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almostempty · 2 months ago

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it’s not that deep but it is that serious!

(editing and reblogging to clarify a couple things at the end of the post - edited once more to combine the second reblog into one)

I just want to come to this app to talk about deep throating mean!Joel and to make friends with other hot freaks. But I need my fellow heathens to hear me out for a moment.

I’ve tried to keep this space a little escape from reality, but that’s not a realistic privilege because life and art are inherently political.

I've seen friends and mutuals receiving hateful, racist, and cruel anons recently. I know these issues aren’t new for our Black and brown peers.

I see a lot of folks jumping to offer support and to express their disgust at the racist remarks.

I also see a lot of shock and disbelief and I want to talk about that.

Racism, bigotry, and prejudice are not new issues for Black and brown folks. If you find yourself shocked, surprised, and outraged when folks share the hate they receive I ask that you reflect on this. It’s a privilege to be surprised, to not be used to navigating and experiencing that vitriol.

I know it’s well intended when folks say things like, ‘if you’re a racist piece of shit get off my blog’ or similar messages, and i understand the anger and frustration. (*i appreciate seeing solidarity and i also do not want to police (acab) how people respond to the hate they receive)

I also don’t think anyone who is aware and actively spreading hate will be deterred. I imagine there are 4chan incel type trolls that just thrive on the attention and reaction of using the most inflammatory language they can, and trolls will troll. They inevitably will pop up.

What I want to address is the levels below the overt and active hate. The accidental or inadvertent covert racism. The micro aggressions. The passive silence or enabling of rhetoric that lets folks perpetuate harm without even thinking.

Black and brown creators in our community have been disregarded or overshadowed when they speak up about diversity or inclusion in this fandom or feeling unwelcomed.

They wade through oceans of moodboards with faceless, thin, white women paired with our favorite characters. They power through reader inserts with freckles, red marks, and pink pussies that say and do things they might never feel safe saying or doing in those universes. They scroll through bad Spanish or fetishized latino caricatures and romanticized colonial values. And they still show love and support by commenting and reblogging and uplifting other writers.

Maybe there are footnotes about the moodboards only being for inspiration, but that doesn’t erase the constant messaging that it was easier to find those pictures and add a note than to search harder or leave the pictures out.

When I saw a fic with a detail about the pedro character having a confederate flag in his trailer I had to pause. This is a perfect example. I don’t read this as malicious or intentionally harmful. I understand the stereotype it’s rooted in and the general humor of the story as a whole. I get that it’s a small detail and that racism wasn’t a core part of the character or the story.

But if we sit with this longer.. what does this tell our Black and brown peers? When the reader notices it and it’s just as notable as a calendar on the wall? And she fucks him willingly anyway?

Hate symbols aren’t unserious. Background or not. Imagine writing a Joel fic and giving him a swastika tattoo just as a background detail. Sounds extreme right? Maybe you’re writing an AU felon Joel and just trying to show how hardened and dark he is. Maybe in your headcanon he only got it in prison to protect himself and he isn’t a racist.

But to nazis it says this is a safe place to be. To the general audience it says you don’t care if this makes them feel unsafe or invisible.

To folks reading that a confederate flag isn’t a big deal, it signals that it’s an acceptable symbol. It shows that people are reading and commenting and sharing this story and are unbothered. That maybe people don’t even notice.

I’m not asking anyone to send hate and I’m not writing this as an attack on the author or anyone who shared the fic. We don’t know what we don’t know, but we have the opportunity to learn!

I am asking my peers to step in and step up, because I think y’all are smart and capable of more.

I am not an expert on anything. But as someone who went to grad school for social work — a field that only exists to combat the societal harm of power, privilege, and oppression — I don’t take it lightly. I work in advocacy fighting discrimination and prejudice from institutions built on systemic racism daily. I’m aware that I have the privilege of training, language, and awareness around diversity and inclusion, and that not everyone has the same knowledge or experience.

I also know this fandom is full of incredibly smart and well spoken folks who craft moving stories and analyze characters with nuance and passion.

I’m not interested in censoring what anyone writes and I happily abide by don’t like; don’t read.

If I only wanted to read I would stick to ao3. But I’m here and I stay here because of the community. The friendships and the extra tag games and challenges and support and camaraderie.

I know I make mistakes myself. And I know it can be uncomfortable to be called out for something you never intended to hurt anyone with. I know it can feel like your voice won’t be heard or your experience won’t be validated in such a big space.

I shared a post a while ago by a creator that doesn’t write for this fandom. It was an ode to Black fanfic writers in general, and in the comments Black writers were tagging each other to show love. And I knew there was something wrong when I wanted to share it but felt deeply hesitant about tagging anyone because I didn’t want Black writers to receive hate.

One of my favorite things about this fandom is how global it is. Getting to make friends with folks around the world is such a treat. I also know racism and fascism are not unique to one region.

It’s Black history month in the states and in Canada. I know other countries observe Black history month in other months. It’s an intentional observation for a reason.

For us, this is a hobby. We’re here voluntarily, and mostly anonymously, but we’re all people. Community is so vital to thwarting the dangers of fascism and hateful rhetoric.

This IS a post about racism.

But racism is absolutely entangled with sexism, classism, ableism, ethnocentrism, capitalism, colonialism, imperialism, patriarchal hegemony, etc.

This isn’t just a rant. It’s an ask. I’m asking my peers—writers, readers, gif makers, lurkers, etc.— to help.

Reflect on what you share and post. Think about how others perceive you.

I’m asking my peers to be curious and open to discussions. To ask questions if you see covert racism. To be willing to accept feedback.

We can be gentle with one another.

Like, ‘hey, I saw this and am wondering if you’re aware of the origin or the impact it might have?’ or ‘can I share how this may be misinterpreted or harmful?’

Be kind sure, but be an advocate!

If you see someone posting about a character being their ‘spirit animal’ — send them a DM! If you read something that stereotypes a race, let the author know! There’s plenty of online resources for writing characters from other races without falling back on harmful tropes.

And even better… support your Black and brown peers. Share their work. Show them you value their presence in the fandom.

I encourage folks to read fics with original characters or reader characters with explicitly diverse ethnicities and tell the author you appreciate that character! Recommend the work to friends.

I never shut up about how much I love Heat and the story is incredibly compelling *because* the reader is a Latina written by a Latina.

Anyway, I come to this hellsite to laugh and be horny—but at my core I am an ethical hater and I only wrote all of this because I care and I want this space to be inclusive.

I’m not speaking on behalf of anyone else and I don’t want to speak over anyone. I’m open to feedback or ideas.

I’m tagging some mutuals I interact with and some that I don’t know very well, not to curse y’all with reading my long winded post but to ask: when you have the capacity will you help take action to make this community stronger? Will you commit to being open to feedback and growth?

Bottom line I just wanna read about getting railed by that fictional guy and I want my Black and brown peers to have the opportunity to enjoy the same escape from reality.

I feel like this is worth posting because I think y’all can make a difference. So many of y’all write and analyze stories and characters with such nuance and passion and detail—and that’s why i believe you can help spot subtle and insidious forms of racism and make real changes.

TL;DR: I’m asking everyone to be proactive when you see microaggressions or covert racism in the fandom, and to be willing to accept feedback and learn from each other. Being passive is a luxury and a privilege our marginalized peers do not have. Let’s be more than performative or not racist. Be active. Be anti-racist.

some tags for folks (no pressure to share, I don’t want attention I just want to encourage folks to take time to reflect or let me know what you think idk): *not calling anyone out as having committed any offenses just feeling compelled to share the message i guess

@auteurdelabre @joelmillerisapunk @lotusbxtch @probablyreadinsmut @ace-turned-confused @baronessvonglitter @yxtkiwiyxt @slimybeth69 @bitchesuntitled @thundermartini @sin-djarin @strang3lov3 @mermaidgirl30 @for-a-longlongtime @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @evolnoomym @wannab-urs @sanarsi @yopossum @almostfoxglove @itwasntimethatdidit40 @syd-djarin @miss-oranje-disco-dancer

to anyone: please start conversations or reach out to me or send me an anon ask if you want to discuss something or share, idc but i’m begging y’all to listen to each other and advocate for one another and be open to self-reflection 💗 editing to add: if i tagged you it was not a callout that i think you've done something specific to reflect on-- just a general invite to join me in being intentional and to invite feedback if you have any! if i made anyone anxious i apologize! - to clarify when i said 'it's not that deep' i mean that maybe fanfic is easily brushed off as not that deep, but every blog is a real person (minus the army of porn bots) and we form real connections in this community <3

edit:

one more thing,

first and foremost! a reminder that i am speaking about the inclusivity in this fandom as a whole. i don't want to lose the plot over one specific example that blew up. my point is the bulk of the racism in this fandom is perpetrated through micro aggressions and covert racism EVERY DAY. we can make sweeping statements and tell racists to fuck off, but next week we will be back to the status quo (aka where many non-white folks feel unwelcomed, aren't represented, and are disregarded when they raise concerns, etc.) unless we commit to examining ourselves first and looking for the more subtle things that perpetuate the current culture (e.g. harmful stereotypes and racial tropes, fetishizing latinx characters, bad Spanish, writing reader insert fics with specifically white features and characteristics without tagging, using slurs or coded language, etc.)

(i am behind on everything today and haven’t gotten back to everyone who added insightful thoughts and considerations to my original post yet)

i did see some folks share examples of positive experiences calling-in peers or learning something new themselves and wanted to say thanks and highlight those positives.

maybe other folks have already brought up the rest of my points and if so i do not mean to speak over anyone, but i wanted to add on to my first post:

i originally asked everyone to step up and commit to advocating for each other— but i’d like to explicitly ask white folks to step up and look out for our Black and brown friends (who are tired and don’t get to check out irl or online). i am asking white folks to be open to learning and growing with compassion. i am asking white folks to be persistent, proactive, and brave enough to be uncomfortable or wrong.

when i say we can be gentle with each other i do not mean to minimize pain or anger. i gladly and willingly validate that everyone has a right to be upset and outraged by hatred and racism. i am not asking my Black and brown peers to soften their reactions or dismiss their experiences.

i am (again) asking my white peers to be mindful, to take a breath and listen to what BIPOC folks have to say. to sit with the discomfort and know that seeing hate or racism might be shocking but it is not surprising if you’ve been listening.

i am asking my white peers to be kind and also strategic. if you have the patience and capacity then do what you can to increase the odds that your peers will be willing to listen and learn. it’s free to try at least.

most of us that commit micro aggressions or covert racism don't consider ourselves to be racists. we see posts that say 'racists and bigots aren't welcome on this blog' and we agree! we reblog those posts! we pat ourselves on the back for being an ally and continue on without making any other changes-- not because we are bad people, but because we have the privilege of feeling welcomed, represented, and valued as a baseline.

this is also my call-in to myself because i’ve allowed myself to stay quiet. i’ve relied on the comfort that my close friends know who i am and what my values are, but i have been passive. i have seen comments or posts that i recognized were ignorant or offensive and continued scrolling. i felt like it wasn't worth the drama to speak up.

i’m fallible and open to feedback ! i am also comfortable being an example, being vulnerable and sharing my mistakes or opportunities for growth. i've gotten more comfortable because i have hours of training and practice but i don't expect others to feel good being called-in or to anticipate what might make them act defensively.

i know the core principle of cultural humility is that nobody is an expert on culture, that the best practice is to remain open and curious, to identify your own values and beliefs, and to confront stereotypes. it is an ongoing process of self-reflection and commitment to growth

and so i volunteer to be here for any of my white friends that want to make this fandom a more inclusive space, but are feeling uncertain or uncomfortable. (i am not offering to defend racism or excuse hate)

there is extreme cognitive dissonance in believing you are a good person, a not-racist person, and a friend and ally— and being confronted with the idea you are perpetuating stereotypes, inadvertently causing harm, or alienating folks you care about.

I know it seems like a safe option to stay quiet if you think you might say the wrong thing or make a situation worse.

I know it’s hard enough to send someone a friendly message or to know what to comment on a fic you loved, let alone to feel empowered to point out something that might make someone else react defensively. I’m not volunteering to be the morality police (acab) but i’m here for all of my friends, mutuals, and peers in the fandom who want support with calling-in others or learning. i encourage and welcome discussion and curiosity.

i ask white folks to make conscious changes so that when these conversations die down we don’t fall back into enabling white ignorance to infect the fandom and harm our friends.

bonus thoughts

i see and am grateful for the folks that called my first post eloquent and at the same time i am deeply aware of the ‘angry Black woman’ trope that undermines and minimizes Black women’s voices (especially when they are rightfully angry). i guess i’m just repeating that i don’t want to speak over anyone but i am committing to speaking up.

i don’t want to harp on the confederate flag example anymore, but i would like to be clear that this isn’t about censorship. Consider the context and don’t turn this into a straw man argument or dilute the message with whataboutery. It speaks volumes if you’d rather argue semantics than listen to your peers about the reality of impact vs intent with that example or others.

thank you for reading and being here <3

#discourse I suppose #pedro pascal fandom this is a call for advocacy #opportunities for growth and learning #I see a lot of well intentioned folks and also we can do better #let’s speak plainly and foster accountability #thank you for reading

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nereidprinc3ss · 3 months ago

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mojave ghost

in which spencer reid spends the night with fem!reader—a total stranger—because she just feels so familiar. based on the song "my life in art" by Mojave 3.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: based on a song about a stripper who runs away from her abusive boyfriend. tws for mentions of physical abuse. r has bruises from pole dancing. a little ooc bc Spencer hooks up with someone he just met but that's the point and if u know him like I do u know its not completely impossible. mentions of typical cm violence/murder. one brief mention of spencer's addiction. spencer's childhood trauma and abandonment. it's kind of just a heavy one, lmk if i'm missing anything a/n: I doooo suggest you listen to the song first just to feel the vibe of the piece and also how it is literally about Spencer Reid. and also bc its gorjus. anyways its been a while and this is not my most standard content but pls lmk what u think and if u liked it <3

He shouldn’t have done it.

But when he saw you, sitting in a metal folding chair next to some peeling veneered-desk, his breath caught. Something primal deep in his stomach tugged the way it does when he finds little external fragments of himself, calling out to him—usually nonhuman objects. He’s seen himself in books, still warm from the hands that held them but ultimately forgotten on a bench or in the airport, needles in alleys or in between tiles on his bathroom counter, in shards of glass, in a hundred open wounds and dead animals, abstractly gutted on the side of the street.

When he does see himself in a person, it’s in alarming glimpses. The man in the sleeping bag on the corner who talks to people that aren’t there. The lost child crying on the subway platform, rooted to the spot and still gripping the straps of their little backpack with responsible fists. It’s never anything he wants to know about himself, but this identification, this taxonomy and recognition of sameness—it’s so strong it stops him in his tracks, every time. He never really relates to the people he’s supposed to. Not Hotch. Not Gideon. Not even Maeve, in the way he’d so naively hoped for. Three people, all incredibly intelligent, at times standoffish. Used to being on the outside. All still possessing things and redemptive qualities he doesn’t. And what Spencer has secretly believed about himself for what has recently become a very long time, is that he is defined by his lack. The shape of him is made of negative space. He feels like whatever is in your lungs when you’ve pushed all the air out.

And then, you.

Physically, you look nothing alike. And he stops and lurches and does a double take like he’s seen his doppelgänger or been startled by his own reflection in a passing window anyway. Maybe it’s the way you hold yourself—hunched, foot tapping, head hung but still scanning the room, ever vigilant as you pick at your nails. You want to be small. You want to fold in yourself so many times you become a black hole. Spencer knows this.

Something calls out from deep inside him, from all around him, that is not quite in his voice, but feels like grasping and reaching.

I know you, I know you.

He doesn’t catch himself in time before he’s walking toward you like he’s been waiting for you.

Of course your head snaps up at the same time as he stops, and your eyes are shiny but not teary—frozen over with a layer of thick, dark ice like you’d carried the cold inside with you. You look caught. He searches for some sort of recognition in your eyes, anything to betray the fact that you have met before, because he never forgets a face but he knows what familiarity feels like and he can’t remember meeting you.

His throat forms around something but the wrong word comes out. Halting, like he’s trying to lasso it and pull it back in.

“Hi.”

You pull your scarf down—a deep Roman purple—to reveal a pretty mouth, lips chapped by the unforgiving freeze outside.

“Hello,” you say, politely, considering his probably strange behavior. He gives you a proprietary scan. Utility coat over a thick grey sweater. Jeans, cuffed at the bottom but still nearly too long, probably belted, although he can’t tell from the posture and the sweater. Brown boots. Your bag is a frayed tapestry of neutrals and patches. Fingerless knit gloves. You’ve given yourself false density, let the clothes swallow you up. Shapeless. Nearly faceless, magnet eyes framed between the scarf and the hat. But you’ve got a name. Everyone has a name. There’s yet to be anything humanity has discovered and not bothered to name.

He forgets to ask. You clear your throat.

“Um, I spoke to someone on the phone—Aaron, I think? We’re supposed to talk.”

Spencer tries to pick his jaw up off the floor.

“Yeah, um, I can—I’ll… go get him.”

He turns away and breathes for the first time since he saw you, but he feels you behind him. He’s aware of exactly where you are in relation to the back of his head, he can feel you, like a hot spot, all the way to Hotch’s door. He lets himself in, slipping between as small a gap as he can manage and shutting the door gently behind him. Hotch looks up, not noticeably displeased at having been interrupted in his endless paperwork.

What Spencer learns from his boss is this: you live in DC. You heard about a murder in Kansas—a girl, her hair still a fine, pale cornsilk. Barely not a child. You heard the details, and you called the cops, because you swear to god you know who did it, and they told you there was nothing they could do and gave you the number of someone who might be able to help, and so you followed a bureaucratic trail of phone numbers designed to discourage until you got to the BAU. Hotch says he’s going to interview you, but it’s probably nothing.

“Actually, I’d like to do it if that’s okay.”

Hotch frowns deeper than usual.

“Why?”

Spencer swallows. Hesitates.

“I finished my incident report early.”

Though he clearly has his reservations about Spencer’s sudden interest, Hotch is knee-deep in paperwork. So that’s how Spencer ends up in the round table room with you.

You look too young, too raw to have been married, but you’re rubbing at your ring finger with the adjacent thumb like something is bothering you there. An absence that has become a presence. Negative space. You see things that aren’t there. Spencer knows that, too. Maybe you’re the kind of person who could look at him and see something.

That is his most intimate fantasy. He imagines it with you and feels the same kind of illicit shame and bloodied, starving hunger other people feel when they imagine sex or drugs or ravaging power; the way anyone imagines anything they want and can’t have.

But he can’t put that kind of pressure on you. He can’t hold expectations like that. You’re a stranger.

“Do you always do that?”

He points to your fiddling and gets that sour feeling in his throat he always does when he says something and wishes he hadn’t said it. That probably doesn’t show on his face. Most things don’t show on his face. Or maybe they do and nobody has bothered to tell him.

You flex your pretty hand and then make a fist like you’ve been burned, probably to stop the compulsion. When you give a self-deprecating laugh, Spencer feels incredibly guilty for having pointed it out. But he doesn’t know how to talk to you. And at the same time, he almost expects it’ll be like talking to himself. Only nobody will give him odd looks.

“Uh… old habit. I used to spin my wedding ring around when I was nervous.”

Used to. You’re especially too young to have been divorced.

“You’re nervous?”

Your eyes flash as you look up to him. With what, he doesn’t know. Lightning, maybe. Electrical impulses that are a little less well insulated in you than in everyone else.

But maybe he’s projecting.

“Yeah. I feel crazy. But I was with a guy for a while who—and he was from Kansas—who would always, like, talk about… about hurting people. And I thought it was a joke at first, but… he laughed, at other people’s pain. He liked to hurt people. And animals. His dad had a farm, so I thought it was maybe he was just cavalier about life and death, but it was more than that. And he lived… he lived in that town. Where that girl died. He probably knew her. I… I probably knew her.”

Spencer’s heart sinks and he clears his throat like the force could bring it back up the right level again.

You’re not his soulmate. You’re just paranoid. Looking for answers and resolution, like everybody else.

The piece of himself he saw in you was just free radical damage. Instability.

“Did he ever kill anyone before?”

“Wh—not that I know of. But I don’t really think he would’ve told me.”

But you would’ve known. You’re here because you’re lost.

“Did he ever seriously injure anyone?”

You swallow and sit up a little straighter. Heat lightning in your eyes, again. It makes him feel something. He sits up too, despite your indignance, because it’s entrancing.

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He… he…” you melt as quickly as you inflated and go back to spinning a ring that’s not there. It’s like watching technicolor go to black and white. “He’d beat people up. He cut them with broken beer bottles and… yeah. A lot of other shit. He was just… he was crazy. He wasn’t… okay.”

The way your gaze flickers back and forth like you’re reading pages of a book or perhaps in REM as you recount in vague detail what your ex had done clues Spencer into the fact that you’re extremely traumatized. The way you make sure to emphasize that your clearly abusive ex wasn’t okay clues him into the fact that you care too much. That you’re too quick to excuse people’s bad behavior, or dismiss it, because you know how it feels to be dismissed entirely and you don’t want to make anyone else feel the way you’ve felt.

Or maybe he’s still projecting. Maybe he’s idealized you in these few short minutes since you met and he’s too far gone. Maybe he should’ve let Hotch do this interview after all. In fact, he absolutely should’ve.

But the worst thing by far he did was ask to walk you to your car after all was said and done.

The interview went on for over two hours, and he’d learned things about you he suspects you’ve never told anyone before, and thus has learned about himself, and the building is mostly empty when you finally leave. The work day is over. So he selfishly asks you to wait while he gathers his things—buttons his coat, wraps his scarf, packs his bag—and then he soaks in the silence on the elevator because it’s that terrible, beautiful space between where you first cross the line and when you do something unforgivable. Asking to walk you to your car was crossing the line.

Sleeping with you was unforgivable.

And he didn’t care. Maybe he knew he was going to do this from the moment he saw you. Spencer never does this. The knowing that it was going to happen is quite a distinct flavor of intuitive knowledge and it was always on the back of his tongue.

You’re silver and purple, a streak, a blur, you move too fast to keep up with and even when you’re perfectly still the atoms around you scramble like they’re jonesing. You inspire movement. You are movement. But he gets to see you slow, and despite having known you only a few hours, he knows this is nothing short of a natural phenomenon. A once in a lifetime sort of shooting star. That’s where the silver comes in.

The purple, though—it’s in strange places. Around your upper arm. Between your thighs. On your knees and shins and hips. The first time he noticed it he couldn’t ignore it, but he couldn’t very well ask what’s hurting you while he was touching you in a way that was decidedly not painful, if he wanted to keep it that way. And he did. He wanted to keep you looking at him through half-lidded eyes like he was something to see.

Still, he can’t notice it and then fuck you without saying something—or maybe he could, and you desperately want him to and you ask for it and maybe most people would, but he won’t—so he brings it up.

“I lead a very active life,” is your whispered excuse, shaped by a smile that is something like mischievous. And then you’re kissing his flushed neck and making your descent and so he can’t ask very many questions.

It’s only in the precarious after that he can fit his questions in, which is dumb and he knows that, because you’re a dizzying contradiction of cagey and flighty and really the slightest thing will send you running. It’s funny how he knows that after a few hours and sex. Sex can tell you so much about a person. Spencer has compiled all the data from his experiences and decided sex is radically more effective a profiling tool than interview.

You’re on his pillow, lying on your stomach, and his hand is in your hair. Falling in love is quite a distinctive taste as well. Or at least, the recognition that if you spend enough time around a person you will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, fall in love with them. It is almost the same thing. It aches because it’s there and the proper thing to do is pretend it’s not.

And his hand is in your hair. And your eyes are closed, and you look like you might fall asleep, and he should be beyond grateful for all of these things. He is.

But that pesky desire to ameliorate, to improve and make better, and fix and heal, is too strong. Probably it’s the only way he thinks anyone will love him, is if he makes himself useful. That’s no revelation to him. The thought is not shocking whatsoever. It’s just true.

So he asks again. You blink your eyes a quarter of the way open.

“Hazard of the job.”

“What job?”

You make a noncommittal noise of reluctance—a discontented puppy’s whine, half-asleep.

“I’m a circus freak.”

He laughs and remembers to keep scratching your scalp. The way you smile, eyes closed, is infectious.

“Yeah? What’s your act?”

“Guess,” you challenge through the remnants of a smile, oozing satisfaction and glowing like a star.

When he pauses to regard you, to seriously consider, studying the curve of your cheek and the color of your lips, you open your eyes again.

“Tightrope walker,” he finally says, earnestly, so soft it could tear down the middle like gauze.

Your answer is a smile into the dark. “How’d you know?”

The corner of his mouth vies higher.

“I sensed a kindred spirit.”

Silence floods the room again, slowly, thickly, like molasses. It’s pleasant. You’re still here, in his bed, and he’s still measuring time with the pendulum of his hand in your hair.

“What do you really do?”

He expects you to be asleep.

“Dancer.” Your lips hardly move as you say it, inflectionless, immediate. If his hand falters, it’s only momentarily. That explains the bruising, and so is a relief, as far as he’s concerned. But perhaps his silence is misconstrued. “Do you want me to go?”

It certainly doesn’t seem like you want to go. Your eyes aren’t even open.

He keeps his voice low and gentle like maybe you really are asleep.

“Why would I want you to go?”

“Don’t… do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you’re not judging me.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m from Vegas. Your job is not a novelty to me.”

This time when your eyes slide open, there is a new, curious light behind them.

“Really?”

He nods, distracted by a freckle just beneath your eye.

“When I was ten I ran into my bus driver wearing two quarters as a shirt. And we weren’t even on the strip. We were in a Texas Roadhouse parking lot.”

You snort with laughter and it’s melodic, like twinkling crystals, like running water. Even as you hide your face behind your hand, he’s transfixed. God, he’s never cared about being funny before. Now he wants to make you laugh over and over again. He wants to keep you softer than you’ve ever been. The laughter fades slowly and he grieves it—but your hand sliding away from your face like the sun coming up from behind a mountain eases the ache.

You reach out as if in a trance and run your thumb gently beneath his eye. He holds his breath as you make contact, butterfly light. Nobody has ever touched him like this before.

“You’re gorgeous,” you murmur. A thoughtless observation. A truth cast to the breeze. Knuckles carefully follow the dip of his cheekbone—a cartographer, learning her way by touch. Marking her territory. He’d let you do it. His eye stings, ready to spring forth a river just so you can have the pleasure of discovering it. “Breathe,” you laugh, softly, and he does.

“Sorry.”

You don’t say a thing. You let your fingers trace borders into his skin and follow them with soft eyes and he wonders what he’s ever done to deserve this kind of magic. He wonders if he’ll ever feel as good as he does right now, when it’s all over. Nobody has ever paid this much attention to him—but you’re intent, focused, like he’s art.

“Tell me about Vegas.”

It takes him a moment to reply.

“Hm?”

He feels bewitched. Warm. Foggy. A thumb brushes over his lips, but it’s only a pass, thank god, because he can hardly stand how you’re touching him already, at the high point of his cheek, beneath his brow. Finally getting enough sometimes feels awfully close to too much. He’s already almost cried once.

“I wanna hear about Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go. Is it hot?”

Spencer will say whatever you want him to say, but he has to focus a little—like he’s speaking through honey.

“In the summer, during the day. In the winter at night it drops to below freezing.”

“Desert-y,” you hum.

“Very.”

“Tell me more.”

There’s a rousing hunger in your voice and it reminds Spencer to want you again. He finds your waist and tugs you closer. Who is he with you?

Is he better?

“There are 175 casinos in the city, but only thirty on the strip. There are 15,000 miles of neon tubing on the strip alone. It’s the brightest place on earth. You can see it from space.”

“Not that.”

Petulant. He loves it.

His lips find the softness of your shoulder. “Then what?”

The only clue that you can feel what he’s doing to you is the twitch of your fingers on his cheek.

“Tell me something… tell me exactly how it feels to stand in the middle of the desert. With nobody else around. Tell me things and details I couldn’t know about unless I’ve been there.”

At the junction of your neck, he pauses. This beautiful girl, and her beautiful brain—you are so disarming. So perfect.

You shiver into him as his fingers brush up the back of your neck, gently pushing away hair so he can learn you everywhere. So he can remember your landscape, just like he’s doing as he closes his eyes and falls into memory.

A gas station, off the side of the road—seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Desert all around. His dad’s ’79 Ford Fiesta—the one he didn’t take with him when he left. The driver’s door is open. Spencer’s dad has been inside for minutes. Spencer is watching from the middle of the road, because he looked out from the backseat of the Fiesta, and saw that dark, unassuming spot, and thought—how would it feel to be the darkness? What would I see if I were nothing at all?

When he gets there, and he stands on the sun bleached pavement, veined with spiderwebs of tar, and he sees this all from a distance—he realizes he feels exactly the same as he always does. So he pivots his head to the left. The road goes on until it disappears into the smudgy horizon. To the right, it does the same. The earth swells, far away, so many miles, so coal black, so impossible. Hardly even real. But there is something out there, he thinks. There is something, even if nobody else has ever been there, and I want to stand in the middle of it and I will learn how it feels to be nothing. I will not observe—I will become apart of the landscape, with the Joshua trees that have been there for a thousand years, and the rocks that haven’t moved in millennia.

So he begins to walk.

The rocks crunch under his feet, and that is the only noise.

He walks for minutes. He walks until he knows the gas station will be small. He walks until he can feel the emptiness on the back of his neck, until it feels like an embrace.

“It’s silent,” he hears himself say to you, in some other universe, decades in the future. “At night, it’s completely silent. You can hear yourself breathe. If you throw a pebble ten feet away, you’ll hear it hit the ground.”

Little Spencer takes a deep breath of inky air.

“It smells like… geosmin.”

“What?”

Perfect. Your voice is perfect.

“Dirt. But it’s not the same as dirt anywhere else. It’s… drier, like it’s smelled the same way for a really long time.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn. He’s doing a terrible job explaining.

But he feels your breath on his cheek—eager. Your hand at his shoulder as you lean closer, enraptured. Reverent, almost.

“What else?”

What else?

Dry brush snags on the hem of the corduroys his mother had picked out for him. They’re a little too short. She’s going to try to take him shopping again tomorrow. It’ll work this time—they’ll get to the store. Mom’s just been having some trouble leaving the house lately.

Rustling leaves skim the tips of his fingers as he reaches out for them, and keeps walking. When was the last time someone touched that shrub?

“There’s vegetation. Creosote, mostly, if you’re in the scrubland. Larrea tridentada. It’s dry—kind of twiggy, with green leaves and yellow flowers in the spring. The smell is bad, like asphalt, but you only notice if you get close.”

He hears his dad calling his name. It fades in and out.

It’s dizzying, hearing his father’s voice. His father saying his name.

It’s been a long time.

“It’s so flat that things don’t echo. But because of the extreme variations in temperature the air pressure sometimes forces the sound waves to the ground and makes it impossible for them to propagate. They’re called the Santa Ana winds. Someone could be standing right next to you and if the wind blows at just the right angle, you won’t be able to hear them. But when it’s still, sound carries far.”

His father is angry. Or is he worried?

Spencer can make out his dad, pacing frantically back and forth across the gas station pad, white button-up a glowing beacon even from this far away beneath the lone yellow street light. He looks so small. So very far away. Ant-like.

Santa Ana comes slow—warmer than the night air around him, to ruffle his hair and rustle the dry leaves and blow soft clouds of fragrant sienna dirt around at his knees. It blows through him. For a moment, it wakes the desert up.

Then it’s passed. It moves further down the desert and leaves Spencer behind. Things settle into silence again. He’s alone again.

Spencer’s stomach flips as he realizes his father can’t see him this far away, this deep into the dark nothing.

As he finally feels the enormity of the distance on all sides.

Suddenly the void behind him is massive. Suddenly it is everything, and it is sucking him deeper. Nobody can see him. He could just disappear into 25,000 square miles of desert. He’s already, what—a thousand feet gone? More? The weight of all the infinite space behind him presses, and he thought it’d feel interesting but it feels like dying and there has never been so much regret or dread curdling in his stomach before. His face crumples, eyes stinging in the dry air, and he takes one step forward, and then another, and then he runs like he’s running for his life. But he doesn’t feel chased—no, that’s the worst part. He is running from an infinite, vacuous, nothing. Dad! He screams, but even this young he knows how sound waves work in the desert and he can tell his dad can’t hear him and he’s running and screaming until his lungs burn, and the scrub lashes at his ankles, and it has been the same for a thousand years and it will stay the same for a thousand more with or without him. Dad, I’m right here! He sobs, the words ripping up his throat with desperation as they go.

Finally, finally, he’s heard, and he’s close enough to see his dad seeing him, he stops pacing and stares dumbfounded at the little boy appearing from the desert, sneakers slapping cracked asphalt. He gets closer and closer until he can see the lines on his father’s face and the color of his eyes and he sobs as he crashes into him. His dad’s hands are vice-tight around his arms, as Spencer cries and can’t breathe and thrashes like a fish out of water.

What? Is all his father can manage, tight and baffled and afraid and the first word of a question he doesn’t even know how to ask. He says it again and again, like a skipping record; what—what? What?

On the drive home, Spencer sits in the backseat, a bottle of Bug Juice in his lap. His ankles sting, whipped and bloodied and punished for wearing too-short pants.

The silence is cloistering and at the same time, completely par for the course. He does not expect his father to speak to him, but he sort of thinks maybe another father would.

Outside, the black spine of distant mountains rolls on forever and stays impossibly far away. He peers out into the nothing, past what the moonlight can illuminate—and now, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows how it feels. Imagines another little boy made of shadows, as far away from the road as he’d been, and feels sick from all that fruit juice. He won’t ask his dad to pull over—all he wants is to get rid of that feeling on the back of his neck, like he’s dissolving into space. Like he’s the only thing for miles and miles.

But the problem is—the feeling doesn’t go away.

Not in the driveway. Not in the bath. Not in bed, later that night.

Spencer did a bad thing and he wishes he could go back to normal. He wishes he didn’t get that desert feeling when he was surrounded by other people. But it comes back, again and again. At school. When he tentatively asks for new pants and his mom throws a vase at the wall and then sobs on the floor for forty minutes. When a few weeks later, his dad leaves, and doesn’t take the Ford with him—so it sits under the carport, greets him on his way to school every morning, and over the course of years the windshield turns opaque with dust.

He hasn’t stopped feeling that way since.

“You okay?”

A long, soft breath draws him back into his body. Into his bed.

Not creosote. Not geosmin. Not the Santa Ana winds, coming from the deepest parts of the desert and carrying their desolation to him. Shampoo. Warmth. A girl who smells sort of like him, now—a girl whose perfume is all over his neck and chest and pillow.

You’re there. You, a stranger. You, a girl he’s going to fall in love with. You—the only person he ever brought into the desert with him. The only person who ever brought him back.

Point Nemo is not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Asphodel is not in the underworld. It’s a little less than half a mile out across from an old gas station on the I-15 in the middle of the Mojave desert.

Spencer nods because he can’t bring himself to speak just yet.

You smile and take the time to find his hand in the dark.

“Felt like I was out there with you. Thanks.”

And he squeezes your hand—because for the first time, it feels like someone is going to come looking for him.

lyrics from my life in art <3

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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sp4ceboo · 3 months ago

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a/n: ok so. alpha deku. this was specifically inspired by this art here and here because. what the fuck man. this gave me severe brain rot. absolutely delicious artwork, belongs in museum.

tw: 18+, smutty, afab omega reader, a/b/o, alpha deku goes into rut, breeding kink (it's a/b/o, what were we expecting)

wc: 1.2k

Everyone knows when your alpha is close to his rut.

Since Izuku has risen on the hero rankings, ‘everyone’ has become anyone who happens to be watching the news that week. Citizens, villains, news reporters, hell, even his mother - they all know. It would be hard to not notice, not with the pheromones that practically ooze off him, and especially not with the way he acts.

Normally, the villains are the first to know. You always patrol with Izuku (he insisted it be that way, but you wouldn’t have been paired with anyone else with how obvious it is that the two of you work best together), and usually, you’ll divide and conquer any minor villains with ease. You’re ridiculously attuned to each other, able to communicate in battle just as well with your eyes as with your words, and it makes it pretty hard to mount a defense against.

All of that flies straight out of the window the moment his pre-rut hits; the hormones give him an extra edge, a strength derived from something primal, and his hindbrain takes control. Your mate is a force to be reckoned with already, but in pre-rut, he’s unstoppable.

You’re aware that he knows you’re perfectly capable of holding your own, but once his instincts take over, there’s no stopping him. He’ll break a villain’s hand if they come too close to you, flashing his canines and snarling keep away from my omega while he pumps out a ridiculous amount of pheromones. By then, they’re already running: it’s no secret that his threats aren’t empty when it comes to you.

The reporters are the next to find out, and you hope that the ones that get sent to interview you and Izuku while he’s in pre-rut get paid extra, because he’s impossible; once he’s sure the villains are successfully detained, he’ll latch onto you, curling an arm about your waist and wrapping himself around you from behind.

It’s worth acknowledging that Izuku is big, even by alpha standards. He’s fucking huge, broad shoulders and massive thighs, still bristling from the fight, and he dwarfs your frame entirely when he crowds into you the way he does. You’ve seen fan-made compilations, clips of him draped over you, nose buried in your hair as you answer reporters’ questions, captioned with things like ‘proof pro-hero Deku can’t get enough of his mate, if you hadn’t noticed already’.

You always politely smile for the cameras, but he has no patience for them. He never speaks during those interviews, instead drowning his restlessness in the familiarity of your scent, growling if anyone comes too close and only letting up once they retreat.

At that point, you already reek of him - well, more than you usually do - and when you feel that you’ve shown face enough, you excuse yourself. No one can refuse you, not when you have a more than just sizeable alpha hanging off your shoulders, glaring at anyone who might dare to object.

On the way home, you’ve made a habit of filing your request for leave from work (that is, if your manager hasn’t seen the news and already granted it). You’ve never been refused leave, but that doesn’t surprise you. The risk of having pro-hero Deku off patrol is nothing compared to having him half crazy, half feral and fully grumpy, supposedly watching over the city while in reality all he does is want after his omega.

Reliably, you’ll barely have gotten through the doorway of your home, struggling to close the door behind you, when he finally lets loose.

He’ll be all over you, hands tugging at your clothes while he laps at your scent glands, almost drooling as he breathes in your pheromones. Rut reduces your alpha to nothing but a mess. You won’t even be more than a metre into your house, and he’ll be grinding against you, fondling you, groaning in your ears and telling you sinful things: that you smell so fucking good, that he can’t wait to be deep in your sweet omega pussy.

They’re always dirty, the things he mumbles in your ears, but it always circles back to the same thing - I protected you so well, didn’t I, omega? I kept you safe, right? - and you nod every time, kissing him sweetly - yes alpha, of course you did - and tilting your head back to give him access to your throat, a display of trust, because that’s what he needs to hear. That’s what has his cock throbbing against your hip, achingly hard.

It’s what sets that part of him ablaze, just like you burn whenever he tells you that you’re such a good, pretty omega for him and that you take him so well while he fucks you through your heat. Yes, Izuku understands you can protect yourself, but he needs to know that he’s a good alpha to you, that he takes care of his mate and keeps you happy and safe and content.

The moment he hears that, he won’t stop until you're knotted and pumped full of his come.

He’ll take you against the first flat surface that presents itself (usually the wall of your foyer), slipping in easily because your body responds to him even before you’ve smelt his exquisite pheromones, your pussy all slicked up and fluttering for him. He won’t stop for days after that, ruining you on his cock over and over again, eyes rolling back in his head as he slurs about how he’s going to give you his pups, and though you know it won’t take because of your medication, sometimes you wish it would.

Right now, you lie on his warm chest, tracing the constellations of his freckles with your fingertips. Today his rut started no different from how it normally does, and he’s purring softly in his sleep beneath you, his warm palms splayed wide over your back; you smile at the occasional snore that leaves him. Your mate has been busy recently. You’re not surprised that he knocked out so quickly.

He’s fucked his knot into you already, and from where it sits snugly inside you, you can feel it slowly coming down. You don’t bother to lift yourself off him though - he’s far from done, and besides, he’ll just ease it right back into you the moment he wakes up.

You’ve heard people comment on how your Izuku is pretty high maintenance during his rut, that he should take suppressants to give you a break, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

He stirs, and you watch his green lashes dip as he blinks his way back to consciousness; gently, he catches your fingers, his palm calloused against your skin, and lifts your hand to his mouth to press kisses your knuckles. Your lips curl up at the sight of him, unruly hair mussed, glowing in that way he does during his rut, and sleepy eyed, he smiles back.

Already, you can feel him stiffening inside of you, his body getting ready for another round. He cups your face in his hands, fitting his lips to yours, and you find yourself grinning into his kisses.

Yeah, you definitely wouldn't have it any other way.

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daycourtofficial · 1 year ago

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Gingerfucker - Eris x Rhys’s Sister!reader Masterlist

Banner by @milswrites | Note: these are in chronological order by content, not by posting date. This is an ongoing series and will be updated.

Summary: no one is more surprised than Eris Vanserra to find that he is capable of much more than just political ambition

Some art of the babies: (Nyx and Atlas) (All the gingersnaps) (Atlas and Leif) (Atlas) (the family)

Art by @dawneternal: Eris during the events of Cold was the steel of my axe to grind, portraits of the gingersnaps, art of Eris and Atlas

Gingerfucker week 2024 blurbs

Moodboard

It’s just to satiate the bond - an agreement to have sex just to satiate a mating bond neither party wants is a great idea. Surely no one will get hurt, right?

Insatiable you - immediately following the events of it’s just to satiate the bond - Eris’s sudden disappearance when you saw him last has left you in a foul mood for weeks. Unwilling to admit to the source of them, they aren’t as one sided as your mate wants you to think they are.

One single thread of gold tied me to you* - Eris accepts the mating bond and is incredibly touched by the effort you put into cooking him the meal from scratch

All’s well that ends well to end up with you - fears and doubts cause you and Eris to do your first irrational act together: a secret mating bond ceremony

I am ash from your fire - Surprising Eris one evening, you’ve turned up in the dead of night to let him know that your brother had figured out your secret relationship, offering you an ultimatum.

Cold was the steel of my axe to grind - centuries of plotting and scheming come to a head when his mate unexpectedly arrives in Autumn and Eris is desperate to set his plans in motion, least she become a piece for Beron to use against him

Chains around my demons, wool to brave the seasons - Eris leaves his mate alone in the Forest House, telling her to trust no one but his mother. The two women are ill-equipped to provide frontline fighting, but surely they can help Eris in their own way. *companion piece to ‘Cold was the steel of my axe to grind’

Hell was the journey but it brought me Heaven - in the immediate aftermath of Beron’s death and the thrum of power in his veins, Eris’s mate forces him to, at the bare minimum, bathe

Secret exchanges - a few weeks after the aftermath of Rhys’s banishment, your mate, the new High Lord of the Autumn Court, has a secret meeting with someone from your family.

Blood moon in Autumn - fae cycles are no joke, but your mate is always there to provide you comfort in the best way possible: by being your personal heating pad

Have I found you, flightless bird? - a reflection of a life of secrets and expectations and how, despite it all, a flightless bird found home in an unlikely place

Ferocious beasts with soft bellies - Eris’s hounds know you’re pregnant before either of you do, driving the two of you wild with their newfound devotion to you.

Starfall in Autumn - based on the prompt for Starfall week “characters a and b realize they won’t make it to Starfall. They make the most of what they have to celebrate”

Laborious anxieties - Eris is riddled with anxiety leading up to your labor, but what happens when some of his worst fears come to fruition?

Cursing my name, wishing I stayed - your relationship with Rhysand had been icy at best, but your attempts to reconcile are quick to be shot down. A rash decision leads you to endangering your life - can Eris find you in time? Can he save your infant son?

Amber eyes, looking into mine - Eris finds something in his study that triggers him into a frozen state of panic. Who better suited to pulling Eris from his past than his future?

We started alone, in the end we’re okay - on a rare night alone, Eris reflects on his long life and the lonely nights that haunted his youth. And how he’s a long way from the person he was and the person he had to be.

Fireling - every father’s dream is to be there the day his son first uses his powers. Luckily for Eris, he gets just that.

How the kingdom lights shine just for me and you - Eris tells his sons a story, letting them know how a strong knight defeated an evil dragon and saved the kingdom.

Loving parents, harmless fun - Modern!Gingerfucker - slice of life where Eris takes his family on a roadtrip and is only slightly annoyed at his son’s choice of car game

* = smut

#gingerfucker #acotar fanfiction #acotar writing #eris vanserra fanfic

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astro-rainbow777 · 1 year ago

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💐🌸 𝓣𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓾𝓼 𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓼 🧸🌱

♉︎ - Happy Taurus Season Everyone!!! In honor of Taurus season, I am continuing the signs through the houses series. I hope y’all enjoy my findings & this post serves you well. Thanks so much for all of the support! Happy Spring & Upcoming Beltane to the Pagan Community <3

🌸 Taurus in the First House ~ Taurus on the ascendant is the embodiment of peace, calm and pleasure. These natives aren’t the most outgoing but leave such a comfortable and cozy first impression. They don’t say more than needs to be said, however they are unlikely to turn down a conversation. They have a soft and natural beauty about them and strong familial values. They enjoy the finer things, have a clean aesthetic and a “rich” aura. Many of them are shorter or more petitie in size, have a pleasing and smooth voice and kind eyes. However, if you mess with the bull, you’ll get the horns! Being on the opposing end of Scorpio, when they cut you off, it is completely. Good luck getting back into their lives because they are a closed book. Why y’all always smell good? Fr tho

🐂 Taurus in the Second House ~ Here the sign is in its ruling house, they do very well in saving their money, are picky about what they eat and indulge in the material pleasures of life. They value loyalty, commitment, stability and security - not to mention their love fashion & the arts. They will tell you they have the most exquisite taste, you would find it very difficult to change their mind. They hold up strong values and morales, what they know to be right and wrong is the truth. This is a very secure personality, they are very comfortable with their bodies, and have a healthy sense of worth and self love. Honestly such a healthy placement - as someone with NO earth in their chart - muhbenaaaace

💰 Taurus in the Third House ~ These natives find security and peace in their childhood homes, where they grew up, the memories of their cousins and siblings. They could be the most stable or the least stable out of their siblings. The way they think, learn and communicate is slow and methodical. They take their time in studying new topics, preferring to stay on the surface of a topic. They may have an artistic and beautiful singing voice, or maybe the way they speak is just very polite and sweet. They were raised with manners and this makes them very charming. They can have a liking for music that moves at a slower pace, classical music, or just a more elegant taste in art.

🥘 Taurus in the Fourth House ~ Their family could be a source of stability and security for them. The mom, mother figure or more feminine role model can be the bread winner in the family, her love language could be gifts, an amazing cook, and give a lot of hugs 🫂 They have stable emotions, it takes a lot to emotionally sway them. It may end up bothering people who try to get an emotional reaction from them because of this. They can be the most grounded one in their family. Their family may view them as realistic, practical and reliable. Family is what gives them sanction from the world.

💝 Taurus in the Fifth House ~ They express them selves in a very material type of way, their flex is their finances. These natives take a lot of pride in what they have...this usually comes from a place of having to work really hard for their things. They love the natural look, minimalist, they like long lasting, high quality, practical fashion. To them that is the best statement to make. They don’t like that trash to treasure look their tastes are refined. They will shower their kids with the finer things and really enjoy providing for them - this will be their love language. They aren’t huge adrenaline junkies and enjoy more grounded, chill hobbies. They definitely don’t mind being alone and love their down time at home…on the couch…snacks…naps…repeat.

🐻 Taurus in the 6th ~ These natives prefer a slow start to their daily routine, and enjoy a slow paced job, with chill yet organized coworkers. The workplace must be something that they don’t hate… because if they hate it and it stresses them out just thinking of going, they won’t work there. Period. They need low maintenance pets as these individuals are very independent in nature. It’s important for their day job to be a place of peace and pleasure for them, and once they are comfortable, it’s gonna be hard to get them to leave. Their job can provide them with sooooo much stability if they have a good one.

🍨 Taurus in the 7th ~ Wining and Dining with your loved ones! Shopping sprees, luxurious and high quality partners. With the ones they love the most, they spoil, eat and they just want to be lazy with them honestly. They want their relationships to be a place of peace for them. It’s important that their partner can support themselves and is stable on their own. It will just cause them stress if they are constantly worrying about having to take care or mommy their partner. It’s possible that they can stay with someone out of fear of the unknown/change, even tho they don’t like them or it’s not working anymore.

🌷 Taurus in the Eighth House ~ Cycles related to self esteem, self worth, and supporting themselves. Honestly, this is a really hard placement to have- they may have times where they stay in ab*sive relationships because they can’t support themselves financially or they are too uncomfortable alone. However, the eighth house is notorious for taking your greatest fear/weakness and turning it into their super power. You just have to get through those lessons and take those leaps of faith to unlock that power and hidden potential! They like to engage in their senses when they’re intimate with their partners and prefer slow love making rather than the raw primal stuff.

🪴 Taurus in the Ninth House ~ These people can be a little fixed in their beliefs, their spiritual beliefs/religion can be a source stability and sanction for them. If they aren’t necessarily spiritual- they could just have a specific philosophy or lifestyle that they stick to. What I admire about these individuals, is they know exactly what they want. When they travel, it has to be somewhere where they know exactly what to expect, somewhere that won’t give them anxiety, and probably a more luxurious staycation type of experience. They could also enjoy a nice nature walk with their loved ones.

👛 Taurus in the Tenth House ~ Every single person I have met with this placement neeeeeed a stable job, they will not leave a job if it provides them with the type of lifestyle they desire. It doesn’t really matter what they are doing for their career as long as it aligns with their values. Their dad/father figure could have been the sole provider and could have made a huge impact on their reputation. This is definitely a daddies money placement 💀 - sorry if that’s triggering for anyone lol. The father figure could be super down to earth and chill, enjoy cooking or just be way too overly indulgent in a negative manifestation.

👒 Taurus in the Eleventh House ~ Is the stay at home friend, doesn’t like to get out of their comfort zone to meet new people. Much likely to want to stay inside and bond with their community in a space that is familiar and inviting to them. Their community could be their sanction and be the most stable part of their lives. They enjoy cooking and creating art for their friends. Anything to bring peace to their homies senses! For their friends, the Taurus eleventh house native’s place is a home away from home. How special 🥹

👄 Taurus in the Twelfth House ~ When it comes to matters of the twelfth house, spirituality, isolation, ect. - these individuals may like to keep things light and on the surface. They are comfortable being alone, in fact they consider it to be comfortable and safe. Their spirituality isn’t something they spend time questioning, and they could be very comfortable with the unknown, they enjoy their own curious nature. They are endearing to their own selves, however sometimes their sense of worth could be confusing. They may have a hard time understanding their own values and morals, preferring to just go with the flow, everyday they are a new person trying on different personalities, hobbies and styles! The possibilities are endless! It’s quite an interesting placement. One more thing….secret indulgences…the silent snacker

Smell ya later!

#astro community #astrology #astrology signs #zodiac #spirituality #taurus #taurus rising #astrology observations #Taurus in the Houses

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muniimyg · 3 months ago

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*ੈ✩‧₊˚ SUPERNOVA // JJK ੈ✩‧₊˚

01 | 02 | ♡ 03

— stuck in an unspoken love triangle, oc and jungkook face the end of it all

au/genre:

mean girl au

love triangle

childhood friends to lovers

note: omg ! the end <3

jungkook had a plan.

he was going to show you around the new exhibit, confess, and ask to be your boyfriend. his entire life, he waited for signs and for the perfect time—only for him to realize that there will never be a moment where bells ring and tell him; now.

no.

you see, after all this time—for his entire life—you have been the quiet.

his quiet.

all his life, it’s like his eyes only focused on you. everything and everyone around him was blurry and the only real clarity he had in his life was art and you… and as corny as it is; that’s what you are to him entirely.

art.

from your pottery, to the way you look, and to the way you simple are—you are his favourite masterpiece.

the canvas gallery is where you two ran around as kids, amazed at all the pieces other artists made. so, it only made sense that this would be the place where he kicks his anxiety in the ass and finally fucking goes for it.

so, he waited.

and waited.

…. and waited.

and right when he was about to call you—

hana showed up.

she grabbed his arm and yapped all about how excited she is to be here with him. to that, jungkook shook off her grip and stepped away.

...

“what are you doing here?”

“___ gave me her ticket—”

“fuck that. hana, why do you always do this? why do you always take things from ___?”

with distant yet jealous eyes, hana replied; “because she has better things than me. i like her things. is it so wrong to like her things?”

“are you insane?”

“maybe.” hana scoffed. “i don’t get it. what does she have that i don’t? we grew up together and did everything together—yet, it’s like… i’m not even half of her.”

“because you aren’t.” he growled. “you hate ___, right?”

silence.

“that’s okay,” jungkook exhaled. “cos i fucking hate you. with all my being. ever since you blew out ___’s 14th birthday candles. ever since you always kissed the guys she was into. ever since her pottery business bloomed and you accidently knocked over a piece she was working on for two months. god, hana. i have and will always hate you.”

“shit, jungkook. is that it? are you done—”

“no,” he sighed. “i will never be done hating you for taking every opportunity to turn anything good for ___ into something bad. you want to play mean girl? fine by me. let’s fucking play. get this through your fucking head; i will never be yours but i will forever be ___'s."

...

jungkook gave you time.

partly because he was mad—mad that you gave hana your ticket so easily, mad at how quickly you folded like you always do. but mostly, because he knows how you are in moments like this. you don’t talk. you retreat, giving yourself space to breathe, to think. he hopes you’re using the time to clear your head, making space for him.

by the third week of awkward text exchanges—his dry "good night" met with your overly polite “you too"—and no more nightly facetime calls where he fell asleep to your voice, jungkook snaps.

he gets into his car and drives to your studio.

the late afternoon light spills through the frosted windows as he parks outside. his stomach twists at the sight of the closed sign hanging on the door, but the faint hum of a song playing inside tells him you’re there. jungkook knocks, loud and insistent.

for a moment, he worries you won’t answer.

that you’ll pretend not to hear him or let the music drown him out. but then, he hears the soft shuffle of slippers and the click of the lock.

when the door creaks open, you’re there.

cheeks flushed from the warmth of the studio, hair tied back messily, and streaks of dried clay smudged across your forearms. your apron is dusted in powdery beige, a damp hand towel clutched in your fingers.

“jungkook—”

he doesn’t let you finish.

his name on your lips is enough to tip him over the edge. stepping forward, he pushes the door shut behind him and closes the space between you in one fluid motion.

your back hits the sink behind you with a soft thud, the cool porcelain biting through the thin fabric of your apron. his hands find your waist first, firm and grounding, as though he’s anchoring himself to you.

“w-what are you—”

“i can’t do this anymore,” he mutters, his voice low and trembling, the words spilling out as though they’ve been trapped inside for years.

he shifts closer, one hand leaving your waist to cradle your jaw. his thumb grazes your cheek, where a smear of dried clay clings to your skin. you’re so warm, and so unbearably soft that it makes his chest ache. his other hand brushes against the edge of your apron, his knuckles bumping against the damp streaks of clay still drying on your fingers.

“jungkook—” you try again, but your voice falters when he leans in. his forehead brushes yours, and he’s so close you can see the strain in his jaw, the tension pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“i’ve had enough, ___,” he breathes, his voice trembling with something between desperation and exhaustion. “i’m tired of bending backwards to see you. i'm tired of people standing in front of you and i'm sick of you letting them. most of all, i’m tired of waiting for the right time. i—i’ve been in love with you since we were seven, and you know that.”

his hand leaves your cheek to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers trembling slightly as they linger there. “i haven’t done much to hide it, have i? i'm sorry. i've been a coward but... maybe i never did anything because i always knew how you felt about me too.”

your hands tighten on the towel, the wet clay squelching under your fingers. you glance down, unable to meet his gaze, but he doesn’t let you escape.

“look at me,” he pleads softly, tilting your chin upward until your eyes lock with his. the raw intensity in his stare steals the air from your lungs.

“please, ___... i'm fucking begging to you see me through this,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he leans his forehead against yours again. “i'm begging you to take my heart and mold it yours.”

and that’s exactly what you do.

your hands tremble, damp with clay and nerves, as you reach for him. you cradle his jaw gently, your thumbs brushing over the faint stubble along his cheeks.

then you kiss him.

jungkook freezes at first, his breath hitching in surprise, but it takes only a heartbeat before he softens. his lips move against yours, slow and deep, like he’s memorizing every second of this moment.

he’s hesitant—his hands stay planted on your waist, his grip cautious, almost shy. but when you sigh against him, his restraint snaps. his fingers curl into the fabric of your apron as he steps closer, pressing his body firmly against yours.

he bends his knees slightly, his arms sliding down to wrap around your thighs. with a quiet grunt, he lifts you effortlessly, settling you on the edge of the sink. your legs part instinctively, making room for him to step closer, his body slotting perfectly between yours.

you gasp softly as his hands find the back of your thighs, pulling you flush against him. your fingers slip into his hair, still streaked with clay, and he laughs quietly against your lips at the mess you're making.

his laugh fades quickly, replaced by a deep hum as he kisses you harder, with more certainty. the kiss grows messy, your breaths mingling and the faint taste of salt lingering between you.

when he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, and his eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. he doesn’t move far—his forehead rests against yours, his nose brushing yours as his fingers trace small circles on your thighs.

“so…” he whispers, his lips curling into a boyish grin as his gaze flicks to your apron, your hands still smeared with clay. “about that mug?”

#bts mini fic complete #jk scenario #jungkook confession #jungkook f2l #jungkook childhood friends to lovers #jungkook fic #jungkook scenario

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