did was just wrap the tape around the swell of his hips. Your cheeks puff out, purposefully tightening the tape to get your point behind.

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind either way.” He cheekily smiles, before scoffing at the feeling of the measuring tape deliberately tightening around him.

You swear you can smell the scent of booze. You ignore it, before straightening your back to measure his waist. What you can’t ignore however, was that raspy drawl his voice had which somehow makes you fall for him over and over again.

He may be as dumb as rocks, but his little antics drew you in.

“Hey,” He calls out to catch your attention. You sweetly tilt your head up, and to the side when he looks down at you.

“You gon’ pick the colours of my suit, or do I get to?” He asks curiously.

You ponder, “Well.. Do you want to?”

He thinks about it for a moment, before coming up with an answer. “Nah. Reckon you should. You’re the professional, after all.”

You can’t help but let out a soft giggle, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

When you’ve finished his measurements, you excitedly turn to him to discuss the colour choices which’ll be appropriate for the event coming up soon. Both of your eyes meet and he peers down at you with a loving gaze, it catches your breath a bit before you force yourself to look down at the notes which contained your notes.

“I think your suit should have a low v cut to really show that upper-body of yours. Perhaps a classic navy blue as your primary colour, and— Hey! Are you even listening to me?”

He blinks a few times, a bit sheepish. “I am, I just don’t got a clue on what you’re saying, sweetheart.”

You can feel your hand tighten.

🪡 𝓳𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓮𝓻 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪,

“Ah.. Quite close there, aren’t you?” He has this.. devilishly handsome smile you want to wipe off badly. He peers down at you as if you were nothing but a little dollie while you measured his chest.

“‘M not trying to be!” You whine, going just a bit lower to wrap the measuring tape around his waist now. You hum delightfully as you find the exact number, squinting your eyes to see where the tip of the measurement tape lands on.

While you’re busy with your own little thing, you don’t notice the way Javier admires you from above. He can’t help but comment on it too.

“You know,” He starts of with a slow, lazy smile. Mischievous, even.

“You’re looking very pretty working down there.” He puts a lot of emphasis on the word ‘very’ in his sentence. It’s subtle, but if you were to be paying attention to him you’d get it immediately.

You tilt your head up to innocently thank him with a small smile etched on your pretty little face, before realising what his words were implying. That little..

“Javier!” You scold him with a very high-pitched tone. You feel your dignity fading away as soon as he replies with a mocking laugh to your whining.

“You know I’m just playing around, chica. Don’t take it so seriously.” His hand goes down to cheekily pinch your squishy cheek to get his point through. You frown.

“You’re horrible.” You babble, begrudgingly taking his last measurement. You’re very tempted to give him the cold shoulder, but decided against it.

“You’re too kind.” He sarcastically replies, that same lazy grin on his face from the start as when he sees you scribbling down some notes about his measurements and preferences. You throw a tiny glare at him, “I’m the one creating your suit here, be nice!”

“Mhm? I haven’t gotten to express my gratitude yet have I?” He takes the notepad away from you, setting it aside before easily picking you up by the waist and setting you on the table, your legs dangle off the edge easily as he nears you.

“Permiteme que, querida.”

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intersectionalpraxis · 10 months

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After a spring 2023 research mission, Amnesty is expressing concern about reports of heavy-handed police raids, aggressive and intrusive surveillance tactics, intimidation, arbitrary arrests and detention, racial discrimination, and criminalization of pipeline opponents. The conduct amounts to "a concerted effort by the state to remove Wet'suwet'en land defenders from their ancestral territory to allow pipeline construction to proceed," the non-governmental organization says in its report. The report says significant police and private security presence has imposed heavy surveillance and control, where Wet'suwet'en are regularly followed, filmed and photographed.

RCMP raids enforcing a court-ordered injunction against blockades and activist camps were disproportionate, deploying semi-automatic weapons, helicopters and dogs against unarmed activists, the report says.Amnesty met with officials from Coastal GasLink and the company said it followed all procedures in line with international human rights standards and domestic consultation and permitting processes, Gebresilassie said.In a statement, parent company TC Energy cited Coastal GasLink's agreements with 20 First Nations along the pipeline route and equity option agreements with 17 of them as evidence of its respect for Indigenous rights. It said it has taken "extraordinary measures" to consult with all Indigenous groups, including the hereditary chiefs. Security measures were necessary given "significant acts of violence," the company said.

The RCMP has racist foundations -they were created to enforce laws that terrorized, suppressed, and forced Indigenous people out from their communities, and within -and they still continue to do this. They also, despite denying it so wholeheartedly; are guilty of racial profiling, have systemic racism in its ranks right now, and have biases and/or have ingrained anti-Indigenous racism.

Thus, it confounds me every single time I react their statements (or lack thereof) about being insistent they aren't violating Indigenous people's rights. I am not at all surprised Amnesty found out that they -like their colonizing buddies in the gas company -were committing human rights violations. This pipeline should have NEVER been built to begin with, and I need more people to know just how disgraceful the RCMP truly is. My solidarity is with Wet'suwet'en land defenders.

#feminist #feminism #social justice #indigenous #indigenous land rights #indigenouslandback #canada #current events #indigenous solidarity #rcmp #human rights #human rights violations #amnesty international #climate justice #colonial violence #colonialism #settler colonialism

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contemplatingoutlander · 1 year

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This is such an important article, the above link is a gift 🎁 link so that anyone can read the entire article, even if they don't subscribe to The New York Times. Here are some highlights:

Two prominent conservative law professors have concluded that Donald J. Trump is ineligible to be president under a provision of the Constitution that bars people who have engaged in an insurrection from holding government office. The professors are active members of the Federalist Society, the conservative legal group, and proponents of originalism, the method of interpretation that seeks to determine the Constitution’s original meaning. The professors — William Baude of the University of Chicago and Michael Stokes Paulsen of the University of St. Thomas — studied the question for more than a year and detailed their findings in a long article to be published next year in The University of Pennsylvania Law Review. [...] He summarized the article’s conclusion: “Donald Trump cannot be president — cannot run for president, cannot become president, cannot hold office — unless two-thirds of Congress decides to grant him amnesty for his conduct on Jan. 6.” [...] The provision in question is Section 3 of the 14th Amendment. Adopted after the Civil War, it bars those who had taken an oath “to support the Constitution of the United States” from holding office if they then “shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof.” [...] The article concluded that essentially all of that evidence pointed in the same direction: “toward a broad understanding of what constitutes insurrection and rebellion and a remarkably, almost extraordinarily, broad understanding of what types of conduct constitute engaging in, assisting, or giving aid or comfort to such movements.” It added, “The bottom line is that Donald Trump both ‘engaged in’ ‘insurrection or rebellion’ and gave ‘aid or comfort’ to others engaging in such conduct, within the original meaning of those terms as employed in Section 3 of the 14th Amendment.” [...] The provision’s language is automatic, the article said, establishing a qualification for holding office no different in principle from the Constitution’s requirement that only people who are at least 35 years old are eligible to be president. “Section 3’s disqualification rule may and must be followed — applied, honored, obeyed, enforced, carried out — by anyone whose job it is to figure out whether someone is legally qualified to office,” the authors wrote. That includes election administrators, the article said. Professor Calabresi said those administrators must act. “Trump is ineligible to be on the ballot, and each of the 50 state secretaries of state has an obligation to print ballots without his name on them,” he said, adding that they may be sued for refusing to do so. [color/emphasis added]

Let's hope that election administrators across the US read this article and begin to set in motion the mechanism to prevent Donald Trump from appearing on ballots across the U.S., in case he does get the GOP nomination.

#trump #14th amendment section 3 #trump cannot run for public office again #william baude #michael stokes paulsen #the new york times #gift article

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earthstellar · 2 years

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I finally realised why this panel sticks out to me.

For context: Everyone just arrived in the nightmare Functionist Universe, they’ve ended up somewhere they aren’t supposed to be, and the little drone is basically a cop who wants to search everyone.

And this scene sticks out to me, this panel in particular, because Ratchet is the only one who challenges the cop-drone.

Which is pretty significant, actually.

How to Deal With Space Cops: Fucking Don’t! Unless You Can Get Away With It.

Rodimus, Drift, Megatron, and Terminus all come from backgrounds where they were all harassed by authority figures on at least a fairly regular basis; They’re far more familiar with being pushed around by cops than Ratchet would be.

Granted, Ratchet worked in the Dead End and undoubtedly got some degree of shit for it, but he still had the social class/caste status to dodge the more severe questioning, and had friends who were active duty cops himself. He got bothered by some authority figures, but for the most part, he could talk back without fear of suffering any of the more severe repercussions that most of the others here would be facing if they did anything similar.

Authorities Aren’t That Scared of Authorities

Chromedome, Rewind, Roller, and Minimus have all worked for or alongside bodies of authority themselves, and therefore likely aren’t as immediately resistant; They want to get through this without incident if they can, and in their minds, that means hearing out the cop-bot before they do anything. Their reactions are on hold. They’re listening, not talking-- Because most of them have been the person questioning others before.

Gutter Mechs Know The Unspoken Reality of Things

But check out the looks on Rodimus and Terminus’ faces. They’re just like, alright, this shit again. They’re not letting their faces show anything that a cop-drone might interpret as resistance or aggression, or they know they’re fucked.

Drift and Megatron actively look put off, because they’re taking more of a defensive approach. They’ve both been treated severely and with suspicion by authority figures before, especially representatives of law enforcement, so they’re not saying anything--But their expressions show that they’re already calling bullshit on whatever this little cop-drone wants with them. “What does this thing want with us, now?” And rightfully, they don’t say shit. They know better.

It’s a brilliant little bit of visual storytelling. Their reactions--or lack thereof--in their faces is a nice touch. The group of bots present consists of a mix of people with very different experiences of dealing with (or working with) oppressive authorities in their pasts, and Ratchet is the only bot here who wasn’t either a gutter mech or low class/caste, and also wasn’t an authority figure himself (his authority is entirely within the role of CMO, which is still a position of authority within a medical context, but not beyond that).

Ratchet Had a Cop Friend, So Now His Ingrained Perspective on Authority is Somewhat Fucked

So of course, Ratchet, who has been relatively protected from the worst outcomes of dealing with cops in the past, is the only one to speak up here and risk challenging the cop-drone with a question-- Because why wouldn’t he push back? He’s never suffered at the hands of cops and was never a cop himself. He had cop friends. Surely the cop-drone has to provide a reason for a stop and search? And surely he knows that isn’t necessarily the case in reality, but he still asks, like he’s surprised or caught off guard to at least some degree. (Oh, Ratchet. I like to think that Drift talked to him about this shit afterwards...)

Ratchet never worked for or alongside a police department before. He doesn’t grasp how fucked he is, if that little cop-drone decides he’s a non-person on a whim. He might understand that there’s risk in this interaction on an intellectual level, but on a personal risk level, he’s never really been at that much risk of being trashed by the cops.

Even when working in the Dead End, his cop friend(s) clearly knew about it and never arrested him for it. Shit, we know at least one of his cop friends actively helped him out by dropping off potential patients at his clinic.

So everyone else present has some level of experience, good or bad, with dealing with actual cop bullshit. But the majority of Ratchet’s personal experience with cops has been entirely through the lens of being a respected mid or high class/caste bot with a profession that benefits pretty much everyone, including the cops. He’s largely been “safe”, even when doing unsafe/illegal shit like running his Dead End clinic.

So of course, his immediate reaction to being stopped and searched is essentially total bewilderment.

Privilege: Legacy of Cybertron’s Past

It’s entirely possible that Ratchet, even when working in the Dead End, has never really been all that bothered by cops/authorities before, despite the risks involved in running his clinic there.

This might be the first time that he’s being stopped and searched like this. He’s never really been profiled or viewed by authorities in this way before, at least not so directly. He’s now dealing with a cop-drone that is treating him the way they treat most people, not the way they treat Ratchet the Medic and Trusted Friend of a Police Captain Equivalent, because the authorities in this universe are ones that he has no personal connection or familiarity with.

His profile isn’t automatically popping up with all his credentials next to his name. He’s just some bot, with a bunch of other bots, and he’s now suspect. And that seems to have caught him off guard, a little bit.

Nobody else is saying shit, because they understand this situation more personally. They’ve either been treated like shit by cops before, or they’ve BEEN cops before.

But Ratchet is the odd one out, and he’s the only one with the particular social status of being a medical doctor, and so he pushes back, because what, exactly, did this little cop-drone say to him? And he feels secure enough to actually ask the drone for clarification. The authority figure bots know to stay quiet and let the cop-drone lead, and the gutter mechs/low class bots know that whatever they say, they’re about to get arrested anyway.

Nobody but Ratchet is surprised, and it really feels like Ratchet is showing some of his pre-war social privilege here, totally by accident. It’s not his fault, it’s just how he experienced pre-war life compared to the others. Cybertron was a shitty place, and Ratchet was only aware of how shitty it was because of his personal drive to engage with those of lower classes/castes in order to try to assist them; If he hadn’t actively desired to open his own clinic in the Dead End, he would have stayed in Iacon, surrounded by other mid or high class bots. The same people he had spent most of his time interacting with, up until that point.

We see how he handles Drift in the flashback to when they had first met; His advice comes from good intentions and genuine desire to help Drift, but the advice is ultimately hollow and impossible for Drift to commit to. Ratchet is shown as not really grasping how dire things are, that it’s not possible for Drift or other bots like him to simply walk into a job centre and pick up a paying gig. It took some time for Ratchet to understand this, because it wasn’t his lived experience; As a medic top of his class, he’s always been in high demand. But that isn’t the reality for Drift.

It’s a realistic approach to exploring class/caste differences, and I really appreciate it.

This panel is a genius quick and subtle way to emphasise the class/caste differences between all of the characters here, and highlight how vastly differently these bots would all be treated-- Both in their actual past, and in this alternate Functionist universe.

Anyway it’s 3 AM so I’m going to bed now, just wanted to write this out before I forgot about it LMAO <3

I can’t recall the exact issue this panel is from at the moment, but when I remember or get the time to look it up again, I’ll edit this to let y’all know! :)

#long post #transformers lore #idw transformers #idw 1 #idw roller #idw minimus #idw chromedome #idw rewind #idw megatron #idw terminus #idw ratchet #idw drift #idw rodimus #maccadam #maccadams #mtmte #lost light

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dwreader · 8 months

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Actual incidents in the book that are in dispute btwn Louis and Lestat since you fuckers can't seem to read:

-Lestat wanted Louis for his plantation vs. he is in fact already rich: not really relevant to the show since show Lestat is flaunting the fact that he's extremely wealthy from the start. Louis is not under any illusion that this guy is after his wealth, HE moves into Lestat's house in fact and accepts Lestat's money/gifts/etc. Lestat is a captial p PROVIDER. He said do NOT take that away from me and it's one thing he's 100% right about.

-A cold loveless relationship depicted in IWTV vs. a more loving though still troubled "marriage" according to TVL: again, more or less moot for the show since season 1 depicts Lestat's version of their relationship more so than Louis's. They are clearly in a romantic relationship, had some good times (that were maybe glossed over quickly by Louis but are still clearly depicted through Claudia's diaries) and yet even in TVL, Lestat agrees that Louis's account was an accurate representation of the atomsphere of their decades together and that he deserved all the punishment he got.

-Lestat torturing + killing people for fun according to Louis vs. Lestat's claim that he only killed people who were "bad" and deserved it: kind of already played out on the show when Louis suggests the idea in 1x03, but ultimately it doesn't significantly alter our perception of Lestat cause does anyone actually care that prostitutes stole money from their clients and think that's a valid reason to torture and kill them? Hope not! It's just a good insight into Lestat's mind and how he justifies killing.

-The events after Lestat's murder and Paris: these parts we have to take from Lestat's POV simply because Louis is unaware of things happening when he's not present. Obviously will be a major part of Season 2.

-The scene at the end of IWTV happening or not: the most direct contradiction between the two accounts but this has not happened yet on the show so it has no bearing on anything in season 1.

As you can see, most of these contradictions involve Louis's omissions in IWTV rather than "made up" events. Save for the final scene in NOLA that doesn't actually mean anything to season 1, absolutely nothing about Louis's depiction of events in IWTV is really disputed by Lestat. Louis's turning, Claudia's turning, the "atomsphere" under which they lived leading up to Lestat's murder and Lestat's murder itself are all indisputable. Lestat is revealing more of his motivations and giving us further vampire context/knowledge that Louis didn't have (because Lestat kept it from him btw and he forgives Louis his errors because he knew it was out of enforced ignorance), but that only slightly changes our perception of his actions. It does not throw them into the trash.

It's also very clear that Season 1 is already an amalgamation of the two versions. If they were taking IWTV literally, the show wouldn't even be a romance and it clearly is. It uses Claudia's diaries (a device revealed only much later in the books) to fill in some scenes that Louis may not have been present for like the kidanpping on the train but the two perspectives make the story kind of bulletproof? The reliability or lack thereof of Louis as a narrator is made possible by Claudia's diary being there as a secondary source and when he's at his most unreliable, it's the diary that provides the contradictions. WE see something's off when the diary's pages are excised. BUT you really don't have any basis in the books for a major lifechanging event like episode 5 to be retconned, let alone an event with two people as sources and involved a prolonged recovery period that's also described in painstaking detail by said two people. Like this woman was a lazy writer most of the time but even SHE wouldn't do that cause its like a basic writing tenant not to feed your reader horseshit??

#iwtv #interview with the vampire #lestat being more self-aware than his fans.. wild #anyways fuck off now

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thisisnotthenerd · 6 months

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Notes on the Bylaws of the Aguefort Adventuring Academy

We've had some revelations in this episode, so I thought it might be a good time to go back to my Musings on the Greater Solisian School District.

Before this season, we had learned a few things about the Aguefort Adventuring Academy's Bylaws from Fantasy High, Fantasy High: Sophomore Year and the Seven that are ambiguously canon:

Adventuring Parties are established on the first day of freshman year so that the party can graduate together and begin working as an adventuring party. The party is expected to participate in activities together such that they might go forth and be violent lunatics enforcing their will upon the world.

There are a variety of reasons one might leave an adventuring party--the one that applied to the members of the Seven was severe injury, incapacitation, or capture to the point of losing more than a semester of school. By technicality, the Bad Kids circumvent this by virtue of going to jail as a group for ~2 months towards the end of their freshman year--not enough to cause them to repeat the semester or break the party.

The Crowning of a Prom King & Queen was prohibited due to the prophesized return of Kalvaxus, Emperor of the Red Waste, given that Kalvaxus was in fact working as the Vice Principal in the form of a dragonborn named Goldenhoard.

Arthur Aguefort keeps numerous magical artifacts in his office and in various locations around the school, this includes objects like Watches and Wards, an abjurative ward that can only be affected by Arthur Aguefort and the Elven Oracle [Adaine Abernant], the Crown of the Nightmare King, and the Bylaws of the Greater Solisian School District.

Presumably, beginning in sophomore year, an adventuring party attending the Aguefort Adventuring Academy must complete a quest that accounts for 60% of their grade for that year. It is unclear whether this rule is universal or whether it applies to specific parties who have direct involvement in larger quests, i.e. the Bad Kids tracking down the Crown of the Nightmare King, the Seven Maidens going to the Red Waste to eliminate the remainder of the Cult of Kalvaxus. This ties into a later application of the bylaws regarding the Last Stand Exam.

Parties can have members in different grades, however, graduation and further work can cause the disbandment of the party.

To acquire a GED diploma from the Solisian School District, an adventurer/adventuring party must get the signature of the Superintendent of Schools of the Solisian School District and complete a class A, B, or C quest [reference my previous meta for more discussion of this]

Now, at the halfway mark of Junior Year, we have some more bylaws and school rules to consider.

Administrative

In the absence of the Principal of the Aguefort Adventuring Academy [Arthur Aguefort] the Vice Principal [Gilear Faeth] is the Acting Principal of the school and carries out all administrative decisions thereof.

In the absence of both the Principal [Arthur Aguefort] and the Vice Principal [Gilear Faeth], administration of the School falls to the Principal's appointed emergency staff: Principal [Interim Emergency Backup Principal Grix] and Vice Principal [Jace Stardiamond]

The bylaws of the Aguefort Adventuring Academy in particular are based on a combination of written and oral proclamations from Arthur Aguefort; thus some bylaws may be contradictory in their application, given the man's proclivity for bits and exaggerated speech.

The election of a student body president typically occurs around the end of a given school year, with students in their junior year competing to be president in their senior year. There is no indicated option for a vice presidential position, though there are other administrative positions such as treasurer.

Thus, when all options for administrative staff have been exhausted e.g. all appointed candidates have passed or are absent, the role of principal falls to the student body president, who presides over the Academy as a democratically-run educational institution.

Academic

Generally, students are expected to progress in the class in which they first joined the Adventuring Academy. While leveling can differ based on extracurricular achievement as well as background, the existing hypothesis places students in tier 2-3 starting in Junior Year*. Currently the Bad Kids are exceeding the hypothesized levels, but given their extracurricular achievements in adventuring, this is to be expected.

To Multi-class and effectively take both classes in which the student has interest, they are able to utilize the MCAT, upon given the consent of the class instructors for both courses. Reference previous meta for more information on the MCAT.

Measures of success in each class varies significantly; a wizard is not graded on the same curve as a sorcerer. One of the more extreme examples of this is the conditional pass of the rogue class; upon finding the rogue teacher, the student passes the year and no longer has to attend class.

Pass-Fail and Conditional Examinations

If a member of an adventuring party leaves for any given reason: irreconcilable differences, severe injury/incapacitation, capture or other forms of imprisonment, death, etc., the entire party is shifted to pass-fail for the entire year, and is thus prohibited from extracurricular activities.

If the faculty member/instructor of a particular class passes away during the school year, the entire class is shifted into pass-fail. This can have further effects on the adventuring parties of those students, since they are shifted into pass-fail along with their allies in the given class. The most recent example of this is the death of Yolanda Badgood and the shift of the Cleric class to pass-fail.

If a student, for whatever reason, has had difficulty throughout the year with academic success, especially due to systemic barriers, they may be eligible for a exam called the Last Stand, which is taken later in the year, and replaces the student's transcript. This exam can be taken as a party, or individually, depending on the students' needs.

*Tier 1 = Levels 1-5, Tier 2 = Levels 6-10, Tier 3 = Levels 11-15, Tier 4 = Levels 16-20

#dimension 20 #dimension 20 spoilers #fantasy high junior year #fhjy #fhjy spoilers #dimension 20 meta #musings on the solisian school district #dimension 20 speculation

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trash-heron · 7 months

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Red Dragons; Or, the problems of adaptation and the early serial killer procedural

Red Dragon (1981) has the distinction of being the most frequently adapted Thomas Harris novel in the Hannibal Lecter "quartet." Despite the universal recognition of Jonathan Demme's Silence of the Lambs (1991), with iconic performances from Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins, and the more recent cult status of the series Hannibal (2013), which draws from all four books, it's Red Dragon, in some ways the most "obscure" Thomas Harris novel, that has lived three, arguably four, different lives onscreen over three decades.

Manhunter, visually, is an 80s noir feast set to atmospheric synths, but works within the newly established slasher genre as it attempts to make its own mark. The 1980s were truly the decade of the slasher flick, or the first wave thereof, and Red Dragon had to contend with expectations set up by the likes of Freddy Krueger and Michael Myers. Although this isn't a write-up about the history of slasher films, the basic premise I am going with is that the early slasher serial killer was portrayed as monstrous and, compared to our favorite killers today, one-dimensional antagonists. When I think about the origins of the slasher genre, I always think about the way the ineffectual psychologist in Halloween (1978) describes his former patient's "devil's eyes," behind which lived something "purely, simply evil." Dr. Loomis is dogged in his determination to impress upon the local authorities that Michael Myers is a force of nature who is unreachable by psychology, the study of the human mind. Furthermore, the slasher flick was unconcerned with the elements of the procedural: like in other horror subgenres, law enforcement are disposable foils that demonstrate the danger of the "monster" and the vulnerability of his targets and/or come in at the end to mark the conclusion of the spectacle (until the sequel, that is).In many ways this just seems like a quirk of history. I've been operating under the assumption that when Red Dragon came out in 1981, Thomas Harris introduced a type of story to a media landscape that had scant precedent for the serial killer mystery or procedural, distinct from the related nascent slasher horror subgenre, unlike today when a plethora of "murder shows" benefit from the success of this formula. Hannibal "the Cannibal" Lecter, the ur-murderer of the Thomas Harris fictional universe, became a cultural archetype that looms over modern crime television and film as he does over the investigations of beleaguered law enforcement officials in both Red Dragon (1981) and Silence of the Lambs (1988). When Michael Mann brought this first "Hannibal" novel to the screen in 1986, he too was breaking ground, to mixed reactions. Manhunter (1986), which lamentably lost its "Red Dragon" title due to studio publicity decisions, is both ahead of and a product of its time.

Manhunter, and Red Dragon generally, is not a slasher flick. In fact, beyond the deliberately provocative reporter Freddy Lounds and a few men with barely any screen time who are killed off in brief fight scenes, the Great Red Dragon doesn't kill anyone at all. At the very least, no one is murdered in his signature serial killer style. The ritualistic murders occur before the film (and novel) begins, and the narrative revolves around understanding the mind of the serial killer and preventing him from killing again. At the same time, the conventions of the slasher film seem to limit the directions the film can go. Both Francis Dolarhyde and Hannibal Lecter (or "Lecktor") in the film have fairly opaque inner lives and limited screen time, while Thomas Harris notably does delve into the mindset and motivations of the "psychopath," positioning the killer as a subject of psychology, rather than an exception to it.

Furthermore, Manhunter's revised ending reframes one of two major female characters as a recognizable "final girl," and relegates the other to only existing in Will Graham's "happy ending," out of reach for the killer. This is the opposite outcome of the actual ending in the novel, and always seemed a bit tacked on to me, and not for artistic reasons. Will Graham can't actually end up broken and haunted because there has to be a clear demarcation between the serial killer "monster" and the "real" people who survive him. Blurring that distinction is, arguably, the "point" of Red Dragon. Michael Mann, perhaps, couldn't adapt the novel's conclusion "faithfully" because the conventions of this kind of psychological thriller weren't established, and did the best he could, introducing new building blocks for the "serial killer" archetype but not successfully pitching them to the wider public. Manhunter was not a financial or critical success upon its release, and refining the Thomas Harris "blueprint" was left to Jonathan Demme's Silence of the Lambs (1991), which made the strategic and hugely significant choice of allowing Hannibal Lecter to become a breakout character.

The next adaptation of the novel Red Dragon has seemed to me, frankly, like a bit of a cash grab. The 2002 Brett Ratner film, starring Edward Norton and Anthony Hopkins, capitalized off of the success of Silence of the Lambs and the release of a new Thomas Harris Hannibal Lecter novel. This film was for those who missed Manhunter in the 1980s, which many did, and those who considered a prominent Hannibal Lecter played by Anthony Hopkins essential to an adaptation, which many also did. The most recent adaptation of Red Dragon is the cult hit drama Hannibal (2013), which focuses on the main characters of the novel, Hannibal Lecter and FBI profiler special agent Will Graham, and can arguably be seen as two different adaptations of the novel. Both of these more recent adaptations are more coherent and recognizable as exemplars and/or subversions of the serial killer procedural, playing off of the tropes introduced to the genre by the source material itself, like a particularly grizzly and morbid ouroboros.

So, we have many points of data to consider if we wanted to determine what makes a good adaptation of the novel Red Dragon.

Ironically, for a story that laid important groundwork for a whole subgenre of film and TV, Red Dragon is hard to adapt and definitely hard to update. (So is Silence of the Lambs for that matter, but that is a whole other kettle of fish.) To my mind, the main two difficulties stem from both a strength and a "weakness" of the original novel.

A strength: Harris takes advantage of contemporary technology to create a clever mystery at the center of the novel. The problem: this particular bit of technology was only truly at home in its first 1986 adaptation, Manhunter. Both Red Dragon (2002) and Hannibal (2013) had to make compromises to adapt the central plot device. Red Dragon (2002) avoids the issue by simply setting the film in the 1980s, relying on the audience's knowledge of VHS technology of that time, which, since it was 2002, was more or less assured for an R-rated movie. Hannibal (2013) sidesteps the issue more or less entirely by making the "mystery-solving" pieces functionally irrelevant. (At one point, Hannibal Lecter makes a dismissive reference to the killer using "social media" the way the original story used VHS and the matter never comes up again.) To date, this central plot twist has never been successfully adapted for contemporary audiences in the 2010s - or 2020s for that matter. The 2010s show itself, in its choices, implicitly makes the argument that the technical "mystery" elements of novel weren't really all that important to its overall message. Depending on your point of view, this argument is successful. However, this argument also depends on the irony that the creators of the show can dispense with the set pieces of the serial killer procedural and take artistic license because the source material introduced those expectations into the genre to begin with. Tradeoffs all around.

Another challenge to adaptation is sometimes considered a "weakness" of the book: after the real "plot" of the novel vis a vis Will Graham's hunt for the "Tooth Fairy" begins, Harris makes the bold choice of adding the point of view of the serial killer du jour himself, diving into the eponymous Red Dragon's motivations and experience, which almost takes place in a parallel universe apart from that of Will Graham, Lecter, and the BSU/BAU until both narrative threads collide in the climax. The problem: this choice "derails" the suspense of the whodunit and adds character development for a relative stranger to the reader. Every adaptation of Red Dragon changes the structure of the plot so that the parallel storyline of Francis Dolarhyde, the Red Dragon, is pared down and interspersed with the main narrative (usually) earlier on. Every adaptation has decided that Thomas Harris's precise plot structure isn't actually essential. This judgment call is also ironic: Thomas Harris apparently "flubs" the standard conventions of the serial killer procedural that did not yet exist because he was in the middle of inventing them.

But, we may ask, isn't this the nature of adaptation? The answer: of course it is. Adjusting plot mechanics based on the period of the adaptation and restructuring the pacing for film/television are some of the most basic changes one can make when adapting a book for the screen. However, that does open up interesting questions of theme and intent. What is essential to the Red Dragon story? What is it, in the end, all about?

Leaving aside all caveats about the subjective nature of interpretation or the possibility of a work being "definitively" about anything, I believe there are two broad interpretations of the novel and all existing adaptations favor one or the other.

Red Dragon is a novel about how much monster there is in a, well, man and vice versa: the fate of the soul is at stake. This is a clear theme of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter relationships in every iteration: to catch a particularly "monstrous" killer requires understanding said killer, but if you understand them too well, what does that say about you? And, more importantly, where does that leave you? (In the original Will Graham's case, nowhere good, with a broken marriage and an existential crisis, or, when we catch up with him in the sequel, in the Florida Keys, now a miserable drunk. For the modern Will Graham of the 2010s series, TBD.) Empathy itself instills horror, which is a fairly complex idea to explore in the late 1970s when Thomas Harris was writing the novel. (In fact, I will always find it remarkable that Thomas Harris had the foresight to research the methods of criminal profilers at the FBI at the beginning of the discipline and the BSU itself, getting in on "the ground floor" for better or worse for horror fiction and actual forensic psychology.) It's also very cross-media, as identification with violence on screen (and the "male gaze" itself) were emerging as key features and problems of film available to critique. The focus on "video" and boundaries between self and other in the novel seem very prescient.

Alternatively: Red Dragon is a novel about the limits of personal transformation. Thomas Harris seems preoccupied with the idea of ritual murder as an alchemical process motivated by the desire to become something "transcendent." (While one can see the mystical whimsy in a man thinking he's becoming a dragon, a figment of William Blake's imagination, "Buffalo Bill's" or Jame Gumb's desire to transform "into a woman" in a somehow "not-trans" way in Silence of the Lambs falls egregiously short and reflects more on a failure of imagination on the part of Thomas Harris and his readership than anything else.) I find the metaphysical aims of these serial killers interesting for two reasons. First, sexual sadism is de-emphasized as a motive, which is not typical of the serial killer archetype of the time: the most prominent serial killers in fiction (such as in early slasher films) kill because of some perverse urge, as an extension of the "evil" men they are or were made to be. Their murders aren't about anything. Both Francis Dolarhyde and Jame Gumb , in contrast, think they are setting out to accomplish something and that the brutality of their actions is beside the point. This is what constitutes their insanity, as this is clearly not true.

The actual nature of their murders and the ugly psychoanalytical implications of their compulsions are the ultimate limitation on their aspirations to "becoming." No matter what they think is going on their heads, they direct their violence toward women, and it is women who ultimately put an end to their reigns of terror. (Molly Graham and Reba McClane in Red Dragon and Clarice Starling, among others, in Silence of the Lambs.) The female characters serve as a "reality check" for the dreamy, bloody men of the books, which is earnestly ham-fisted on the part of Thomas Harris but also significant for the genre. Arguably none of the women in the first two Hannibal novels play the role of "final girl," that is, an "innocent" woman who acts as audience surrogate and restores socially acceptable norms at the end of the film. (The focus on such a "good girl's" experience means you can take a comfortable distance from the murderer and put yourself in the position of "victim." You are also anticipating that she will be spared in some way, which restores a sort of moral balance to the universe: the other victims in some way "had it coming.") In Red Dragon, the active female characters are not sorted into the "virgin/whore" dichotomy: in fact, even the actual sex worker character (Freddy's girlfriend) remains unscathed, and her feelings are more relevant to the other characters than her occupation, humanizing Freddy postmortem. The victims and potential victims, almost all of them mothers, clearly did nothing "wrong" and their sexual objectification is placed squarely on the shoulders of the men watching them. The women left standing at the end of the novels don't just "escape" the killers: they're the ones who put the killers down despite the male characters' inadequacies, and they, unlike a Jason or a Michael Myers, stay down.

Of course, I think both broad themes are very present and active in Red Dragon, and, probably unsurprisingly, Hannibal Lecter is something of a cipher for both threads. If our main concern is coming to terms with our empathy and capacity for violence (or "men's," I suppose), Hannibal Lecter nimbly eludes being a subject of empathy, instead setting himself up as the observer and interpreter of other killers. His insight into other people is certifiably superior: he's literally a renowned psychiatrist. The possibility of a Hannibal Lecter raises the stakes enormously for our own navel-gazing, as we are not just wondering, along with Will Graham, whether the wicked deeds of others might appeal to us, but are actually facing up to the reality that the killer has been beside us as a peer all along, not the subject of scrutiny. If our main concern is the limitations of personal transformation, Hannibal Lecter is a very sharp foil for our doomed killers because while he can easily identify the signs of a transmutation complex, it isn't especially relevant to him personally. Hannibal Lecter doesn't kill and eat people because he's turning into anything. As he famously tells Clarice Starling as she attempts to interview him, "Nothing happened to me. I happened." He already is what he is, rooted in sensual reality - like the women in the books - and he is merely indulging his appetites and aesthetics. This, I think, is why he prevails and why he can make himself at home on the side of our woebegone detective protagonists when he feels like it. Hannibal Lecter is never doomed: he can always happen to you.

Manhunter favors the first tendency, and is not particularly interested in Francis Dolarhyde's "Becoming" as the Great Red Dragon. This allows for a very intense and nuanced meditation on identification and the role of empathy that artistic representations of violence invoke. The focus on "seeing" gains a whole other dimension in the context of film, as there are many interesting things going on with perspective and scene composition. 2002's Red Dragon favors the second tendency, if I had to make the judgment call. Although the film is probably the most "faithful" adaptation of the events of the novel, I do think you can come away from the film not remembering that Will Graham has any particular problem/gift of heightened empathy or that losing himself by identifying with Hannibal Lecter or Francis Dolarhyde was ever a serious possibility. (Even at the climax, when Graham to a "violent" place he ends up taking on the persona of Dolarhyde's abuser, not Dolarhyde himself, which is entirely an invention of the film.) What the film does emphasize is the quixotic journey of Francis Dolarhyde, giving quite a lot of room to his backstory as well as his inner conflict between his deadly, "spiritual" inclinations and his romance with Reba. Also, and most importantly, this is the one adaptation of Red Dragon that actually allows Molly Graham to kill Francis Dolarhyde when he tries to make the Graham family another ritual sacrifice. There's an intentional symmetry in the novel between the murders and Dolarhyde's ultimate demise at the hand of the desirable "mother," which really underlines the juxtaposition between the story Dolarhyde is telling himself and what he's actually been doing.

Perhaps this is me tying a bow on it all by claiming that Bryan Fuller's Hannibal (2013) manages to incorporate both major themes, but I do think it's very interesting to at least think of the series as two different adaptations of Red Dragon. The first adaptation is obvious: the second half of season 3 "does" Red Dragon, and honestly gives fantastic depth to Francis Dolarhyde's inner world and his quest for transformation through death. However, I also think you can view the entire series as a whole as an adaptation of Red Dragon. I say this because the main bulk of the existing seasons of Hannibal cover the period of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter's relationship prior to Lecter's capture, which is only depicted (in exposition) in the novel. Aside from the incorporation of various plot points and characters from the novels Hannibal (1999) and Hannibal Rising (2006) in season 2 and season 3, one could place the (first) three seasons of Hannibal entirely in the world of Red Dragon. I think this is especially suggested in the first episode, which opens with Will Graham doing a visionary walk-through of a family annihilation that pretty much exactly hearkens back to his first major scene in the novels and the films: later in the episode, Graham's inner monologue about imagination and taste - the first substantive insight we get into the character - is rewritten as dialogue between Graham, Jack Crawford, and Hannibal Lecter. So, even while the plot of the series begins at a different point in time, stylistically, we're back at the beginning of Red Dragon anyway. This interpretation allows for a lot more flexibility if we're looking for major themes coming from the source material. Identification and empathic intimacy are the animating features of the central Will-Hannibal dyad: at the same time, the psychic landscapes Will Graham (and to a lesser extent characters like Alana Bloom or Bedelia du Maurier) explore alongside Hannibal Lecter are tied up in questions of transformation and limitation.

In the series, Lecter not only pinpoints the urges to "become" in other killers but also becomes deeply invested in Will Graham's capacity for metamorphosis as an expression of identification and intimacy. If, as I've suggested previously, Hannibal Lecter exists as a grounded corrective to the soulful longings of murderers who wish to change through the deaths of others, this seems like a contradiction on its face. However, if we take this interpretation of Hannibal Lecter in the novels into our viewing of the series, the tension between Hannibal and Will sharpens into a very intimate exchange of knowing and refusing to know one another. Hannibal Lecter seems to have no interest in Will Graham becoming something or someone else via the alembic of murder. When he tempts Will, he is not (ultimately) encouraging the profiler to look away from the world to some impossible dream that would mark him for death like the other murderers they hunt together. Hannibal Lecter is very interested in Will Graham becoming a killer, that is, embracing all of who he already is with clarity and insight, which is a transformation rooted in psychology and is also entirely possible. Will then resists self-knowledge, or bringing his self-knowledge into the material world. Hannibal resists his own identification with another human being, and realizes (a bit too late) that there may be a way to bring Will down to Earth (and closer to him) without destroying him, as he inevitably does - gleefully - to his other proteges and projects.

No adaptations of Red Dragon have embraced the novel's ending. In the end of the original novel, Will Graham is left in the hospital, resigned to the fact that he's lost his wife and stepson, and drifts into a drug-induced dream state, where he doesn't dream of "Molly leaving" or Dolarhyde, but rather visits a memory from the time shortly after he'd killed Garret Jacob Hobbs. He remembers visiting Shiloh, the site of a particularly bloody battle in the American Civil War, and has an epiphany. At the time, he'd considered the battlefield "haunted," but now realizes that it is, in fact, "indifferent." In the natural world, there is no mercy, "we make mercy": "There is no murder. We make murder, and it matters only to us." Graham accepts that he has the capacity to "make murder; perhaps mercy too." Murder, however, is what he understands. He wonders if "vicious urges" in humanity and the "dark instinctive knowledge" of those urges could act as a vaccine against the "virus" of violence, allowing for the possibility of civilization that has "overgrown the basic reptile brain." He doesn't settle on an answer, but does believe he was wrong about Shiloh. "Shiloh isn't haunted - men are haunted. Shiloh doesn't care."

Granted, this would be hard portray on screen. A filmmaker would have to resort to voice over, perhaps, or merely suggest where Thomas Harris declares. Another option would have Will's epiphany take the form a letter to Hannibal Lecter, an answer to a message Graham never receives. In this letter, which Jack Crawford destroyed, Lecter says we live in a "primitive time," "neither savage nor wise. Half measures are the curse of it. Any rational society would either kill me or give me my books." He wishes Graham a "speedy convalescence," and hopes "he will not be too ugly" after recovering from the wounds the Great Red Dragon gave him. "I think of you often," he writes, and then writes his name. Lecter believes "half measures" are the true poison: Graham, if he knew his dream was a reply to his counterpart, would perhaps take the position that "half measures" are the antidote, a strategic ambivalence that, perhaps, makes mercy as possible as murder. Such a reply, however, would lack conviction. It would, however, betray that in the end this is a conversation vulnerable to distance and time and that there is no appeal to a higher power or state of enlightenment, just to one another. Perhaps the last scene of "The Wrath of the Lamb," the final episode of season 3 of Hannibal, is the closest we'll come to seeing a cinematic portrayal of this conclusion. The profiler taking the serial killer into his arms, where they hold each other like lovers, and then throwing both of them off a cliff and into the sea. Not a half measure at all.

In the meantime, all of these versions of Red Dragon are worth a look.

#nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #manhunter 1986 #red dragon #thomas harris #silence of the lambs #slashers #francis dolarhyde #murder husbands #essay #fadserver #hannibal meta

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fortheloveofwonderland · 2 years

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But it’s Better if You Do | SR x Fem! Reader

Summary - the Blue Siren strip club is the last place Spencer Reid wants to spend his birthday. And the absolute last thing he needs is to fall for you, the magnetic exotic dancer who Morgan and Luke pay to give him a birthday dance.

A/N - as a rule, I am not technically writing Spencer x Reader right now but this is for @imagining-in-the-margins damsel in distress challenge although it’s a very vague fit. Kind of anti damsel in distress? I don’t know, let’s just roll with it. Candy Shop by 50 Cent is the song used in Magic Mike XXL when Adam Rodriguez does his lil sexy dance so the song choice was an homage to that. Loosely based around the Panic at the Disco song “But it’s Better if You Do.”

Pairing - Spencer Reid x Exotic Dancer Fem! Reader

Category - fluff I suppose? Maybe mild angst. Happy ending.

CW - exotic dancer reader, Morgan and Luke are bad wingmen, hints at lesbian Emily, strip clubs, snarky Spencer, drinking, swearing, Spencer and his inappropriate erection, brief mentions of masturbation, making out.

WC - 8.2k

Oh, isn't this exactly where you'd like me?

I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know.

Praying for love and a lap dance,

And paying in naivety.

The last place Spencer Reid ever expected to find himself on his fortieth birthday was at the Blue Siren Club just off of Dupont Circle. For starters, Spencer wasn’t a big drinker so going to a bar didn’t appeal to him on any other given night, let alone his birthday, but there was much more to the Blue Siren than just being your run of the mill club.

The Blue Siren was well known as being one of the most reputable strip clubs in the district. According to the extensive research Spencer had done when he found out he was to be coming here, it was one of the more exclusive clubs, and if Morgan was to be believed it was popular among law enforcement and other government officials due to its clandestine nature.

From the outside, the Blue Siren looked just like a normal club. If you were to pass it by you may not even glance up at the exposed brick facade and black front door. In the lone window in the front sat a small blue neon sign boosting the club's name and that was all. You wouldn’t be alone in walking right past the establishment without batting an eyelid.

When Luke had suggested the idea to spend his birthday here, Spencer’s immediate reaction had been laughter, because it had to be a joke, right? Strip clubs and Spencer Reid were not a combination anyone who knew him would put together, surely?

“Why are you laughing?” Luke frowned at him, folding his arms across his chest.

“Because you’re making a joke?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re not?” Spencer’s laughter came to a sudden halt and he stared at Luke in disbelief. “You…you seriously think that’s how I want to spend my birthday?”

“I was talking to Morgan and-“

“No sentence in the history of the English language that starts with “I was talking to Morgan” has ever had a happy ending.” Spencer scoffed.

“It’s the happy ending part we’re trying to achieve.” Luke smirked at him, a playful hint in his eye that caused Spencer to swallow thickly at the implication.

“Y-you…I…”

“When was the last time you got laid, Reid?”

Spencer felt the moment his cheeks burnt with an intense embarrassment. In all the years he’d known Luke they had never once discussed their sex lives. In fact, Spencer made it a rule to never discuss his sex life with anyone.

“That’s a deeply personal question.” He shrunk in on himself.

“Which is Spencer Reid for, it’s been a while.” Luke smiled knowingly.

“I…I don’t have to answer that.”

“You kinda just did.”

“Regardless,” Spencer shook his head, trying to steer the conversation off of his sex life, or lack thereof. “Strip clubs aren’t brothels. The women don’t sleep with their customers.”

“Morgan and I decided it was slightly more appropriate than buying you a hooker.”

If Spencer thought he was embarrassed before, he was now absolutely mortified.

“I don’t need help getting “laid”, as you so eloquently put it.” Spencer shook his head, turning back to his desk and sorting through some papers to distract himself.

“Don’t you?” An amused voice came from behind him and Spencer groaned, running his hands through his hair. He turned slowly in his chair to see Emily standing over him, an almost delighted look in her eyes. “What are we talking about?”

“Morgan and I want to take Reid to Blue Siren for his birthday next week.” Luke filled her in.

“Oh that place is great!” She beamed. “Can I come?”

“Where are we going?” Rossi seemingly appeared as if from nowhere with his coffee and newspaper.

Spencer grumbled, face palming his hand as the group around him gathered.

“We’re taking Spence to Blue Siren for his birthday.” Emily happily told him.

“Blue Siren? Huh,” Rossi nodded his head. “I haven’t been there for years, count me in. I’ll even see if Hotch wants to join.”

“For the love of god.” Spencer muttered against his hand. No one seemed to hear him and if they did, they ignored him.

“Join what? What did I miss?” Garcia came tottering in on her too high heels, laptop balanced precariously in the crook of her arm.

“Apparently the kid wants to go to a strip club for his birthday.” Rossi informed her.

“No, No.” Spencer shook his head, looking up at them. “The kid does not want to go to a strip club for his birthday.”

“Oh isn’t it the big four-oh?” Garcia bounced up and down in excitement. “You have to do something special for it!”

“I highly doubt a strip club can be deemed as special.” Spencer rolled his eyes.

“Strip club?” Matt strolled into the conversation now and Spencer wanted to just vanish into thin air.

“Yeah we’re taking Reid for his birthday. Want in?” Luke asked him.

“As long as no one ever tells Kristy.” Matt chuckled.

“What aren’t we telling Kristy?” Tara popped her head up from her desk, Spencer didn’t even know she was there.

“That we’re going to a strip club for Reid’s birthday.” Matt offered her a sly smile.

“Oh sweet! Count me in.” She grinned.

“How about you guys go, since you’re all so excited about it and just tell me how it was? I’ll stay home with a book or something.” Spencer sighed but no one acknowledged him.

The door opened again and JJ meandered in, all eyes turning to look at her.

“Uh, hi?” She laughed awkwardly as she walked across the bullpen.

“Have you ever been to a strip club, Jayje?”

Spencer groaned loudly, crumbling in on himself and smacking his head against the hardwood of his desk. Sometimes it was just easier to go along with these things than try to fight them.

And so, only slightly against his will, Spencer let them talk him into spending his birthday in the last place he ever expected to find himself, least of all on his birthday. The whole team was in attendance, plus Morgan and Hotch, he could only assume to have a front row seat to his complete mortification. They met outside the club, waiting for JJ who was late due to the fact she couldn't get Michael to go to sleep. Luke had gone so far as to pick Spencer up from his apartment, which was in the opposite direction, just so the birthday boy wouldn’t have an excuse for ditching them at the last minute.

“Is that really what you’re wearing to go to a strip club, pretty boy?” Morgan nudged Spencer in the arm.

Spencer glanced down at his attire, what he would call a sensible outfit but was clearly not what he was supposed to be wearing given Morgan’s judgemental gaze. It wasn’t a far cry from what he wore everyday, it wasn’t as though Morgan had never seen him dress like this before. He’d donned a perfectly pressed pair of black slacks, pairing them with his old faithful converse, a crisp blue button down and his black Comme Des Garçons cardigan Rossi had gifted him for his birthday a few years ago. He’d decided against a tie, because that seemed too formal for the occasion even for him.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He frowned, pouting a little.

He quickly eyed up the other men who were all wearing jeans and t-shirts, Rossi and Hotch included. He couldn’t even get started on how strange it was to see Hotch in jeans.

“You look like a TA.” Matt shrugged.

“I always look like a TA. Do you guys think I suddenly dress differently outside of work?” He folded his arms.

“I kind of hoped you did.” Luke smirked.

“Isn’t it supposed to be my birthday?” Spencer grumbled. “I’m already at the last place I want to celebrate so please can we just leave my outfit choices alone?”

“I think you look dapper.” Tara patted his shoulder like he was her annoying kid brother or something.

“Thanks?” He pulled a face.

“And speaking of birthdays!” Garcia was rummaging in her oversized purse before pulling something out. “Voila!”

Spencer frowned at the large, slightly garish, blue and yellow badge proclaiming “Forty Today” in obnoxious bubble font. It was bigger than Garcia’s hand, she surely didn’t expect him to wear that.

“Uh, no offence but there is no way in hell you are getting me to wear that.” He took it from her anyway, slotting it in the front of his satchel.

“Spoil sport.” Emily chided him. “Anyone would think you don’t like your birthday!”

“I don’t very much like this particular birthday.” He muttered under his breath. “Where is Jennifer? I’d really like to just get this over with.”

As if on cue, he heard heels on the concrete ground and seconds later the blonde appeared, dragging someone behind her. She smiled as she came round the corner, tugging Will into view under the streetlamp.

Oh good, more people to witness my humiliation.

“Hey guys, sorry we’re late!” She gave them apologetic glances.

“Will, I didn’t know you’d be joining us.” Penelope hugged JJ and then Will.

“You think I was going to sit at home while my wife goes to a strip club?” He chuckled. “I may never get the opportunity to have permission to do this again in my life. Thanks Spence.”

“You’re so very welcome.” Spencer replied sarcastically. “Can we just get on with this now?”

“That’s the spirit.” Luke chuckled, draping his arm around Spencer’s shoulders and leading him through the non-descript door.

Inside a long, narrow corridor stretched out before them, the distant thrums of bass heavy music, causing the floor to feel like it was vibrating beneath him. A burly doorman awaited them, so broad he almost encompassed the entire corridor.

“Hey man, I have a reservation under Alvez. It's this guy's big four-oh.” Luke gripped Spencer tightly, shaking him a little.

The doorman glanced down at a piece of paper in his hand, scanning over it for a second before looking back up at the motley crew, clearly trying to discern if he needed to card anyone but it was immediately clear he didn’t.

“Follow me,” He motioned for them to come with him.

Luke took the lead, dragging Spencer by his hold on his shoulders. The music got louder the further down the black corridor they got. It was dark and Spencer had to squint to see the man only a few feet in front of him, the corridor only lit by a single red light bulb swinging from the low ceiling that Spencer almost had to duck to walk under.

At the end of the corridor was another door and the music had reached fever pitch at this point. Spencer felt as though he could taste the beat, he could certainly feel it palpitating in his chest. The doorman shoved open the door and Spencer blinked against the sudden wave of lights that smacked against his retinas.

Luke finally let go of his shoulders, the doorway too narrow for the two of them to pass through together and motioned Spencer in front of him. Spencer stepped into the room, surprised by the sudden change in flooring, casting his eyes down to see a plush burgundy carpet now under foot. He tried not to contemplate how many germs were living in that carpet, how many drinks had been spilled and soaked into it over the years, how many other fluids it might have absorbed on top of it. He was sure this place would light up like a christmas tree under a black light.

He grimaced, looking back up and following in the doormans footsteps across the room. He tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, desperate not to look around and take in his surroundings but his morbid curiosity got the better of him.

Admittedly if he’d imagined what the inside of a strip club would look like this would have been plucked straight from his imagination. The main lighting was low, shielding most of the seating area in an almost ominous glow. The booths were made up of plush, gold velvet sofas, large dark oak tables in the centre of them. There was a long bar on one side, made of the same oak only its surface seemed to glitter when the light hit it. Over the back were two large velveteen curtains, concealing what Spencer could only assume was the private dance areas. There were four raised platforms each with their own golden, floor to ceiling pole in the centre, blue spotlights pointed at each one. Each podium had a scantily clad young girl dancing in upon it and Spencer quickly averted his gaze again, not wanting to be seen to objectify them.

“You know the whole reason they are there is to be looked at right?” Morgan was suddenly at his side, nudging him in the arm.

“It feels very…voyeuristic.” Spencer swallowed.

“Have you seriously never been to a strip club, Reid?” Matt was now at his other side.

“Why is that so hard to believe? Do I really strike you as the kind of guy who goes to strip clubs?” They arrived at the table and Morgan motioned for Spencer to take a seat while the others sat around him.

“It’s usually the quiet ones.” Morgan smirked at him.

“I cannot believe Savannah is ok with you being here.”

“She was fine with it when I told her it was for your birthday.” Morgan winked at him.

“Do I need to tell you what I told Luke? This is not a brothel, I am not getting laid here.” Spencer sighed in exasperation.

“It's not too late to take you to a brothel, kid.” Rossi smirked, before excusing himself to the bar.

“This is the lesser of the two evils, trust me.” Spencer sat back against the plush seat and tried to keep his eyes to himself. It was a difficult feat when just in front of them was another podium with a blonde woman dancing in the skimpiest pair of underwear Spencer had ever seen.

“No deflowering of boy wonder tonight, please.” Garcia giggled.

“Deflower…you are aware I am not a virgin, right?” Spencer pulled a face, was that how people saw him?

“I was joking, Spence, calm down.” Garcia rolled her eyes, still tittering to herself.

“It's that kind of defensive attitude that makes people think you are.” Luke, who was sitting on his left, nudged him.

“I’m fairly certain if I said the same to you, you would be just as defensive.” Spencer shook his head.

Just then, Rossi returned carrying a tray of champagne flutes and setting them on the table in the centre. He was closely followed by another young woman carrying an ice bucket in each hand, each with a bottle of the club's most expensive champagne chilling inside.

Spencer didn’t want to look, really didn’t want to be seen to objectify, but the scent of lavender perfume seemed to flood his senses, his brain, and he could no longer think straight all of a sudden. His eyes which had been attached to the floor glanced over to the pair of deep purple, satin peep toe heels which were standing right in front of him. Slowly his eyes trailed upwards, over a set of long, smooth legs, until meeting a silk pair of dangerously tiny panties, matching the shoes in colour, which he quickly scanned over. His eyes worked up the torso until they came to the chest and the purple silk bra that really left very little to the imagination. Swallowing thickly, his eyes continued their ascent to the face and that’s when time seemed to slow to a halt.

Spencer quivered, actually trembled as he took in your soft features and dazzling eyes. The smile on your lips as you looked at him seemed genuine, and not at all like it was a pain for you to be here. You set down the ice buckets and went about opening one of the bottles, pouring everyone a glass. When you poured Spencer’s glass, bending a little as you did so, his eyes couldn’t help the way they dipped to your cleavage spilling out over the top of your bra.

He quickly snapped his gaze away and thanked you with a shaky smile. He crossed one leg over the other in an attempt to hide an arising problem in his pants.

“I’m Y/N, I’ll be your host for the evening.” You had to speak loudly to be heard by everyone over the pulsing music in the club. “Which one of you is the birthday boy?”

Your eyes flicked between the men in the group, well all of them except the all guy who had paid for the drinks. You’d been informed it was a fortieth birthday, there was no way it was him.

“This guy right here,” Morgan grinned, gripping Spencer by the shoulders.

You looked back at the slightly shy, uptight man in his shirt and cardigan, who was holding onto his champagne flute for dear life. He was not your usual clientele, if you didn’t know any better you would think he didn’t want to be here at all.

“Well, I guess it’s my lucky night.” You couldn’t help but wink at him and even in the low light you saw the way his cheeks instantly flushed pink.

Usually in your line of work, exotic dancing, not stripping, thank you very much, the men you were paid to dance for were older, usually kind of creepy. Admittedly none of the younger men at the table were bad on the eyes, but this one was especially handsome, even if he was absolutely pertrided.

“What’s your name, stud?” You placed one hand on your hip and the other you held out for him to shake.

You saw him swallow, taking a sip of his drink as if to lubricate his mouth so he could speak.

“S-Spencer.” He took your hand and shook it. It was warm and so much larger than your own, even if it was a little sweaty.

“Nice to meet you, S-Spencer.” You teased, hoping to ease some tension but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

He shrunk in on himself, grimacing a little and looking as though he would quite literally rather be anywhere else in the world.

“You too.” His voice jumped several octaves.

Most of the rest of the team watched in amusement at Spencer’s discomfort, all of them aside from Emily who had wandered off to watch a redhead dance, tossing dollar bills at her and Luke who although was still seated, clearly had his eyes on the blonde on the podium in front of them.

“So, shall we get to the good stuff?” You asked him now and he almost choked on his drink.

“G-good stuff?” His eyes widened in terror.

“Your friends here paid for you to have a private birthday dance. They didn’t tell you?”

Spencer clenched his jaw and turned to his friends, anger leaching from his eyes.

“I would like to go on record and say I did not invest any money in this particular endeavour.” Hotch was quick to speak up.

“This is just from me and Alvez. Happy birthday, stud.” Morgan winked at him.

If Spencer was a violent man, he would have wrung Morgan’s neck, maybe bashed his and Luke’s heads together until they lost consciousness. He was fairly certain after all his years on the job he could murder them both and get away with it.

Maybe if you hadn’t been there, standing over him and looking so goddamn delicious in his favourite colour as well, he might have given the two men an ear full. But it wasn’t the time or place and so he swallowed his anger, keeping it bottled up until later and turning back to you.

“Let’s just…get this over with.” Spencer stood up, grabbing his glass and the full bottle of champagne, god knows he was going to need it, and following you towards one of the curtained off areas.

You held the curtain back for him to enter first and he did so without letting himself think about what was going to happen when the two of you were alone. The private room was much the same as the main room, only smaller with no bar. There was another plush golden couch in the centre, a smaller raised platform with a pole on the far wall. The wallpaper was a deep, cherry red, swirled with black and a gold chandelier hung from the ceiling offering, once again, very little light.

Spencer could only assume he was supposed to sit, so slightly reluctantly he dragged his pathetic ass to the couch and sat in the centre of it. He downed the remains of his champagne before swiftly uncorking the bottle. You couldn’t help the way your body reacted to his large, veiny hand expertly pulling the cork from the bottle, like it was the easiest thing in the world. You shuddered a little at the thought of what else his hands might be capable of.

He discarded the glass on the floor and opted instead to drink straight from the bottle, not something Spencer would ever usually do, but this whole night was so out of the ordinary for him, he decided to just lean into it. You came and stood in front of him, hands on your hips as you looked down on him.

“Not big into sharing?” You smirked at him.

“You…I assumed because you were working…”

You chuckled, reaching out and taking the bottle from his hands and taking a hefty sip. You felt the bubbles tickle the back of your throat and branch out towards your brain.

“I can indulge a little, as long as I don’t get off my face. Besides, the alcohol helps when the customer is particularly…” you searched for the right word. “Old. Ugly. Generally gross.”

Spencer frowned at you, processing your words.

“I guess Alvez and Morgan didn’t spring for the package where you pretend to be nice to me.” He tried to not sound as pathetic as he felt but failed miserably.

To his surprise you giggled in response, handing him back the champagne.

“Trust me, stud, you’re one customer I don’t need to drink to have fun with.” You winked at him and heard a little whimper leave his lips. He tried to cover it up by drinking more.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against the bottle top. “Let’s just…I don’t suppose we can just sit here and pretend you gave me a lap dance?”

“Not a chance.” You smiled, sauntering on your heels over to the stereo setup in the corner. You hit play and music pulsed into the room through the speakers situated in each corner. Spencer woefully recognised the song as 50 Cent’s Candy Shop, he’d heard Morgan listen to it on more than a few occasions over the years.

You strutted back over to him, wiggling your hips to the music as you went. Spencer tried to keep his eyes trained on the bottle as he drank, refusing to let himself look at you. You made it back over to him and once again took the bottle from his hands. You sipped from it delicately, bending over to place it on the floor, ensuring to give Spencer a show of your ass as you did so.

A low hiss left his lips, probably at the realisation you were wearing a thong. God you were going to enjoy this.

You stood back up and started swaying to the music, stepping between his open legs. He looked up at you through frightened doe eyes, the most beautiful shade of brown you’d ever seen. His long, messy curls fell in his face and his pouty bottom lip was too kissable for words. You shook that thought off as fast as you could.

You turned you away from him, thinking it easier if you didn’t look at his gorgeous face. You knew his eyes went straight to your bare ass, you could practically feel his gaze on you.

“You can touch me, Spencer, just nowhere inappropriate please.” Really you wanted those hands to touch you everywhere inappropriate but that kind of behaviour was frowned upon within the walls of the club.

“I’m…I’m good.” He croaked.

You smiled to yourself as you slowly lowered yourself into his lap, perching at first on his knees before wiggling backwards.

Spencer gasped loudly as your ass settled into his crotch and without even looking at him you knew he would be one hundred shades of red.

It certainly wasn’t the first time a man had gotten hard when you’d given them a lap dance and you knew it wouldn’t be the last. It may well be the first time you’d enjoyed it though.

“Jesus Christ.” He whimpered, your back now flush with his chest, his breath tickling the back of your neck. “I am so, so sorry. This is humiliating.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” You grinded against him in time to the music. “I know I am attractive and I am also half naked. Honestly, I’d be a little offended if you weren’t excited by that.”

“Right. Right.” Spencer nodded, wishing he could reach the champagne bottle. “So uh…how does one get into this line of work? Stripping.”

He needed to try and take his mind off of how unfathomably good you felt rolling your ass against his dick.

“I’m not a stripper.” You chided him, pinching his knee with your long acrylic nails as punishment. “I’m an exotic dancer. I don’t take my clothes off. Well, no more so than this.”

He grumbled at the pain you inflicted on his leg but the pleasure more than outweighed it.

“Apologies, I hope I wasn’t out of line.”

“It’s ok, it’s a common misconception. And I started working here to help pay my student loans. I stayed because I love what I do.” You grinded particularly hard against him and he whimpered against your neck.

“You went to college?” He sounded surprised.

“Yes, I’m not some bimbo, stud.” You rolled your eyes, another common misconception.

“Sorry.” He clenched his jaw, his cock twitching dangerously in his pants. “What uh, what did you study?”

“Psychology.”

“No kidding?” He sounded genuinely impressed. “You have a degree in psychology and you work here?”

You suddenly turned around, kneeling over Spencer, one leg hooked over each of his thighs. His eyes were wide as he stared at you, swallowing thickly.

“Look, you’re cute but don’t talk to me like I’m some kind of moron and try to make me feel like working here makes me less of a person.” You reached and gripped his jaw, digging your fake nails into his stubbly cheeks.

“I…I didn’t mean it like that, I-“

“I choose to work here.” You cut him off, lowering yourself so you were seated in his lap, straddling him. “I enjoy working here. It gives me a sense of power, I’m choosing to show off my body, to turn men like you into pathetic messes.”

Spencer moaned, didn’t even try to disguise it. You let go of his face and went to stand up but Spencer surprised you when his hands flew to your hips, gripping you firmly and keeping you in place.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He spoke, for the first time sounding close to confident. “You’re stunning and clearly good at your job.” He nodded down to his crotch and how he was straining against his slacks. “I didn’t mean to sound patronising or anything like that. I was merely trying to make conversation and I’m sorry if I upset you. But quite frankly, Y/N, if I don’t keeping talking I’m going to do something really fucking stupid.”

You narrowed your eyes on him, stilling your movements as the music came to end. He kept his grip on your hips and you found yourself a little dizzy by the firmness in which he held you.

“Stupid like what?” Your chest heaved with heavy breaths and Spencer’s eyes briefly flicked down and he hissed again at the sight.

“Something that could probably get you fired, and neither of us wants that.” He grinded up against you this time and a soft moan left your lips.

“Jesus,” you whined, the tables well and truly turned. “Can you just…I don’t know…give me a clue?”

Spencer chuckled a little, moving one hand from your hip to the back of your neck and tugging you closer to him. His lips were close to your ear, ghosting over the skin. It was like a switch had been flipped, the shy and awkward guy who hadn’t even wanted a lap dance was gone, replaced by this confident and self-assured man now beneath you.

His breath fanned across the side of your face and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Let’s just say it would involve both of us wearing a lot less clothes and you screaming my name.”

You whimpered like a dog that had just been kicked and attempted to clamp your legs together but his were in the way. Suddenly he dropped both of his hands to his sides and looked at you darkly.

“Get up.” He commanded you and you were dumb to do anything by comply.

“I need to go.” He stood up, snatching up the bottle of champagne. “Thanks for that.”

You watched him scurry away, seemingly reverting back to the shy creature he’d been initially. He fled back through the curtain, leaving you with an intense heat between your legs.

Goddamnit, you swallowed, trying to compose yourself. I might have just found my kryptonite.

***

Two weeks passed and Spencer couldn’t stop thinking about you. Every time he closed his eyes he saw you sitting in his lap, that goddamn purple lingerie glowing against your skin. It never failed to make him painfully hard in a matter of seconds and he’d spent more time than he could count masturbating over thoughts of you the last two weeks.

Eventually he couldn’t keep himself away if he tried. Emily had given them the weekend off and sitting alone in his apartment on Saturday night, his limbs had moved without the forethought to do so. And of course he’d ended up outside Blue Siren.

He paid the cover charge and saw himself inside, ambling over to the bar and ordering himself a scotch. He watched the room, in a way he was trained to do, watching and waiting for a glimpse of you.

He’d gotten down three drinks before finally he saw you across the room. His cock twitched almost instantly. Today you wore a crimson red lace teddy with shoes to match. He preferred the purple, liked it when you had more skin on display, but you still looked like a fallen fucking angel. An incredibly sexy fallen angel.

He finished the remains of his drink and set the glass down on the bar before heading your way.

As soon as you saw him, you couldn’t help the way your whole face lit up. He looked much the same as he had last time in his smart shirt and slacks but today he’d bypassed the cardigan and had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Stud, you came back.” You smirked at him, placing one hand on your hip.

“Can we talk?”

“I’m on the clock.” You shrugged. “My time has to be paid for.”

Spencer rolled his eyes and fished his wallet out of his pocket, flashing a large wad of bills. He pulled one out and stuffed it in your hand.

“How much will a hundred get me?”

You looked down at the bill wide eyed, seeing it was actually a hundred dollars. You looked back at him with a smile.

“At least a few dances.” You turned on your heels and motioned for him to follow you towards the private room you’d occupied a few weeks ago.

Once inside you watched him get comfortable on the couch.

“You sure you just want to talk? I can dance and talk at the same time, I’m just that good.” You winked at him.

“N-no.” He shook his head. “No dancing, please?”

“Fine.” You chuckled, coming over and sitting next to him on the couch. “What’s up? Must be important if you’re willing to drop a C-Note on me.”

“I uh, I wanted to apologise for my conduct the other week. It was very unlike me and I wanted you to know I’m sorry.” His cheeks flushed.

“Hmm.” You mused. “See, I don’t think it was unlike you. I think you allowed yourself to be completely authentic in that moment, letting out a side of yourself you don’t normally let people see.”

“That psych degree is paying off, I see.” His lip twitched into a small smirk.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“People see me a certain way.” He sighed a little as he spoke. “I’m the smart one, the bookish, awkward one. I’ve been seen that way for as long as I can remember. I guess I grew out of it but no one around me sees that. So maybe I play up the persona a little because it's what’s expected of me.” He confessed, not sure why he was doing so but you oddly put him at ease.

“Yeah, I get that. Sometimes it's easier to play into the expected, to fall into the roles people assign us rather than forge our own identity. You know, I only got my degree to prove I could. I wanted to prove, even if only to myself, that there was more to me than people expected of me. One day I might do something with it but for now, I really do love my job. But now I know I could do something else if I chose to.” You were equally surprised by your honesty.

“My friends brought me here because they think I’m some kind of pathetic sad sack that can’t get laid.” He chuckled wistfully.

“Oh but I bet you have no problem in that department, from what I could tell.” Maybe you leant closer to him, you certainly didn’t mean to, but you were sure he was closer now.

“I do alright.” The glint in his eyes told you he did better than alright and why did that cause a rumble of jealousy in your chest?

This time it was him that leaned closer to you, his large hand finding your thigh. You felt your chest tighten at the way it felt.

“I’m not going to sleep with you.” You spoke but you didn’t particularly believe your own voice.

“Not here, certainly not.” He inched his hand higher and you didn’t stop him.

“Not here, not anywhere.”

“Tell yourself that all you want, princess.” He growled the last word, eliciting a whimper from your lips.

“I don’t sleep with customers. Full stop.”

“You sleep with me, I promise I will never come back here.” He dared edge his hand higher, now right at the top of your thigh.

“You should leave.” You said, but you didn’t move or push him away.

“I just paid you a hundred dollars, I’m not going anywhere.” He squeezed your thigh, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“Maybe I did prefer it when you were shy.”

“No you didn’t.” He smiled in a knowing way. And he was right. “Let me take you out, show you what I’m really like.”

You swallowed, god how you would love that. But no. You couldn’t succumb.

“Not gonna happen.” You took hold of his hand and forcibly removed it from your thigh. You removed the bill he’d given you from where you’d tucked it in the side of your panties and tossed it at him. “Keep your money. Leave before I call security.”

Spencer chuckled to himself, shaking his head and placing the note on the couch, leaving it there as he stood up.

“I’m not a threat, you don’t need to call security.” He held his hands up in defeat. “I think you know as well as I do that there's something between us, I just don’t know why you won’t admit to it. But whatever, I’ll go.”

He went to move past you but as he did, his fingers circled your wrist. He turned your hand over and forcibly put his business card in your open hand.

“In case you change your mind, princess.” With that he was gone, leaving your legs shaking in his wake.

You looked down at the card in your hand and frowned to yourself as you read the words adorned on it.

Doctor Spencer Reid. FBI.

Huh. That was an interesting turn of events.

***

Spencer didn’t return to the club again, respecting your boundaries and just holding onto a small glimmer of hope that you would call. But weeks passed and you never did.

In all honesty, he wasn’t that surprised. He expected you’d tossed the card the minute he’d walked through that curtain and never given him a second thought.

He didn’t often allow himself to get close to people for this very reason. When Spencer fell for someone it happened fast and hard and now you were the only thing he could think of and it was tearing him in two.

It was Morgan and Luke’s fault. Them and their dumb idea to take him to a strip club for his birthday. He decided his next birthday was cancelled, the one after that too. Screw it, all his birthdays were cancelled indefinitely.

Thankfully due to the BAU’s heavy caseload and him teaching classes at Marlborough University, he didn’t have a whole lot of time to dwell on you, which was for the best.

He’d just have to resign himself to being alone again. Just like always.

***

For weeks that card felt like it was burning a hole in your pocket. You didn’t intend on calling Spencer, but you just couldn’t get rid of it. There was something different about him, something that begged you to get to know him. But you had to resist temptation, it would only end badly like it always did.

Still, you couldn’t help but picture his face when you gave an old, sad man a lap dance, wishing it were him instead. It never failed to send chills down your spine when you thought of the way his persona had flipped from shy and slightly nerdy, to suddenly so self assured.

But you had to stop thinking about him. Thinking about him was fruitless. But of course you couldn’t, because like it or not, you were going to see him again.

You’d almost considered pulling out of the class, as soon as you’d seen his name on the business card you knew it would be a bad idea to go through with it. But you’d been excited about this for months and you really didn’t want to wait another semester to take it. You just had to hope you could get through it without incident, however unlikely that seemed.

“Ok, let's take a moment now to discuss the difference between a trigger and a stressor. A trigger is a sensory event experienced by an offender that precipitates subsequent behaviour whereas a stressor is a longer term pattern of behaviour or circumstances which push a person into behaving differently than they normally would. You might want to write this down. I probably shouldn’t be telling you guys this but I’m definitely putting this on the final.”

You watched the brunette a few rows in front of you coyly tell Professor Reid she was simply auditing the class. You couldn’t help but smirk when an array of other beautiful girls raised their hands when he asked who else was auditing. He was the youngest, best looking professor on campus, it was no surprise his class had drawn in a crowd of young girls to fawn over him.

“Uh…ok.” He shook his head, checking his watch. “Unfortunately that is all the time we have for today. Thank you guys.”

You stayed seated while the rest of the class filtered out, watching him collect a stack of papers and put them in his worn satchel before turning to erase the writing on the whiteboard. You stuffed your laptop away and crept down the stairs towards the front of the class, fingers toying with the small white piece of card.

“What was your stressor, Professor? Or should I say, Doctor?”

You saw his back go rigid and for a moment or two he didn't move a muscle. He set the whiteboard eraser down and slowly turned around as you waved his business card at him. He couldn’t help the way his eyes raked up and down your body, clad in jeans and a t-shirt, more than he was used to seeing on you. He still thought you looked like a goddamn angel.

“Uh, I’m sorry, what?” He frowned, clearly at a loss for words.

“You said a stressor is a longer term pattern of behaviour or circumstances which push a person into behaving differently than they normally would. When I first met you, you behaved differently than you normally would, am I right? Pretending to be this shy, awkward little thing.” You quipped your eyebrow at him.

“For the record I wasn’t pretending. It wasn’t some kind of ruse or something. I am generally shy and awkward. But I have learnt to assert myself when I need to, for instance, when I see something I want. I got carried away that night at the club and I’m sorry for that, that was out of character for me.” He leant back against the edge of the desk and perched on it. “Why are you in my class, Y/N?”

“I signed up for this class before I met you. I didn’t even know you were the professor until you gave me your card.” You shrugged a little nervously.

You were more uncomfortable in normal social settings. At the Blue Siren, where you commanded the room, the confidence oozed for you. But in the real world you were much uncomfortable in your own skin.

“You want to be a profiler?” He scrutinised you with his gaze.

“Maybe someday. I told you, I don’t necessarily want to work at the club forever, I want options.”

“But you love your job.” He repeated what you’d told him.

“I do.” You nodded. “If this is going to be weird I can drop out. I can go to Georgetown next semester, although their professor is not a legit FBI agent with the BAU.” You chuckled a little.

“Why would it be weird?”

“Because,” you shrugged. “Since the second you turned around and saw me standing here, you’ve been undressing me with your eyes.”

Spencer smiled, a hint of a blush gracing his cheeks.

“I have, it's true.” He agreed. “I can’t help it if I’ve already seen so much of it.”

“I don’t think you should want to sleep with your students.”

“There’s no rule against it.” He chuckled, pushing himself back to his feet. “My students are all over the legal age, if I was to sleep with one of them, it would be completely consensual and no rules would be broken.”

“You’re talking from experience.” You stated and his eyes playfully glistened.

“Maybe.” He shrugged but his face said it all. “I told you, I do alright.”

“Well, I can tell you for a fact I won’t be one of them.”

“And that’s your loss.” He turned his back on you now and started gathering up his things, slinging his satchel over his head. “Excuse me, I have papers to grade.”

You watched him saunter away, leaving you standing there in confusion and a little turned on if you were honest. He shoved open the door and exited the classroom and before you could think it through you were following hot on his heels. You caught up to him in the corridor as he was unlocking his office door. He spotted you in his peripheral vision.

“My office hours are on Wednesday.” He pushed open the door. “If you need something you can come…”

He trailed off when you pushed past him, entering his office ahead of him. He frowned and followed you inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

“What?” He sighed, taking off his bag and dropping it in the chair next to the door. “You asked me to leave the club that night and I did. I gave you my number, I left the ball in your court and you didn’t call and that’s fine. I walked away! So why are you pursuing me?”

“I won’t give it up.” You blurted out, causing a heavy frown to form on Spencer’s face.

“Give up what?” Had he missed a part of the conversation?

“The club, I love my job.”

“I know you do.” His frown deepened. “Why would you have to give it up?”

“Do you know how many men I meet that think I’m some kind of damsel in distress that needs saving? They swoop in, on their fucking white horse and think they can rescue the poor, broken stripper.”

“Exotic dancer.” Spencer corrected you with a smirk. You huffed somewhat childishly.

“Whatever. They think they can change me. Men always think I’m some kind of fucking damsel in distress that needs saving from the big bad world of strip…exotic dancing. That’s why I don’t date customers, not because it's not allowed. I’ve made the mistake before and it always ends the same. So stop looking at me like you want to fuck me, because its never going to happen!”

Spencer simply looked at you curiously while you ranted, voice getting louder with each syllable. Confusingly he was smiling when you finished.

“Can I speak now?” He had a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“If you have to.” You rolled your eyes.

Spencer took a few steps away from the door and you felt yourself growing weaker the closer he got to you. He was magnetic, you couldn’t help but gravitate towards him.

“Correct me if I’m wrong but I’m certain I never once said that I have any kind of issue with your profession and I certainly never asked you to quit. Am I right?”

“Y-yes.” You swallowed, catching the scent of his cologne.

“If you’ve found something you love I would never dream of keeping you from that. Honestly, I admire you. It takes a lot of bravery and a lot of confidence to do what you do and god…you do it so well. Why would I ever want to take that from you?” He was so close now and you were begging him to touch you even though it was a bad idea.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Yes, princess, you do.” He smirked. “You made an assumption about me, the same way I admittedly did when I first met you. But I was wrong and I acknowledged that. It’s only fair for you to do the same.”

He raised his hand and your legs shook before he even touched you, at the sheer anticipation of it. It came up to cup your jaw, firmly enough that you could feel his fingers squeezing your jawbone.

“Y-you don’t want to change me?” You whimpered.

“Why mess with perfection?” He bowed his head, his lips so close to yours you could feel the heat radiating off of them. “I’m no knight in shining armour, Y/N, I’m not rushing in to try and save you. And you are most certainly not a damsel in distress. You are a strong, independent woman and I would be lucky to merely exist in your orbit.”

You mewled, trying to move closer to him, to crash your lips against his but he held you firmly in place, chuckling at your eagerness. For the first time in a long time you felt all your bravado melt away, all the confidence you had on stage at the Blue Siren was washed away, leaving you a trembling mess in front of this man. And normally that kind of vulnerability would cause you to run for the hills. But being vulnerable with Spencer didn’t seem all that bad.

“Can you,” you swallowed, eyes glued on those pouty lips of his. “Please…just kiss me already, stud.”

Spencer laughed and for a moment you thought he might not comply. But then he closed the small space between you and you finally got to feel those pillowy lips pressing against yours. He gripped the back of your neck firmly, keeping you in place, as if you would go anywhere.

Maybe one day Spencer would thank Morgan and Luke for the birthday present, this was one he’d surely cherish, as long as you would let him.

Oh, isn't this exactly where you'd like me?

I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know.

Praying for love and a lap dance,

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