#so he's observant of the signs of someone leaving

[justforyourlovee]

Astrology observation -1-

Buy me a coffee (tip)

₊˚⊹ People with Leo Mercury are very straightforward in expressing what they want to say. You will always find them leading something even more so than Aries Mercury individuals because while Aries Mercury handles leadership with aggression, Leo Mercury shine when they speak their mind.

₊˚⊹ Having Capricorn, Sagittarius, and Scorpio in the same chart will create a person that can basically make people hate being around them. Sorry for that, but I’ve met a lot of people with these placements, and it's always the same. They are pessimistic in a sense, blunt, and emotionless, and they want everything to go their way like a 'my way or the highway' type of person. At first, people may fear them, but over time, that fear starts to turn into a dislike for being around them because they tend to release a lot of negative energy at some point. And let’s be honest no one wants to be around negativity.

₊˚⊹ A Cancer with prominent Gemini placements is the definition of a '1000-face' person, frr. These individuals manipulate situations in the worst way possible, especially when combined with Mars energy (Aries and Scorpio placements). They can be superficial and always look for a way out of a problem by playing the victim. The wildest part? They lie and actually believe their own lies. For example, if they stole something and sensed people were suspicious, they would cry their way out of it and genuinely convince themselves they didn’t do it. On the bright side, they’d make great actors.

₊˚⊹ 12th house placements are naturally drawn to solitude, but they have an incredible depth of spirituality. As someone with Moon-Jupiter in the 12th house, I find it fascinating how in tune these individuals are with the unseen. They have a unique ability to perceive things clearly, if that makes sense. If you're ever going through tough times and need deep, insightful advice, you’re better off seeking someone with strong 12th house placements they just know things in a way others don’t.

₊˚⊹ Make sure to pay close attention to which planet conjuncts your Saturn that's your biggest karmic lesson. For example, if you have Mercury conjunct Saturn, you may struggle with expressing your thoughts and communicating effectively, often feeling stuck. Writing might become a useful outlet for you. Also, consider the sign where this conjunction occurs. If it's in Cancer, for instance, you might find it difficult to express your emotions and may fear hurting others with your words, causing you to hold back.

₊˚⊹ People with Taurus Venus love being spoiled they thrive on luxury and comfort. Nothing makes them happier than a partner who treats them, whether it’s paying for a meal or gifting them something nice. They see it as a sign of love and security.

₊˚⊹ Having Moon square Venus is really tough, whether in a man's or a woman's chart. In a man's chart, it indicates that the vision of the woman he wants as his wife is so different from what he wants in a girlfriend, which can eventually lead to cheating. In a woman's chart, it's like she can't express her feminine energy in a way that truly satisfies her she may want one thing but need something different, leaving her stuck between her emotional needs and what she wants in a relationship.

[celestialtarot11]

Degree Theory in Charts and Observations 🤍

Moon/sun at 8 or 20 degrees can signify trauma, releasing your ego and patterns that have hurt you subconsciously. 8 degrees and 20 both signify scorpios energy, and when placed on the big 3, it can dampen your signs energy. You may be a Leo sun, but when it's at 8 degrees your passion, creativity, and aspects of yourself can largely remain private. You are passionate, only to those you trust. Introverts become extroverts around the right people.

Gemini degrees on your moon/venus/sun 3, 15, 27 can suggest being a logical thinker, preferring to analyze your emotions and think deeply. You may like hearing podcasts on philosophy, emotional processing, books informed on trauma, and be interested in dissecting religion, spirituality, and occult related topics. Or how different cultures overall approach mental health or spirituality as a whole.

Luigi Mangione has Venus at 3 degrees and early on he wrote an essay portraying how christianity benefitted by appealing to the lower classes of ancient Rome at 15. His words not only reach a few people but a mass global scale, sharing his pain with those who suffered at the hands of the medical system. To this day he is currently seen as smart, intelligent, and romanticized even. He openly speaks out about the failing health care system. It's possible he may go on to write books in prison detailing his experiences and exposing the truth.

Also, his Mars is at 15 degrees of gemini, and it's a theory that this degree is associated with assassinations or killings. With Mars here, he was motivated by his anguish to make a move that started change. His sun is conj mars, so, he already has a following of those who look up to him as a savior, activist, and an important person in social justice.

George Orwell has his moon at 8 degrees in the 8h in Gemini, and he went on to describe the dangers of totalitarianism rising in the west. He wrote 1984 as a warning to the US, and his scorpio degrees also made him incredibly adept to the rising dangers in our politics.

He was intelligent, a philosopher, a politician, and someone who feared humanities behavior much more than the government itself. His sun sits in the 8h, further conveying his desire for truth, honesty and revealing how dark politics are and can be. He not only described the governments regime, but how mind control worked to steer us away from facts.

His sun was in cancer at 2 degrees (taurus) signifying his need for stability in an unstable world, applying practicality to his reasoning and not just spewing words of anger. He was strong in his reasoning, yet flexible to agree with Huxley (another philosopher)

The 22 degree (Capricorn) is considered heavy, intense, challenging and even traumatic whether it's placed on your personal planets or Chiron. It's usually associated with ruthlessness, discipline, and rigidity in the native. It's why people see them as powerful, and intimidating. Capricorn is destructive here, but ultimately leads to a transformation.

Sun at 13 degrees can indicate leaving a legacy, popularity, fame over media. Depending on where the sun sits, this will tell you how it happens. For example JonBenét Ramsey’s had her sun in the 4h at 13 degrees, which is critical. She was thrust into a family related legacy, and was required to uphold it through beauty pageants.

She was a star, with Leo in the 4h. But Aries degree here suggests an infliction of Mars, and her sun was weak (opposing moon) its possible this critical degree conveys what happened behind the scenes of her family life. Surrounded by pressure, aggression, all that responsibility being put onto her at a young age. It’s possible having an afflicted sun had her Mars energy amplified even more, conveying the aggression and high standards in her home life.

Moon at 12 degrees can suggest an empathetic, intuitive and sensitive individual. Someone who can read the room, perceives body language well, but can suffer from anxiety, overstimulation and overthinking. This can dissolve boundaries as well, leading to codependent behaviors, a lack of commitment to one’s healing journey for the sake of being there for others. This native can prefer to be by water, either at a beach, stream, river, etc. anywhere where they can be around nature is best for them.

Extra

Thanks all for reading! Let me know if I should make a pt 2 of this <3

Paid readings 🤍

[attractthecrows]

yeah yeah trick weekes says whatever about it not making sense that solas couldnt sneak off THEY FAILED TO CONSIDER that maybe he just is ass at it when he gets invested. much like. the whole fucking rest of the romance where he COMPLETELY fails to resist until the breakup.

anyway.

im personally of the opinion that he's more liable to slip up - fail at sneaking, accidentally reveal details, contradict himself - when he actually makes bonds with people. which is why after trespasser he goes and lives alone in the lighthouse for ten years but i digress.

and i think "that", the bonds tripping him up, should be reflected in his exit from the Inquisition. you're enemies or neutral, yeah he just vanishes. there's nothing to keep him there, nothing to interfere with his plans and intentions. you're (ex)lovers? i think he still would pull back purposefully and probably vanish, but there would be definite hesitation. he would have to force himself to do so, because fuck, he wants to stay. he wants to be close to you. but he also, crucially, knows that you have a dangerous sway over him, so he MUST disengage. if you're friends, it takes him some effort. because he does like you, he doesn't want to do what he has to, it's been so long since he had people who were friends to him, and he doesn't have to force himself away because he's in too deep. he knows you would worry about him. he might not be willing to give anyone the truth - but he would owe you a goodbye, at the very least. especially if you weren't the type to try to convince him to stay.

[zhelin-thames]

Sixteen Bucks and a Grudge

Inspired by this post

Masterpost

The Batcave descended into silence as the glowing figure hovered ominously, his voice reverberating through the space. Everyone stared at Bruce, whose face remained impassive, though there was a faint twitch in his left eye.

"Bruce," Danny's eldritch voice echoed again, the flickering green light from his form illuminating the cave. "You promised."

Jason was the first to break the silence, biting back a laugh. "Wait, hold up. Bats, you owe this guy—" he gestured at the spectral figure, "—sixteen bucks? And you didn’t pay him back?"

Tim blinked in disbelief. "Sixteen dollars? That’s it? Why not just pay him?"

Bruce’s jaw clenched. "It’s the principle."

"The principle?" Danny’s ethereal voice sharpened. "The principle is that you owe me money. I spotted you when you conveniently ‘forgot’ your wallet on that mission in Prague. Fifteen years, Bruce. Fifteen. Years."

Dick swung down from the obstacle course, landing with a flourish. "Bruce, this is... shocking. You didn’t pay back a friend? A ghostly friend?"

"Former associate," Bruce corrected, standing straighter.

"You don’t even have an excuse," Damian said, crossing his arms. "Father, this is shameful."

Cass, who had been silently observing, tilted her head at Danny and then at Bruce. "Pay him," she signed.

"Thank you!" Danny exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "See? She gets it!"

Steph nudged Duke, grinning. "This is the best thing that’s happened all week. I’m rooting for the glowing guy."

Jason smirked, holstering his guns. "Hey, Phantom—what happens if he doesn’t pay up? Do you haunt him or something?"

Danny’s eyes gleamed mischievously. "I’ve had fifteen years to think about that. Let’s just say Bruce would learn the true meaning of regret."

Bruce let out a long-suffering sigh, finally reaching into a compartment in his utility belt. He produced a crisp twenty-dollar bill and held it out toward Danny.

"Here."

Danny crossed his arms, floating closer but making no move to take it. "Sixteen. Not twenty. I’m not taking tips from someone who stiffed me for a decade and a half."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, then withdrew a smaller wad of cash and counted out exactly sixteen dollars. He handed it over wordlessly.

Danny plucked the money from Bruce’s hand with a smirk. "Pleasure doing business, old friend."

With that, Danny dissolved back into the glowing green portal, leaving the Batcave in a dim eerie glow for a few moments before it faded entirely.

As silence returned, Jason leaned back, arms crossed, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "So, Bruce, what’s the real story here? Because I need to know why you’d rather let a ghost King hunt you down than pay sixteen dollars."

Bruce turned back to his computer. "Get back to work."

Tim was already typing away. "Oh no, I’m finding the mission logs. There’s no way we’re letting this go."

"Sixteen years of holding a grudge," Dick added, shaking his head. "That guy has serious commitment."

Jason laughed. "Sounds like he’d fit right in."

[alnilaem]

coyote head and the body of a man — (e)

ghost/fem reader There's a killer on the loose. But your logging town is small and quaint and doesn't even appear on maps, so you know you're safe. That all changes when a gruff, big, taciturn man shows up at your workplace one day. Or; Simon is a fugitive serial killer, and you're the housekeeping girl that caught his eye.

cw for explicit content, graphic violence, possessive behaviour, size difference, cunnilingus, stalking

pinterest board | ao3 | for @spidehpig <3

You believe you were born in the centre of an exploding star. 

Born on the crest of death and fated for a bleak life. Dead, before you even had a chance.

The universe sweeps before you. Infinite. Expansive. Hungry. You float at the mouth of the galaxy and it swallows you whole, but doesn’t seem to like the taste of you—too bland, too trite—so it spits you back out and sends you tailspinning. 

You land with a lack of courtesy. Tossed between trees and dropped in a basin. You find yourself in nowhere, Oregon. In a town flecked by a lake inlet and a clement fjord, where the moose population outnumbers the people population. It has a maritime allure but strangely enough, isn’t commercial enough to be a tourist hub. It’s too hidden in the thicket. Too deep in a borehole.

Every day here is the same. It's an abyss that yawns before you with no end in sight, lacking undue entertainment and vividness and excitement. There’s no light pollution so far off the beaten track, so oftentimes, you’ll wish upon shooting stars for someone to come for your deliverance. 

There’s a reason they say be careful what you wish for.

The day isn’t even halfway over and your bone tips already ache with hard work. 

It isn’t to say your workplace is busy. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. A cut-rate motel with more vacancies than residents found far-removed from the highway, taking only cash, no card, which is good for deterring paper trails and welcoming the transient but is bad for providing records when the police come knocking. 

You’ll get the occasional trucker, the sparse backpacker. In any case, folks stay here when they don’t want to be bothered. They’ll drive past the splintery welcome sign and stop at the diner for earthy, full-bodied coffee and a slice of famous rhubarb pie. They’ll recuperate in the motel and leave before sunrise, and you’ll be there to clean up what they leave behind, scrubbing the memory out of the fibreglass bathtub for whoever’s next. 

It’s a place where time fleets away. Hallucinatory. Where people pay their due and you hang your head because after all, you’re nothing more than the housekeeping girl. Cottony pinafore and a black dress. Mary Jane flats. Fingers desquamating from years of bleach and vinegar stuck in your nail beds. You get handed dog-eared tips and in return, you don’t ask questions. But maybe you should have.

You’re sliding the window cleaner back into its compartment on the cleaning cart just as your boss scales the veranda. He’s grinning and sporting sweat stains across his armpits. A patchy beard. A loose tie. 

Your nerves lock up tight when he grasps your shoulders. His razorous fingers and the pinchbeck of his wedding band saws under your skin. The dregs of his afternoon drinking knocks into you, and you try not to let your body betray you. Despite that, your eyes water and your nose crinkles. You white-knuckle your dress and almost pop the fabric of your pinafore. 

“How’s my favourite employee?” he grins. “Is she workin’ hard?”

There’s an irreverent innuendo somewhere in his smile. You ignore it and opt for a stale smile.

“I’m working,” you eke out. “I've got to restock the bathroom, then I’m done.”

“That’s good, peach. Real good,” he watches you collect toiletry essentials, then tacks on, “there’s a man in the lobby.”

You falter. The travel-sized shampoo bottle almost slips between your forefinger and thumb. 

“An outsider.”

It’s an observation, not a question. If the man in the lobby were a local, Phillip would have given you a name because in this town, everybody knows everybody. The fact that a name was bereft tells you your new guest came from elsewhere. Maybe he’s cutting through the main road on his way to Yachats for your town’s cascade mountains and bigleaf maple, or for the diner’s famous rhubarb pie. In any case, he's in need of a rest stop. 

“Mh. I’m gonna check him in. Just wanted to let you know I’m givin’ him this room, so try to hurry it up, okay peach?”

You blink slowly. This motel holds twelve rooms—there’s never been a need for any more—and currently, nine of those are occupied. That leaves three. There’s no reason for your boss to put up the new guest in Room 11, especially when you’re still cleaning it.

Phillip reads the question in the bend of your eyebrow. He smiles knowingly and pats your head. “He requested a room on the higher level. Room 9’s aircon is busted and Room 6 shares a wall with the Pettie’s. They’re loud.”

You sigh. “Ah.”

“Sorry peach,” he smiles like he’s apologetic, but you don’t think that’s the case. “Just get it done, alright? And add some extra coffee packets."

You furrow your lips. Displeasure flutters over you but you wash it away with a smile, refusing to irk him. You nod and pivot, bones bending against your skin for an escape as his hand whispers against your bum in an encouraging caress.

Anger simmers in your marrow. Phillip simply chuckles, disparaging.

“That’s a sweet peach.”

His voice gets muted by the tinny, rattling radiator as you make it to the bathroom. You stock it up dutifully—perhaps taking extra long to ensure he's not waiting outside for you—and spritz air freshener around the room when you finish. It’s a flaky, expired bottle of Platinum Ice which barely masks the town’s deep-seated smell of old-growth forest, petrichor and woody debris. You hope the new guest doesn’t have a sharp nose. 

You make sure to stuff the coffee station with extra packets before stepping out of the room. Off the mysteriously stained carpet, onto the veranda. You putter around with your large keyring, thumbing through the nickel-brass since you also have a key to the elementary school, post office, and city hall (aptly titled shitty hall by locals, since this town isn’t much of a city and the building’s roof is held together by nothing but rusty rivets and tassels of sprig collected in the corners). You’ve got so many keys because again, everybody knows everybody, and it isn’t rare to see the housekeeping girl at the motor lodge supplementing her income as a part-time teaching aid. 

Finally, you find the master key. You lock the room and roll the cleaning cart into the utility room before locking that too. Your wrist drags across your forehead, wiping away sweat, and you tug on your dress because perspiration has pasted it onto the pert curve of your breasts, the squish of your thighs. You furtively glance down your bodice and watch how the sweat pocks your skin, knotting your nipples against your cheap bra. Lament catches you in regards to your shower after work—it’s going to be freezing since the heating system here is so fickle—and in the paroxysm of your grief, the sound of heavy breathing eludes you. 

You don’t hear his footsteps. He’s an ambush predator. Stalking and shadowing in the tall grass, waiting for the moment your hackles melt to bite into your neck like an unripe stone fruit. You don’t see him, but you feel him. His breath tickling down your neck. The erogenous zone behind your ear. 

A gasp parts your lips and you whip around, coming face-to-face with a paunchy chest plated by moth-eaten flannel. You heft your head up, exercising the hinge in your neck. Paling at the sight that greets you.

He has a Cabela’s cap on. It’s pulled over his eyes, but a few blonde curls peek out from under the crown of his hat. He has a damaged, blistered face. A cauliflower ear. Nicks on his cheeks that distend from his skin and have turned pallid with time, rippling like seafoam petticoats on waves as he flickers his jaw. He wears jeans and mud-clogged boots and holds a duffel bag. 

His gaze unties you. You slowly find words, fitting them in an orderly queue in your mind as you avert your gaze and stare at the floor. Squirming. Preening. Sweltering.

“Welcome to Sockeye Inn, mister…” 

Silence. He lets your words awkwardly trail off. Doesn’t do anything to belay the discomfort in your belly. The man simply stares at you with brown eyes. 

Humiliation crawls up your spine and settles on your cheeks. It burns through your skin, withering you away, to which you fidget with your fingers and baldly nod towards the door.

“Your room is ready,” you murmur. “Enjoy your stay, sir. Uh– if you need anything just give us a shout. Phone’s on the bedside table.” 

Foolishly, you wait for a response again. Nothing. He towers over you, owlishly blinking, one slower than the other because he seems to have a lazy eye. You clench your skirt and softly shoulder past him, heading for the stairs as you hear him putter with the keyhole. 

You’ve halfway scaled it when a rasp distorted by what seems to be years of cigarettes stops you dead in your tracks. 

“Bring me a BLT and root beer.” 

You burn up at the muscle in his voice. The drag. Just as you’re about to reply, his room door slams shut and rocks across the veranda. 

Your dress is stickier than it was before. Perhaps an ice cold shower isn’t so bad after all.

The end of your shift slowly arrogates. 

After delivering food to Simon Riley—you glinted at the logbook while waiting for his order, reading his name—you left his room as soon as possible. You set the food down and found yourself plugging your nose. The Platinum Ice you sprayed before didn’t accost you— instead, it was pomade. Lucky Strike cigarettes. Decaying heartwood. Bleach. 

You pointedly breathed through your mouth. It didn’t actually help though, since you could taste it then. The ethanol in the air drizzled over your pockmarked tongue and glided down your throat. Collected in your stomach. 

You almost retched it back up at the sight of him.

Through the foggy shower wall, the colour of his hazy contour was striking. It seemed to be a tight fit for him, hemming in his lumberjack build. The shampoo bottle looked like a damn accessory in his large hands and his chased shoulder blades pressed soap against the glass pane, sudsy. 

Your curiosity pulled your gaze lower. Down to the heavy mass between his thighs, thick and fat. Bulbous. 

His spine suddenly went erect, straightening like a chary animal. As if by the agitated pappus of his skin, his chin lifted in your direction, and that’s when the earth collapsed under your feet and you beetled for the door. 

You distract yourself in the kitchen. Emptying the dishwasher. Taking the garbage to the bear-proof receptacles. Putting the oven on steam clean. Kate, the kitchen supervisor, stares at you oddly under her hairnet but she isn’t going to reject a set of helping hands. 

You scrub at a pan hoping it will erase the image burned into your mind. Hoping that the steel wool will have the same effect on your temporal lobe as it does on the pan. You don’t realize your hands are chafing and the pan is flaking, not until Kate is passionately complaining beside you, her spit dashing onto the side of your face.

“—fuckin’ freeloaders. They drain our taxes but can’t even do their damn jobs. Wait until one of their family gets butchered, you’ll see, that’s when they’ll start taking this seriously.”

She waves a newspaper in your face. The paper stack fans in front of you, blowing you with cool air. You’re just barely able to read the big, blocky headline. 

Connection Made Between Ventura, Gilroy and Eugene Serial Killer — Aptly Coined the Ghost.

“Eugene!” Kate slaps the newspaper, frazzled. “Not even three hours from us!”

You scarcely listen to her, her voice ripening into white noise as you scrutinize the police sketch on the newspaper’s margin. The offender is drawn with an overripe balaclava and probing eyes. Dark brown, as if his corneal opacity has laid claim before death. His eyelids have no tension, but a furl of crow's feet gather at the corners. It’s uncanny. Eerie. And even though he’s pressed on paper, you can’t help the unease welling inside you. 

A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop. For him to manifest and crawl out of the paper, dripping ink and viscous tar, ruining your Mary Jane flats and the floor you’d just mopped.

Hemlock hits the back of your throat. Lemony, sedgy. Your eyes fixate on the information detailing his crimes. Spines broken and necks snapped with inhumane strength. Pieces of flesh carved with the precision of either a surgeon or a butcher. Rigour mortis locking the victims in a scream, nail beds caked with skin which implies a struggle, but leads nowhere since the Ghost’s DNA hasn’t been found on any database.

(He’s as elusive as his name suggests. Investigators say he could be foreign, or that he has a clean record. The latter seems unlikely for the violent calibre of his crimes.)

There’s also his modus operandi—slicing off his victim’s ring finger, taking it with him. A cruel reward. 

“They say he’s taking Route 101,” Kate tacks on. “That he’s a long-hauler. How the hell will they catch a long-hauler?”

You shake your head, shrugging. Your tongue is too heavy and your gums rub against the round of your cheeks when you try speaking. The sentence gets snagged on your molars, and all that comes out are sparse words, lamely falling to the floor with how out of breath you are. 

“…They’ll catch him.”

“They better,” she shortly huffs. “I don’t want this town making the paper for all the wrong reasons.” 

Death comes to you in a cornfield. 

You’re sprinting through the crop, barefoot and scantily clad and pricked by thorns. Your clothing catches on thistle and corn husk, slowing you down, but the quick-footed trampling at your tail keeps your pace steady and stable.

Your lungs burn. Your bones rasp. Your eyes well up with how fast you’re moving, with how your retinas strain to see more in the pitch black than just reflective corn silk and the crescent moon. 

The midnight sky is close to swallowing you whole, but at this point that would be an act of mercy. The whistle of his cleaver slicing through the air and the stomp of his boots are promptly catching up, heckling you, barely whispering against the flowy cotton of your dress.

By a cruel twist of fate your foot catches on a tiller and sends you flying. Your nose softens the impact, the crack of cartilage reverberating through your skull, glutinous red spurting down your chin as you try scrambling to your feet.

But true to his name, Ghost, he slips through matter and suddenly, he’s standing in front of you.

Black, sweaty tank top. Freshly sharpened meat cleaver. Stout arms. Predatory eyes. Rotting balaclava—which at this point, you’re starting to believe was grafted onto his face, fitting him like skin. 

You raise your hands for mercy. 

But you should know dead stars have exhausted all their luminosity—that after death, they hold no power. That space is a graveyard. That’s why the Ghost poises his cleaver behind him. That’s why the last thing you see is his cleaver handle swinging towards you, about to collide with and shatter your cheekbone into a million pieces—

—but daylight strikes you with no clear trajectory. 

It’s your alarm that rings, waking you up from a nightmare, telling you to brush your teeth and scrub yourself down and pop your supplements before biking to work. You do so sluggishly, standing under the shower spray as you massage your cheekbone. Burning your toast as you scour the news for developing details on the Ghost case. Ordering a cup of coffee from the local diner and gulping it down behind the motel lest Phillip catches you.  

Your nightmare—omen, prophecy, portent of death?—pursues you like the persistent stench of fish on an angler’s hands all morning. You flinch at the slightest noise while scrubbing toilets, you constantly look over your shoulder while sweeping floors.

Malaise builds in your blood vessels like creosote. It doesn’t thin into fluid, flowing in and out of your appendages and around your sex until you situate yourself in front of Room 11. Fluffing up your skirt and puffing out your chest.

You announce your presence and rap the door with your Mary Jane flat because your hands are occupied with new bed sheets. Your knuckles blanch around the linen, quivering, struggling to keep it in your grip. The sheets almost flutter to your feet when a voice penetrates the door, abrasive and husky. Rough. Grating against your spine and shaving down the vertebrae. 

“Door’s open.”

You wait a few seconds before contorting yourself against the threshold. You try the handle and lo and behold, it’s unlocked, swinging open when you press your weight onto it. 

You step inside and toe off your flats. Next to Simon’s boots, they look fit for a doll, and a dizzy spell ricochets through you at the size difference. At the stark reminder that he’s as big and packed as a thick tree stump.

You walk inside and heed the CRT television playing the news. 

It does nothing to soften the scream that rips out of you as you round the corner.

Simon is in bed, pulling on a cigarette. His pudgy tummy and bristly chest are bared, the steel wool of his happy trail disappearing into the bed sheets furled around his hips. The flat sheet is thin enough to outline something stirring. Something thick and pressed against his inner thigh. 

He stares at you, eyes of Argus. It’s so intense you’re sure he can sense the slick running down your back. The dew that settles in the gusset of your panties. 

You stutter. “I can come back later.”

Simon sits up with a groan. It rattles you. His joints must be fettered with age, or hard work, but in any case your head goes cottony with the picture of him splitting wood and hauling heavy bovine flanks. 

You swallow thick as he shakes his head. “It’s no problem, sugar. I’m not even here.”

The pet name makes you squirm. You sure do feel like it—sugar, that is—with the way you could melt on his tongue, wedge yourself between his teeth. Turn syrupy and sappy at the back of his throat.  

He takes another drag of his cigarette. You watch raptly as his jaw feathers around it, lips proffering another plume of smoke. 

He blinks. “Well?”

You eke out an apology and fiddle with your hands. 

“I’ll have to, um, change your bedsheets first.”

Simon shakes his head. He taps the ashy casualties off the tip of his cigarette and you watch as it sinks onto the bed sheet, almost burning through the floral motif. “No need.”

“Well,” you cough, forcing your eyes away from him, “if I don’t, my boss…”

Simon pricks up. The hind of his spine straightens the same way a dog would sit straight and plumb after hearing rustling in a bush. His muscles tighten, thick, and his face twists into a sneer. The bed sheet around him falls and you lock up tight lest it bare his pubic bone. 

“Is he a minger?”

“I’m sorry?”

He huffs. “‘s he a bully?”

“Oh, no,” you blandly laugh. “Mister Graves isn’t a bully. He just…”

“Makes you uncomfortable?”

There’s a lapse between acknowledging his question and spitting out an answer that makes you kick yourself. Simon already looks dubious. You hug the sheets closer to your chest and smile, your cheeks feathering like beeswax.

“He’s a kind man.”

“Not wha’ I asked,” he says. The bed creaks as he leans forward, the sheets slipping lower, scarcely covering his sex. “I asked if he does stuff he shouldn’t be doin’.”

Your heartbeat quickens. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it. He probably can, albeit softly, due to his lumpy cauliflower ear.

“He’s a married man,” you mumble. “He doesn’t touch me if that’s what you mean. Not like that.”

“There’s only one way to touch someone,” Simon grunts. His chest starts churning a little, as if he’s agitated. “Does he put his hands on you?”

Your skin burns, remembering. A phantom scar runs through you, long and creeping, mapping all the places in which Phillip’s pinchbeck wedding ring has burned you. The suture of your spine, the pappy flesh of your neck, the rise of your hips where his palm has melted through your dress and smarted your skin.  

Your silence makes Simon grunt. 

Panic surges up your throat. You feel the need to defend Phillip, in some approximation of gratitude and fear since you’re on his payroll and you don’t want to reap the consequences should you rat on him and he find out. 

“No!” you hurry. “Mister Graves isn’t like that. He’s a good man. Honest.”

Simon’s eyes push against your skin. He scrutinizes you, tests you. Waits to see if you’ll fidget too much and flake away and sink into the carpet. 

He growls. “You fancy him, is tha’ it?”

Answering yes is the only way to shake him off your leg. You do so archly, so it seems as though the thought of your boss has you flushing when really it’s Simon. He’s fully upright, and now you can see the girthy base of his cock. Stirring, twitching. You suppress a moan.

“Yeah…” you murmur. You can feel your makeup turning blotchy, running down your cheeks. “It’s just a bit…embarrassing, is all.”

He lapses into it again. Staring at you. Razoring his way into your head and thumbing through your consciousness, searching for an Achilles’ heel. A crack he can break into a hole because he has the size for it—barrel-chested, stupidly thick fingers. 

Simon slips out of bed and disturbs the coiled aches of the mattress. He holds a washcloth over his crotch. It’s crusty and keeps shape and covers almost nothing, confirming your inkling. 

His bulbous cockhead winks at you from under the hem. It’s heavy. Leaky. Dripping precum that laves down his legs and gets caught in the wiry hair of his thigh. 

Anxiety pools in your armpits and around your groin. Or maybe that’s just arousal. Brackish and sticky, rubbing your pussy lips together, hugging your clit. 

Simon pulls on his cigarette once more and then folds it into the bedside table. You should scold him. You should tell him that he’ll have to pay for damages even though the wood is already degraded and mouldy. You should scuttle out of the room and call for Phillip, but that would be a crueler fate. Instead you stay fixed to the carpet as Simon steps forward. Cock swinging between his legs, tummy jiggling. 

You don’t know whether he’s going to pull you in for a kiss or rip off your dress or—and you’re unsure why you think of this—take you by your skull and smash it against the television stand. He has the muscle to, surely, but somehow you know he won’t. And the thought of that makes your skin hot.

You’re at his mercy.

You gird yourself for his lips or for your dress to be torn off, but your preparations flux away as Simon steps close and crowds you against the television stand. The stench of Lucky Strike cigarettes and gamey meat impair you, as he reaches behind you and increases the television volume. You want to say something but cotton fills your mouth and the news report floods your ears. It’s fragmentary—you can only heed oddments of the news anchor’s latest updates. 

The Ghost is still at large. Corpses keep popping up around California and Oregon, each with their ring fingers sliced off. The tipline has been leading investigators nowhere, shepherding them to the end of the earth and over the edge, floating, where they’ll move through molasses and will never be able to catch him. 

White male. 6’4”. 196 centimetres. Brown eyes. Heavyset. Likely military background. Likely a surgeon, or a butcher. A dangerous, ruthless individual. 

If spotted, do not approach. 

Simon’s breath fans against your neck, rousing the bristles of your warm cheeks. He turns off the television and steps back. An ether opens up in the pit of your stomach as your gaze falls on his bulging pelvis, on the purplish veins and webbing muscle, sitting like a tuft under his navel, disappearing behind the washcloth where his cock stirs. 

Simon tuts. “World’s goin’ to shite.”

You nod.

“You shouldn’t be out here anyway,” he tacks on. “Should be at home takin’ care of your man’s house. Keepin’ safe.”

You flash your naked ring finger embarrassingly fast. “I-It’s just me…and my cat.”

His eyes darken. His head tilts down at you. He purrs. 

“Better get started on mine then,” he breathes. “Put yourself to good use.”

You shyly get to cleaning his room. 

You try to ignore his hand disappearing behind the washcloth, pumping his cock. You can’t ignore the silk ruining your panties. Scarcely, you manage to ignore the caution creeping up your back. Your lower instinct that screams at you as you feel his stare tracking you across the room, burning. Smouldering. Warning. 

Daylight scissors into you.

It melts the sleep in the corners of your eyes. It clears the haze in your head. It interrupts the sultry dream you were having. Your flesh is still pocked and your clit is still peaked, as you rehash the contents of it. 

You can still feel Simon’s weight on top of you, sweat compressioning you, the sheets gathering under your slick back. Your underwear had dangled from one of your ankles, flapping and swaying as Simon pounded into you. Your head bobbed over the lip of the mattress. Your tits bounced, nipples caught between his gnashers. Your slick ran down your cunt and over your asshole, pooling onto the floral bed sheets. You just quit your job. You didn’t care about the sheets. Or the Pettie’s down the veranda. Phillip was on the other side of the door too, and he could hear everything. Your moans. Simon’s balls dragging over your furled hole. His groans—

—And the sudden tearing of cartilage and skin stretching, rubbery, as Simon shifted into something else above you. Something larger. Deadlier. His drool dripped onto your chest, and his cock was suddenly too big for your pussy, popping back out until only his tip managed to squeeze inside your puffy hole. He snarled down at you, but it got covered by a creeping balaclava. You still reached your orgasm, quivering around his cockhead. Watching him go spotty and graphite-like in your vision, as if he were a composite sketch.

You get out of bed and wash the absurd dream away under the shower. The nozzle hits your clit weakly, and you never reach your high. You show up to work pigeon-toed and sweaty. Pent-up. You scrub harder at bathtubs and almost snap at Phillip when he swats your bum. Almost. Simon is watching from the dining hall, and he makes you skittish.

The day rolls by sluggishly. There’s a Do Not Disturb sign dangling from Simon’s door, so you don’t get the chance to see him in his room. You huff and puff at the Pettie’s and give Kate attitude. It’s the peak of afternoon when you’re sent home, shoulders stiff because Phillip squeezed them and tacked on, ”I can always help out if you’re stressed, peach,” before shepherding you out the door.  

You bike into town. Indulge in the diner’s famous rhubarb pie because the motel’s cherry pie is nowhere near as good, though you’ll never tell Kate that. You polish off your treat then ride to the beach (which is more of a graveyard for birds and braided, washed ashore sea meadow), and prop your bike against the wooden bollards.

The beach is familiar with you. It sees you when you're overwhelmed by the monotonous colour of your life. You never worry about meddling kids or loud teenagers or anything, because the stench of fish usually keeps them away anyway. It's your own Shangri-La. Your little Eden. Albeit overcast and greyscale, with an ocean spray that gets into your hair and dries out your mouth.

You slip out of your Mary Jane flats and wade through the sand dunes, breathing in salt and sulfur and tasting it on your lips. You maneuver around seawrack and driftwood and eventually find yourself seated behind a tussock of seaoats, watching as the waves lazily beat against the shore.

It's easy for you to lie down and get comfortable among the scent of iodine and the feel of pillowy granules. It's also easy to let your eyes flutter shut, lulled into limbo by the ebbing tide and murmuring waves.

You stir awake with flaccid lungs.

Presentiment hangs in the air, thick, like a blanket of smog. It interrupts your breathing pattern and makes you light-headed. Vertiginous. Makes you see things that aren't there…

…Such as the off-white scleras and twists of dilated blood vessels that stare at you from the foreshore.

They approach you eerily. Two pieces of driftwood floating over the waves, jolting slightly as it hits the sand, splintery and mossy and heavy.

The man feathers toward you from the blue glow of the beach. You squint through the darkness, because maybe it's the sheriff, but you know he walks with a drunken gait and he…strides like a bear on its hind legs.

The way he lurches for you says otherwise. Perhaps he's rather a panther or a coyote, or some crude backyard breed of all three.

A large palm splits itself over your mouth. An arm lays beside you and secretes a musk of sweat and iron. A knee digs into the plush of your cunt, agitating your clit, as a warm breath fans over your pulse point.

"Waited for me, didn't you?" he rasps against your neck.

In your stupor, you brace your hands against his shoulders. A sticky substance coats his skin, too viscous to be sweat.

Nausea knots in your throat. Tremors wash over your body. You dig your nails into his flesh, and when your hands don't fall through it like you hoped, you gravely realize he's made of muscle and skin instead of your drunken, sleep-inspired imagination.

You experience a cruel loss of equilibruim. If you weren't already lying down, you'd collapse to the ground. You go limp in the sand, thawing into his hands which you unwillingly notice are caked with that sticky substance too.

"There's dangerous folk 'round here," he grunts. "What if someone else followed you? A big, bad man?"

A chord of recognition stirs in your brain at his voice. That brash accent.

"Simon…?"

He chuckles. "It's me, sugar."

You squeeze your thighs together but it's abortive. He pries them apart anyway, and cups your pussy through your panties.

He rubs you through the gauze, knuckling your soft lips. Through the darkness you barely see the misshapen silhouette of his mouth. That snarl, curling off him as if he suffers from some chronic wasting disease, slowly atrophying and turning into some vestigal cadaver.

He kisses down your sternum. Grips your hand and forces it over his crotch. Your fingers brush over the solid mass. It's hard due to both stiffened denim and his thickening cock.

"All for you," he mumbles. "Take it out, sugar."

You fumble with the metal teeth of his zipper. You pull him out with both hands and your mouth goes dry. Tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deadly nightshade hitting the back of your throat. Despite you, your thighs squish together, and a rumbling chuckle slips through the seam of his lips.

He's huge. Fat and heavy, so much so you need both fingers to wrap around him.

"Give it a kiss, yeah?" he coos. "Like a sweet girl."

You spread your lips against his cockhead. You pull away and a string of precum chases you, but Simon is pushing your head back down and bucking his bristly pubic bone into to your nose.

"There it is," he grumbles. "Such a big girl, aren't you?"

You look up at him with wide, wet eyes.

The stiffs of hair on his pubic bone tickle your nose. You smell sweat and iron, but you can't tilt your head away, because the stout muscle of his arms keep you in place.

Fighting is futile. His cockhead hits the back of your throat like oleander and he holds your jaw in place, dimpling your cheeks with his rough fingers, letting his balls slap against your chin.

Just as you're getting used to his size, he pulls out, breaking the strands of saliva and precum between you.

"Take off y'panties, sugar."

You pull them off and squirm at the way the gusset clings to your pussy lips a little while longer. Simon takes it against his nose and sniffs it, running his fingers through your pussy, spreading your slick.

You don't get a warning before he's curling one of his fingers into you. Massaging your walls. Scissoring you open. Thumbing your clit.

He adds another and twists them deeper—meaner—into you. He swallows your whimpers but spits them back into your mouth when he empties his saliva down your throat. He keeps stroking the inside of your pussy, your sticky walls, and rubbing your clit.

He squeezes your cheeks together and gives you a big kiss. He coos condescendingly into your lips, and licks away your fresh track of tears. "It's supposed to hurt, baby. Don't be mad, alright? It'll feel good soon."

He gets deeper and deeper. Knuckle-deep, when he curls his fingers inside you. You lock up tight and thrust your hips through the bulk of your orgasm, trembling and quivering around him.

Your lips quiver around a plea when he pulls his fingers out. It's a lapse of judgement on your part—you know it—but you can't help it anymore.

"Please what?" He grins. It's ugly. Like a truss of stitching falling off his face, mangled and chewed up.

"Can you g-go…" you squirm when he rolls his tumb over your clit, agonizingly slow. "Can you go–"

"C'mon baby," he whispers against your lips, "spit it out. Big girls use their words."

"Canyougodownonme?" you gasp and grip onto him, bucking your cunt into his palm.

He chuckles against your mouth. He kisses down your chest. He crinkles his nose against the husk of your pussy. He deeply inhales and vibrates at your scent. He darts his tongue out and flattens it against your dewy folds, licking a stripe up your slit.

You writhe but he holds you in place with those big, thickened hands of his. They're wet but at this point you can't tell if it's your arousal or that mysterious substance on him. You can't even think about it, not with your thoughts melting away, escaping you like the humming waves.

Simon's a bit too aggressive in how he eats you out. It doesn't come from a juvenile attempt influenced by sex-on-screen with undue emphasis, but rather his tongue spelling devotion into the fat of your cunt.

Your fingers flex into his blonde head of hair. It's closely cropped, but you still manage to pull him closer, grinding yourself down on the bumpy bridge his nose. You pull on his hair and he growls and sends a quake up your spine. He wraps his lips around your clit and swirls his tongue further into you, softly suckling your juices out.

The waves fold over each other, beating against the shore. They crest and crash and just as they race up the sand dune, teasing your flexing toes, your second orgasm crashes into you too. You twist and twirl Simon's hair in your grip and almost miss the feel of something cold being slipped onto your finger.

You're shaking, trembling, as you raise your hand. You're hazy and the moonlight is shrouded by clouds. It makes the mystery object look smeared across your vision, blotchy and spotty.

You hold it a little closer to your face, examining the twinkle as Simon massages your thighs to ease the quiver.

You turn your hand over and whisper your thumb over its curve.

You bristle when you realize what it is. It hangs off you a little loosely, burning your knuckle.

A pinchbeck wedding ring.

Stained with red, and still warm from the body it was pulled from.

Bile gathers in your throat and burns your mouth. Tears gather in your eyes. A small gasp parts your lips, billowing out of you like the mushroom-head of a flare just as realization fully commits itself to you.

You shiver. Both through realization, and your orgasm. "…What did you do to him?"

"Took care of him," Simon grunts, caressing your hair. "I'm supposed to handle the monsters under your bed, ain't I?"

You spare him a glance. You heed the white of his teeth and a smudge of—you know it's blood—across his cheek. His eyes, hidden in the shadowy canopy. His nose, bent out of shape and speckled with blood.

"You're not going to hurt me."

He brushes your hair back. "No."

You pant into him when he captures you for a kiss. "…Why?"

"I'm supposed to take care of ya," he grunts. "That's what couples do, no?"

He pushes something in your grasp—a folding knife. Your thumb slips over the two initials engraved into the handle—your initials.

"How do y'feel about Kate?" he asks.

Your coworker flashes into your mind. "I like her"

Simon—the Ghost—grunts. "And what about that bloke at the diner? What's his name?"

"I– Franklin?"

"Hn. Does he bother you?"

You thumb through your memory. Perhaps what you say is an embellishment, giddy of what Simon's going for.

"He did steal my bike once…" you mumble.

Simon pricks up. His chest puffs out and squishes against your arm. "He married?"

"Yeah, um," you swallow, "for about ten years."

"You want his pretty ring? Or his wife's?" Simon asks, then kisses you. "Anythin' you want."

Your lips stretch into a smile.

Simon cups your cheek, blood rubbing off on you. For the first time ever, you feel exhilarated at the thought of the future. At the thought of being taken care of. Doted on.

Suddenly the town doesn't feel so cold anymore. It doesn't feel like an invisible barricade is hemming you in. Simon is your ticket out of here, and a ticket to your new life.

You can abandon your pinafore and Mary Jane flats and maybe he'll spoil you with frilly socks and a cute sundress. Maybe he'll fuck you in his truck or in gas station bathrooms as the corpse of a man who wronged you rots in the truckbed. Maybe you'll get caught but at least you'll be together and at least your name will finally be known.

Not as the housekeeper girl, but Mrs Riley.

[incognit0slut]

Lesson learned

PART 3 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Unit Chief!Spencer x BAU!Reader Your boss decides to teach you a lesson when you question the motivations behind a certain case.

Content: (18+) 6k, breath play, fingering, a little case description, BDSM discussion, softdom Spence but borderlines to dom because hello this is breath play and reader being judgy judgy but don’t worry he’s here to teach you a lesson or two a/n: The initial plan was to make him a hard dom but breathplay is already overwhelming so I decided to go the educational route. I am, by all means, not as smart as him, so there might be some inaccuracy

You would think that after joining the BAU for two years, you’d start to understand the twisted logic of a criminal’s mind. But you don’t. Not really. You’ve dissected motives, uncovered patterns, and profiled suspects more times than you can count, and yet this case makes no sense. 

Your eyes go over the photographs pinned to the board again. And again. And again. It’s become almost a ritual now, like maybe if you look at it just one more time, the pieces might finally fall into place. But all you find staring back at you are three victims with the same marks on their necks. There was clearly a sign of struggle, but not one of fear. Not one that fits any pattern you know.

“I don’t get it,” you say. “The profile suggests the victims knew their attacker, but this doesn’t look like anything close to rage. Or brutality.”

Spencer shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he leans closer to the board. “It might not have been an act of violence,” he observes thoughtfully. “Not in the traditional sense, anyway.”

You furrow your brow. “If it wasn’t violent, then what was it?”

“The bruising pattern is too symmetrical, and there’s no sign of panic or defensive wounds on their hands. I think there’s a chance the victims might have willingly participated.”

“Willingly?” Your eyes snap at him. “What do you mean, ‘willingly participated’? No one willingly gets strangled.”

He meets your eyes for a second before looking back at the board. “I know it sounds unlikely,” he admits, “but not impossible. See how the bruises are evenly spaced? They wrap around in perfect circles. The pressure is distributed just enough to leave a mark but not to crush the windpipe.“

“Spencer, that’s exactly what happened. The windpipe was crushed.”

“Yes, but not immediately. That’s the point.” He turns towards you again. “The intention wasn’t to kill them outright. The unsub wanted to bring them to the point of unconsciousness but not over it. At least, not at first. He was counting on their trust before pushing it too far.”

You let out a huff. “That’s insane.”

“It might seem that way to you, but it’s not unheard of. Sexual asphyxiation is a consensual act for some people. The lack of oxygen when someone’s airflow is restricted can trigger a euphoric sensation which intensifies pleasure."

You stare at him like he’s just spoken a different language. “So, you're saying they get off on... not breathing?”

“More like they find excitement in giving up that control."

You cross your arms and study him, tilting your head with a skeptical frown. “How do you even know this?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile. “I read,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You have a book on sexual asphyxiation?”

“It’s more comprehensive than that. The book covers a wide range of kinks, fetishes, and other forms of sexual exploration which are considered extreme by societal standards.”

"You’re telling me you read up on BDSM practices in your spare time?”

"I think of it as research,” he replies. “It’s part of understanding human behavior. You can’t afford to be ignorant about the complexities of people's desires."

"Huh." Your eyes travel back to the images again. "You know, I still don't understand. I mean, willingly letting someone cut off your breath? That’s not just trust that’s… I don’t know, crazy?”

His eyes narrow towards you as if he's carefully considering how much to say.

“It's not crazy,” he insists carefully. “For people who engage in it, it’s not only about losing control. It’s about reaching a heightened state of awareness, finding excitement in walking that line.”

"But what if that line gets crossed? What then? How could anyone think that sounds… fun?”

“Well, have you ever tried it?”

“Of course not!” you reply quickly, almost laughing at the absurdity. “Why would I?”

“Then you wouldn’t know,” he counters, his tone calm but pointed, like he’s presenting a fact rather than an opinion. “You can’t really understand the mindset until you’ve experienced it. It’s not something you can fully grasp from the outside.”

"I don’t think I could ever trust someone enough to do that to me."

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person to trust.”

You scoff. “What? Are you offering?”

You laugh at your own joke, and you expected him to do the same. Or perhaps a quick “Of course not”, even some rambling about how he didn’t mean it that way. But when all you’re met with is silence, your laughter dies down, and your eyes dart back to him.

Spencer’s not looking at you, his eyes are fixed on the photographs pinned to the board. He’s studying the bruises, the faces, the details like he always does, but there’s a stillness in his expression, a tension in the set of his jaw that makes you think he’s considering something else entirely. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s really thinking about the victims or the case at all.

Maybe you shouldn’t joke about things like that. He is your boss, after all, and even though there isn’t exactly a strict superior-subordinate dynamic between the two of you—he’s always been more of a peer than an authority figure—you wonder if maybe this time you crossed a line.

Spencer’s eyes remain on the photos for a long, agonizing second, and you think maybe he’s not going to respond at all. But then, slowly, he turns his head and looks at you, and the room suddenly feels impossibly small.

“If I were to offer,” he says quietly, “Would you take it?”

His words knock the breath from your lungs, and all you can do is stare back at him. You don’t know what to make of the question. Was it a dare? A test? Or perhaps something more?

There’s a part of you that wants to laugh it off. The conversation was absurd to begin with, so brushing it away like it’s nothing would feel like the safest option. The easy way out. But there’s another part—one you don’t want to acknowledge—that can’t help but wonder what it would mean to say yes.

What if you did? you ponder.

What would it feel like to trust someone like that?

What would it feel like to trust him?

But before you can reply, the door to the meeting room creaks open, the noise echoing through the dimly lit space of the police precinct. A uniformed officer pokes his head inside.

“Dr. Reid, we found a new lead on the vehicle.”

Spencer’s eyes stay locked on yours for just a beat longer as your heart hammers in your chest. Then, without a word, he nods to the officer, and any trace of whatever passed between you dissolves like it never happened at all.

The next few days turn into a blur. The lead on the unsub’s vehicle takes you across town, a chase that ends with the suspect cornered in an abandoned old house. It’s almost anticlimactic how quickly it all happens—sirens blaring, doors kicked in, and in less than an hour, the unsub is in handcuffs. The case is finally closed, and it’s the kind of victory that usually brings a sigh of relief.

But today, you can’t find that peace.

Back at the precinct, the rest of the team has already moved on to debriefing. You’re left cleaning up the mess of photographs and notes scattered across the table. But your movements are slow, distracted, your fingers fumbling over the papers. There’s a prickling awareness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you know exactly why.

It’s because Spencer is watching you. You don’t even need to look to feel the weight of his gaze. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked in his pockets, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes track your movements.

You pause, photos in hand, and finally address him. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you. He stops just short of arm’s length.

“Have you thought about what we discussed the other day?”

You feel a rush of embarrassment, and the awkwardness of the moment makes you shift uncomfortably. Clearing your throat, you turn your attention back to the table, hastily grabbing a stack of photographs and shuffling them into a folder.

“We didn’t discuss anything,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze. “It was just a joke.”

“Was it? You don’t joke about things like that unless you’ve thought about them at least a little.”

You let out a dry laugh, keeping your eyes firmly on the table. “I wasn’t being serious. We were in the middle of a case, and we were all exhausted. I just said whatever came to mind.”

Spencer tilts his head, the way he does when he’s analyzing something, his eyes flickering over your face as though he’s cataloging every twitch of your expression.

“Maybe,” he concedes, and takes another step forward. “But the offer wasn’t a joke, and you didn’t say no.”

Your fingers freeze over the photographs, the papers crinkling under your touch.

“I didn’t say yes either.”

You mentally wince at how weak that sounds, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself. You slowly look up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you find are those intense brown eyes staring back at you.

It unnerves you how calm he is, how easily he’s holding this conversation when your mind is spinning in a million directions.

“You do realize what you’re offering?” you start to press, feeling the need to put it out in the open. “What this means?”

Spencer doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact for a second. “I do.”

“Do you? Because it seems to me like you might be taking this too lightly."

“I’m not taking it lightly. I’m acknowledging that there’s more to it than what you’re seeing on the surface.”

“And what makes you think I want to see beyond the surface?”

He leans in closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, but not enough to cross any boundaries. “I’m offering a perspective, not forcing you to accept it. Understanding doesn’t always come from reading about something. It comes from experience.”

You can’t quite decide if his words make sense or if they’re completely absurd. It’s like he’s challenging your logic, your assumptions, but at the same time, there’s a strange clarity to what he’s saying.

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

Because he’s your boss? Because someone in his position always tries to make sense of everything for everyone else?

“Because shaming people for their interests, for something they might find pleasure in… it isn’t fair, and it isn’t right.”

Now that was something you didn’t expect him to say.

“I wasn’t shaming,” you protest quickly, the words coming out defensive even to your own ears. “I was just…”

“Curious,” he finishes for you. “And curiosity isn’t a flaw. Neither is wanting to understand, and if you’re willing to explore that curiosity, then I’d rather you experience it in a way that’s safe. That you know is controlled.”

“So what?” you snap back. “You want to prove me wrong? Show me I’ve been looking at this the wrong way?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not playful. It’s gentle, almost thoughtful, as if he’s carefully weighing each word. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t want to prove you wrong. I want to teach you.”

You blink at him. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, the words tangled somewhere between shock and disbelief. It takes a few seconds until you manage to find your voice.

“You… want to teach me?”

“A lesson, if you will,” he explains, and the way he says it—so calm, so certain—makes your heart stutter. “Not to prove you wrong, but to help you understand. You have your perceptions about… control and trust. I think the only way to really understand is to experience it yourself.”

You don’t know what to say, what to do, and all that comes out is a shaky, barely-there laugh.

“A lesson,” you repeat, trying to make sense of the concept.

He nods, and there’s no pressure in his voice, just an offer. Simple and clear. “But only if it’s what you want.”

You aren’t sure what to feel, much less what to say, and the uncertainty must show on your face. Sensing your hesitation, Spencer takes a step back, giving you space.

“It’s a lot to consider, and I’m not expecting an answer now. But the offer still stands… whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he gives you one last smile and turns away, leaving you alone with your conflicted thoughts.

You’re pacing in your hotel room, your footsteps muffled by the worn carpet as you make the same path back and forth over and over again. Every time you try to sit down, your leg bounces with restless energy, so you’re back up again, moving without purpose but unable to stop.

You tell yourself it’s just stress. The case, the pressure, the weirdness of being in a small-town motel with creaky walls and awful lighting. But you know better. You know exactly what’s got your mind spinning and your stomach doing flips.

Spencer. And his damn offer.

You scoff to yourself, trying to laugh it off like you always do, but the joke doesn’t land when it’s just you, alone with your thoughts. And, really, what’s the harm in admitting the truth—to yourself, at least? That maybe the whole concept doesn’t seem as insane as it did a few days ago. That maybe you’ve found yourself wondering what it would feel like to trust someone that much.

You stop pacing, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. There it is, that nagging curiosity, that flicker of intrigue that Spencer saw before you even knew it was there. You let out a sigh, the weight of the realization hitting you.

God help you, but you’re actually curious.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

You slip into your shoes and take a deep breath before stepping into the hallway. The motel’s quiet, most of the rooms dark as you walk past, and for a moment you hesitate, wondering if this is a mistake. The team’s staying one more night here, the last bit of downtime before flying back tomorrow. A chance to decompress, to shake off the adrenaline of the case. Yet here you are, anything but relaxed, heading out because you can’t stand one more second of pacing back and forth.

Your footsteps come to a stop outside Spencer’s room, and you stare at the numbers on the plaque for a moment. You could turn around right now. You could pretend you didn’t walk all the way down the corridor with his words echoing in your head. But as much as you try to convince yourself that walking away is the logical choice, your hand moves on its own, and you knock.

Spencer doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door. Without waiting for an invitation, you push past him, barging into the room before you change your mind.

“If we’re going to do this, I have some ground rules,” you blurt out, the words rushing out all at once. “I don’t know what you think this is going to be like, but I need control over some things. Non-negotiable.”

He closes the door with a soft click. “Of course,” he responds calmly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“First,” you say, spinning around to face him. “I’m in control of when this starts and when it stops. If I say no, then we stop. Immediately. No questions, no convincing, none of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Second, I need to know exactly what we’re doing. No surprises. You explain everything to me before we do anything.”

He quickly nods.

“And third… this doesn’t leave this room. We don’t talk about it to anyone else. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever.”

He takes a step forward towards you. “This stays between us.”

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline settling into a nervous, thrumming pulse beneath your skin. “Okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, trying to process the reality of what you’ve just laid out. “Those are my rules.”

Spencer takes another step forward, close enough now that you can smell the faintest trace of him. A mix of something clean and warm, like soap and worn cotton, an understated scent that’s distinctly him.

“Then those are the rules we follow,” he reassures you. “Your terms. Your pace.”

“Thank you.”

He nods his head again. “Is there anything else you want to discuss?”

There is, actually. There’s a question that’s been hovering in the back of your mind. It feels awkward to say out loud, but the uncertainty gnaws at you, and finally, you force the words out.

“Are we… are we going to have sex?”

He holds your gaze. “Do you want to have sex?”

You go quiet again, letting the silence settle around you as you think about what you want, what you came here for. You slowly shake your head. “No,” you reply. “No, I don’t.”

“Then we won’t. There’s more to explore in this than just sex.”

“Right, that’s—good.” You clear your throat. “I have… one more question.”

He gestures for you to continue.

“You’re not going to fire me for this, are you?”

His soft chuckle fills your ear, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him genuinely smile tonight. “No,” he confirms, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m not going to fire you. Whatever happens between us won’t affect your work, I promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling a little of the weight lift off your shoulders.

“Okay, so… now what?”

“Now,” he says gently, “We take it slow.“

He guides you toward the edge of the bed, and you find yourself moving automatically, sitting down on the mattress. The bed creaks slightly as he settles beside you.

“If we’re going to do this,” he starts, turning slightly to face you. “I want you to be comfortable. And that means talking. You can start by telling me what you’re thinking. ”

“That’s… it? We’re just going to talk?”

Spencer’s mouth lifts into a soft smile. “Yes,” he confirms, “If that’s what you want. There’s no pressure to do anything else.”

The idea of just talking feels safe, but there’s also a flicker of curiosity that you can’t quite shake. You shift on the bed.

“What if I want to do something more?”

Spencer’s eyes search yours, and he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t do anything that could make the moment feel rushed. “If you want to, then we can. Something simple to start.”

Your fingers trace the fabric of the bedspread. “Like what?”

“Something small. It could be as simple as letting me guide your breathing. A way to practice trust without anything overwhelming.”

You swallow, the idea feeling both intimidating and oddly… reassuring. There’s comfort in the way he talks about it, the lack of pressure, and the way he makes it feel like there’s nothing to fear.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Let’s try that.”

He moves a little closer to you. “We’ll take it slow,” he promises. “Try to focus on your breathing and follow my lead.”

You close your eyes, feeling your breath shallow and quick, your heart racing as you try to find a steady rhythm.

“Take a deep breath,” he instructs softly. You inhale deeply, feeling the air fill your lungs, and when you open your eyes for a moment, you find his face inches from yours.

“Good. Now let it out… slowly.”

You follow his lead, exhaling, and you can’t help but notice he’s mirroring your breathing—his chest rising and falling in time with yours. It’s oddly comforting, and a little unnerving, like he's syncing with the rhythm of your pulse.

“Again,” he guides. “Deep breath in… hold for a count of three… then let it go.”

You do as he says, feeling your nerves steady slightly with each breath. In, hold, out.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer. His lips are so close that you can feel his breath brushing your skin. “I’m going to ask you something, but I need you to know you can say no. At any point.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Can I touch you?” he asks gently, his words so soft they almost melt into the air around you. “Just on your shoulder, or your hand. I want to see how you feel about being touched while you focus on your breathing.”

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, but you manage another nod. His hand moves carefully to rest on your shoulder, but even with the light pressure, you feel your body stiffen. Spencer notices immediately.

“You’re tense,” he observes, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder.

You let out a small laugh, one that comes out more like a nervous exhale than anything close to amusement. “It’s kind of hard not to be,” you admit. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“That’s okay. It’s completely normal to feel nervous.” He pauses for a second before continuing, his tone thoughtful, like he’s considering what might actually help. "There are a few things that can help when you’re feeling this way. One of them is focusing on your breathing, which we’re already doing. But there’s also physical touch."

"Physical touch?”

"Kissing, for example," he explains, “can actually help regulate your nervous system. It releases oxytocin, lowers cortisol levels. Basically, it signals your body to relax."

Your eyes fall on his lips. "Really?"

A flicker of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, but it’s only helpful if it’s something you feel comfortable with.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like to try?”

You meet his gaze again and, before you can overthink it, find yourself nodding, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. “Yeah… okay. We can try.”

Before you even finish the sentence, Spencer leans in, his lips brushing yours with the kind of gentleness that catches you off guard. It's soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, and you can feel the slight hesitation in his movements as if he’s making sure you’re comfortable. It’s sweet, almost too sweet, and for a second, you wonder if this is how he kisses—gentle, thoughtful, deliberate.

But as the kiss deepens, you feel the warmth of him pulling you in. Your heart’s doing this erratic thing where it skips every other beat, and your mind’s racing to catch up with what your body’s already starting to enjoy. And sure, maybe the science behind this kiss makes sense after all, because there’s a part of you that’s actually relaxing, even with the buzz of nerves still humming beneath the surface.

Then he pulls back, just enough for your lips to barely part, his breath warm against your skin. “How are you feeling?”

It takes three heartbeats to find your voice. “Uh... yeah, good,” you manage, a little breathless, a little more flustered than you’d like to admit.

“Do you want to keep going?”

You pause, thinking it over, and despite the swarm of nerves in your chest, curiosity wins out again. You nod, maybe a little too quickly. The moment you do, Spencer leans in again, and this time his kiss is deeper, more intent. The softness is still there, but there’s a quiet intensity in the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand lightly cups the back of your neck.

Then his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, and a ripple of goosebumps spreads across your skin. You part your lips for him, and the sensation of his tongue slipping past m has you gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter.

Just when you think you’re getting used to it, his hand shifts, sliding up to wrap gently around the front of your neck. Not tight, not restricting—just enough to make you aware of it. The warmth of his palm against your throat sends a jolt of something sharp right through you. He seems to notice instantly, and without pulling his hand away, he breaks the kiss.

“Are you okay?” His thumb gently strokes the side of your neck. “I don’t want to push you, if it’s too much—”

But before he can finish, you shake your head quickly, surprising even yourself with how fast the words leave your mouth. “No, I… trust you.”

His eyes soften at your words, and his grip on your neck stays gentle, almost protective. “Would it be okay if I touched you more?”

Your pulse beats rapidly beneath his fingers, a rhythm you’re sure he can feel, as if your heart is answering for you. “…yes.”

“Do you want to lie down? Would that be more comfortable?”

You feel the heat travel along your veins. “I think… that would be good.”

Spencer nods as he helps you shift back onto the pillow. He stays close but doesn’t crowd you, his hand returning to rest lightly on your neck, that same soft pressure that keeps your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“Remember, focus on your breathing,” he reminds you. “The way your body responds is tied to how much you let yourself feel. Trust that.”

His other hand begins to move. His hand trails up toward your shoulder, then lightly brushes over your breast. It’s barely a touch at first, like he’s testing the boundaries, waiting for your body to tell him how far to go. Your breath catches for a second, but when you don’t tense up, he takes that as a sign to continue.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper, your voice a little breathless than you expected. And, God, you mean it. It’s more than okay—it’s… unexpectedly good in a way that feels almost too intimate to think about.

His hand moves lower now, tracing a path down your side, before sliding gently across your leg. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you feel his fingers brush against the inside of your thigh.

“How about this?”

You nod, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Spencer’s lips curls into the faintest smile. His hand inches higher, moving up your thigh with excruciating slowness until his fingers finally reach the heat between your legs.

Oh. Oh.

Your hips instinctively tilt toward him, your body responding before your mind can even catch up. The heat pooling low in your belly intensifies as his fingers press lightly against you.

“Still with me?”

You nod, but internally, your mind is spinning. He begins to move in slow, circular motions, his fingers dragging against the fabric in a way that makes you bite back a moan. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and you can feel your arousal sticking uncomfortably to your panties. It doesn’t shock you—you know understand how being touched like this will make you wet—but what surprises you is how much more intense it feels when his grip around your neck tightens.

Your breath hitches, and before you can stop yourself, a moan escapes your lips.

He pauses for a moment, his grip relaxing just enough for you to catch your breath. “I want you to feel the difference,” he explains. “The pressure changes everything. It makes you more aware of every sensation, more focused on how your body responds. But if it’s too much, you tell me, okay?”

You nod, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “I’m good.”

His thumb traces the outline of your jaw. “Do you want me to continue?”

“…yeah.”

His hand travels towards your hips, fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. “Should we get rid of these?”

You don’t have to think about it for long. The answer is already there.

“You can take them off.”

Spencer’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants before tugging it down. But as the fabric pools around your ankles, you hesitate for a second before your hand instinctively reaches for your shirt. You fumble with the hem, glancing at him as you pull it halfway up, your breath coming out in a small, awkward laugh.

“I mean, it’d feel weird to be naked from the waist down and still… you know, fully dressed on top.”

His eyes linger on you, and his reaction is subtly amusing. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Without thinking too much about it, you tug the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra follows, quickly joined by your panties, and before you know it, you’re lying naked on your boss’s bed.

Or, technically, the bed he’s been sleeping on these past couple of days.

Spencer’s eyes move over you slowly, lingering on the curve of your perky breasts, your smooth skin, and the unmistakable wetness between your thighs. His gaze is careful, appreciative but never lingering too long in one place, like he’s taking you in while still giving you space to breathe.

“You’re so pretty.”

Pretty? The word feels almost quaint given the situation, but the way he says it makes it feel like it’s more than that. Like he’s seeing all of you, the parts you don’t often reveal, and he still thinks you’re beautiful.

And somehow, that simple compliment leaves you more exposed than the fact that you’re lying naked in front of him.

“I can’t believe we're doing this,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His hand brushes along your arm. “You don’t have to overthink it. You’re in control here. We can stop whenever you want.”

“I know.”

He tilts your head with his hand. “Is this okay so far?”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay.”

His other hand lands on your knee. “Can you spread your legs for me?”

You feel the nerves buzzing beneath your skin, but there’s also a warmth, a curiosity, a pull toward him. You inhale deeply, letting the breath steady your nerves, and then, without letting your mind spiral any further, you slowly part your legs.

His palm glides along your inner thigh, and then he touches you again, only this time, there’s no barrier between you. You can feel the rough pad of his fingertips as they gently caress your folds that it pulls a sharp breath from your lips.

“Does this feel good?”

You nod. It’s more than just good—it’s everything. The way he’s paying attention to every inch of your body is overwhelming in the best way. His fingers trace a slow path along your skin, finally pausing as they brush against you between your folds. Without hesitation, Spencer slides a finger inside you. The sudden stretch pulls a gasp from your lips.

The slick wetness between your thighs coats his fingers almost instantly, and you feel yourself responding to him, opening up in ways you didn’t even know you could. He studies the way his finger moves in and out of your cunt, and the more he touches you, the more your hips begin to move on their own.

He takes your response as a sign to continue.

"I'm going to wrap my hand around your neck again," he tells you, without waiting for more than a slight nod of your head, his fingers curl around your throat.

"The pressure here," he begins, his thumb lightly pressing at the side of your neck. "Isn't just about cutting off your air, it also means restricting blood flow to your brain.”

He pushes another finger inside you, and the increased fullness draws a sharp intake of breath from you.

“By limiting the blood flow like this,” he continues, applying a bit more pressure around your throat. "It triggers your body to release adrenaline and dopamine. That rush you’re feeling? It’s your body chasing euphoria."

Euphoria. You never really thought about it like this before, how something so controlled could unlock a part of your body that felt so overwhelming. The feeling isn’t just pleasure, it’s a raw intensity that borders on something deeper as your cunt clenches around him. Your breath stutters, caught in a sharp contrast between the slow burn in your throat and the urgent heat flaring between your legs.

He’s unraveling you, pulling you apart thread by thread, yet leaving you desperate for the moment he puts you back together again.

You need more.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs soothingly. The words send a new wave of heat rushing through your body. Your hips move restlessly, and you can hear the soft whine escaping your throat, growing louder with each thrust.

Spencer notices immediately, his fingers slowing just for a moment. “Too much?”

You quickly shake your head, almost frantic, the last thing you want is for him to stop. The moment you do, his grip on your throat tightens slightly and your eyes flutter closed as a wave of euphoria washes over you. Head falling back against the pillows, your vision starts to blur. You feel the air restrict in your throat.

“I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart.” His thumb strokes lightly against your neck. “The more you control your breathing, the better it’ll feel.”

That word alone almost undoes you. It rolls off his tongue like it’s meant to be soft and soothing, but instead, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight through you. Your chest rises and falls as you do exactly what he says, because apparently, being called sweetheart with his fingers wrapped around your neck makes you want to obey him, more than you’d care to admit.

"That’s it, keep focusing on your breathing."

You force your eyes open, but everything feels hazy, unfocused. You’re not sure if it's from the lack of air or the way he’s looking at you, but you can feel yourself losing control. Your eyes flutter half-closed again, lips parting in a breathless moan, and before you realize it, your tongue slips out, barely grazing your lower lip.

Spencer knows you’re close. His thumb presses just a little harder against your throat, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough for your inner walls to grip his fingers tightly.

“I know, I know, I've got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let go whenever you’re ready."

You can’t decide if the sound of his voice is making it easier or harder to hold on. There’s a brief moment where you think you might hold it together, but then your body betrays you. Your muscles tense, your breath catches in your throat, and all the control you had slips away in an instant. It’s as if your brain is giving in to exactly what he said it would—a surge of chemicals that makes your limbs feel heavy and light all at once.

Your orgasm slams right into you, the most intense thing you’ve ever felt. It floods your senses so completely that your lungs struggle to catch up. The tremors rack your body, and it’s only when your legs give a final, uncontrollable shake that he finally releases your neck, allowing the air to rush back into your lungs in a dizzying, breathless moment of relief.

Before you can fully recover, his lips are on yours in an instant. He moves against your neck, kissing the very spot where his hand had held you. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

When you manage to catch your breath and blink through the lingering haze, he lies down on the bed and pulls you into his arms. It takes a whole minute before your breathing fully steadies, his hand stroking your hair the entire time.

“How are you feeling?”

You don’t know what to make of it all, so you laugh breathlessly instead, the only response you can muster.

“Like I’m about to pass out.”

“What?” He looks at you in alarm. “You are?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just… it was really intense.” But the worry doesn’t completely leave his face, so you try again, placing your hand on his chest. “Good intense. I’m okay, I promise.”

He lets out a slow breath and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “So I take it you liked it?”

A flush of embarrassment washes over you, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you nod. “Yeah… I did,” you admit, your voice soft, almost sheepish. “Go ahead, you can gloat. Tell me I was wrong.”

Instead of taking the bait, he gently traces his fingers along your neck. “It was never about proving you wrong. The judgment you made that day, about not getting why someone would like this… it’s hard to fully grasp until you feel it yourself.”

“I wasn’t judging,” you murmur, feeling a need to defend yourself.

“Maybe not intentionally,” he says thoughtfully. “When it comes to BDSM, there’s a lot of misunderstanding or assumptions people make from the outside, it’s really more than just control or pain. There’s trust, communication, boundaries. And I think, in a way, that’s what happened tonight. You trusted me enough to let go.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing what he’s saying. “Are you suggesting I could be into all of this?”

“Not necessarily,” he replies carefully. “But I think it’s possible that there’s more to it than you realize. You trusted me tonight, and that’s the most important part. That’s where it all starts.”

You chew on his words for a second. It’s not something you’d ever considered before, but now that he’s brought it up, you can’t deny that the thought has sparked something.

“So you think I might want to explore this further?”

His lips curl into a soft smile. “It’s not about what I think. It’s about what you want. If you’re curious, then we can explore it together.” He leans in slightly. “Is that you want?”

The spark you felt moments ago? It flickers stronger now. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying, but with him, it feels… possible. Safe, even.

You feel a tightness in your chest.

“I think… maybe, yeah.”

His smile deepens just a fraction. “We’ll take our time,” he reassures you, his thumb brushing lightly over your throat. “We can talk about this when we get back. You need to rest for now.”

You shift closer to him, feeling the rustle of his clothes against your bare skin. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His chin lands on top of your head. “You can stay with me as long as you want.”

What a dangerous offer, you think as you sink further into his arms. But not as dangerous as the way your heart flutters at the thought.

[soarrenbluejay]

Since I’ve been encouraged to actually share my funny little blorbo ideas here’s another one gang;

Danny moves to Gotham on scholarship for engineering, because the Fentons may be infamous but they’re also insanely brilliant and besides both he and Jazz are showing every sign of embarrassed child of a super genius syndrome, so while the bats are keeping a close eye on him Just In Case, duke is also thinking of introducing him to the Our Parents Are Maniacs But Anyway club maybe after the first month or so.

Gotham does not go for standard dorm living bc of his ‘condition’ and lack of wanting to constantly spook/gaslight a roommate. Besides, living with two small children is a dorm sounds like a disaster in action.

So Danny signs up as a mechanic in Crime Alley, buys himself a teeny weensy lil apartment and Makes It Work. He has been all year after showing up with a de aged Dani and Dan in Amnity after all, and that had gone,,, fine? (The entire town, observing how Danny had been getting increasingly more uncomfortable around his godfather prior to the cloning incident, then just dropped off the face of the earth for several months, the first two weeks stuck in Vlad’s basement enduring horrors and the next Too Many desperately fapping around in the Ghost Zone to get everything handled. All the clones live, all 13 of them. Bunch of them are stuck in the Ghost Zone due to constant need for ectoplasm, but eh, plenty of Zone born never leave, so. One, in the future, apprentices under a green warrior lady on Pandora’s suggestion, another is working in the Eternal Library with Ghost Writer, etc etc. so Danny eventually came back to Amnity with one small child under each arm very obviously traumatized by Somethingn with vlad and doesn’t like being alone with him,,, or touched without warning,, and immediately and passionately proclaims the kids his but struggles to explain how or why,, look some very reasonable assumptions are drawn okay. So the town does the very reasonable thing and does the midwestern equivilant of excommunicating Vlad, except it’s a lot more run him out with pitchforks vibes since he’s the Mayor. Anyway)

He is immediately loved, because while non Gothamites are usually more of a pain than they’re worth, everyone in a while someone even from out of town will just fit in so nicely it’s uncanny for everyone involved. Addams family vibes, it’s referred to as ‘making it home’, just personal hc. He is protective of all the kids playing in the parks and street girls that can totally take care of themselves on their corners but find it HILARIOUS when he just tackles a dick like a wild animal full force no warning. He can fix anything it seems, but refuses to work with weapons. Reasonable enough, people get twitchy about gangs sometimes. Danny mentions being not against Hood or anything, but he’s not going to work for him, littles to take care of and all, but had past experience with ‘Dora and that inheritance mess with her brother he was being a real prick about’ so everyone assumes it’s the equivilant of him having Done His Time and being plenty good for a life time and respects it as long as none of that petty midwestern small town hotshots bring any of that shit over here. And they don’t, because said individuals are on the other side of the mortal veil, so happy day.

See I really love deaged!Dan because he’s just a grumpy lil guy. But he’s also killed millions. He’s so protective of his loved ones, but held back by blending in and also being Smol that it comes off more bitey kitten than anything else. Dani, of course, is a terror, so she fits right in with the crowd.

And sorry gang, but a bunch of kids on their own in Gotham in a poor side of the city just isn’t going to get any attention: that’s just business as usual really. What first gets attention on Danny is not his ‘condition’ or being mistaken for a meta (which he legally probs has an argument for even without the gene bc like these bitches don’t know how metaism works anyway so) or alien (I’m 90% sure he’d be covered by the alien protection act by virtue of being half ‘not from earth’), but because Danny despite best efforts is a Weird Guy.

He grew up in what could only be described as a low level villain level and spent most of high school dealing with smack downs and spiritual invasion. He’s never really processed that any of that is not in fact Normal. Also, he’s capable of making Anything if given the insides of a toaster, blender and alarm clock, and could probably rewrite the circuits of the apartment blindfolded and improve them 1000% even if it ABSOLUTELY would not be up to code.

And sure, things slip every once in a while, bits of spectral ice here, small floating incident there, but everyone just Minds Their Buisness ya know? You really gunna mess with the guy that personally ensured that when your car got flattened by a fight with Killer Croc, you were still able to get in to work the next day by some wizardry? Really?

But Gotham is a city so cursed it’s probably in the exponents countwise, so of course there is a) a flourishing community of magic users and assorted supernatural weirdos and b) a whole lot of shit for Mega Overpowered Ghost King Danny to idly pick at day to day in order to help with his protecting other Obsession. Gotham has plenty of heroes, but by god do they need the spiritual equivilant of an electrician/priest.

Still, Danny, as a baby ancient under a facet of Kronos and KING OF THE DEAD is like, way, way out of their scope to be able to grok, so it mostly just comes off as you know, a family of banshees or something. When asked, Danny very haltingly says he was briefly dead but then revived, which neatly explains his Weird Ass aura and makes it SPECTACULARLY AWKWARD to ask further about. So everyone nods politely, and goes back to their lives after double checking no nefarious bullshit was being pulled.

Then, of course, Vlad finally tracks them down. The whole neighborhood is altered in short order because he doesn’t bother trying to hide being a Rich Bitch or how he’s sneering down his nose at people on the sidewalk. Every connects the dots when Danny paniks. Dani and Dan’s daycare are staffed with some extra, very buff set of hands within the hour. Jerry, Hood’s third in command, personally shows up to the garage Danny is working at to talk things out with him bc he knows he does t like the deal with this stuff due to past unspecified circumstances but well, they guys had already started fucking with him, you see. Stole his tires, spray painted the windows, pickpocketed him blind, and when he retreated tipped off the police to the drugs they’d planted in the glove box.

Danny might not have been born in Gotham, but he was one of them. And the Alley takes care of it own.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Could you perhaps write something? It’s the readers birthday and Reid waits all day to see if she brings it up, but they never do. So he shows up at her apartment with a gift for her and tells her he’ll always remember her birthday, even if she doesn’t tell anyone when it is. And then a little smut occurs. 😱

Birthday Surprise

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: smut (18+), fluff

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut, forgotten birthday

Word count: 7.9k

a/n: this is such a great idea i'm so sorry it took me forever to get around to writing it !! it's probably way smuttier than you thought lolol i was in a smut slump but we're back !

main masterlist

Additional warnings: oral (fem receiving) protected PinV

The day unfolds like any other, with the usual rush of paperwork, coffee runs, and the occasional moment of laughter echoing through the bullpen. You stay focused on your work, avoiding any unnecessary interactions that might draw attention to yourself. After all, it’s your birthday, but you’ve chosen to keep that to yourself. It feels strange, withholding such personal information, but in a high-stakes environment like this, there’s a part of you that prefers to blend into the background. Birthdays aren't meant to be a spectacle here. 

You glance around the room, noticing the typical energy coursing through the space, unaware that a pair of eyes have been subtly watching you all morning. Spencer Reid, as meticulous with people as he is with facts, has always been someone who notices the little things others tend to miss. Today, it’s your silence, the absence of a celebratory card, or a slice of cake that catches his attention. He’s well aware of what today means, not because you told him, but because he knows. Just like he knows the birthdays of every other team member, except yours is different—yours matters more to him. 

Spencer taps his pen against his notebook, his gaze drifting toward you. He debates internally whether to say anything, to let you know he’s aware. He’s read enough about social norms to understand that birthdays often come with expectations—balloons, cake, a few awkwardly sung lines of "Happy Birthday"—but that’s not your style. He’s noticed how you avoid the spotlight, how you prefer quiet moments over public celebrations. Still, he wonders if there’s something you’re hoping for today.

Penelope, typically the beacon of all things celebratory, hasn’t said anything either. But Spencer figures you’ve kept it quiet on purpose. He knows Penelope would have plastered the office with decorations had she been aware, and since the office remains as normal as ever, Spencer figures you’re not in the mood for that kind of attention.

He watches you, waiting for a sign—a smile, a quick glance his way, anything that might suggest you’d appreciate a private acknowledgment. When nothing comes, he respects your decision, but there’s a gnawing feeling inside him. Birthdays are supposed to be special, and even though you’ve chosen not to celebrate, he can’t just let it pass without doing something. Not for you.

The day comes to an end, and not a single word has been spoken about your birthday. You’ve kept it quiet, of course, but still, the silence lingers a bit more than you expected. Not from anyone else, and not from you. Spencer has watched the day unfold in his quiet, observant way, and though he knows you’re not one for grand gestures, he can’t let this pass unnoticed. 

After leaving the office, Spencer’s mind is already set on what he needs to do. He stops by your favorite restaurant, carefully picking up dinner. You never told him your favorite spot, but he’s always been the kind of person who pays attention to the little things—especially when it comes to you. He takes pride in knowing these details, even if he’s never made a show of it.

From there, he heads to a local bakery, the door chiming just as the frustrated baker is about to close. Spencer, out of breath and apologetic, manages to convince the baker to stay open just long enough to get a small cake with your name written on it. The generous tip helps, but more than anything, it’s the desperation in Spencer’s voice that softens the baker’s resolve. 

Now, standing outside your front door with his arms full—dinner in one hand, cake in the other—he uses his elbow to press the doorbell, feeling a flicker of nervousness that’s unusual for him. He never shows up unannounced like this, but he knows this is different. This matters.

Inside, you’re curled up on the couch, completely absorbed in the book your parents sent you as a gift. It’s one you’ve been dying to read for months, and it’s been the perfect way to end your quiet day. The unexpected ring of the doorbell pulls you from your peaceful moment, your brow furrowing slightly as you set the book down. 

You tiptoe toward the door, glancing out the sheer blinds to see who it could possibly be at this hour. When you spot Spencer standing there, your heart skips a beat. You quickly open the door, a confused grin tugging at your lips.

"Reid?" you ask, your voice light but puzzled. "What are you doing here?"

He shifts awkwardly, his arms still burdened with dinner and the cake, and there’s a sheepishness in his expression that’s both endearing and unexpected. 

"Happy birthday," he says, though it comes out more like a question, his uncertainty evident.

Your heart swells at the sight of him, the surprise of his gesture hitting you all at once. You glance at the dinner in one hand, the cake in the other, and something warm blooms in your chest.

"Thank you," you say, your voice soft as you open the door wider. "Come in, please."

Spencer followed you into the kitchen, his eyes subtly taking in the details of your small, cozy home. It occurred to you that this was the first time he had ever been inside, and that realization only added to the strange, fluttery feeling that had been building inside you since he showed up at your door.

He set the bags down on the counter, the quiet clinking of takeout containers filling the brief silence between you. 

“How, um... how did you know it was my birthday?” you asked softly, a hint of shyness in your voice. 

Spencer didn’t look up immediately, making himself busy with the food, carefully unpacking it as though it were an everyday task. “I would never forget your birthday, Y/N,” he replied, his voice so matter-of-fact yet warm. 

His words struck something deep inside you, and your heart swelled all over again, the warmth spreading through your chest and into your limbs. “Reid... that's so sweet,” you murmured, barely able to contain the emotion in your voice.

He smiled over his shoulder at you, that soft, almost boyish grin that made everything feel lighter. “I hope this is okay,” he said, turning around to show you what he had brought. “I guessed you’d like this.”

You blinked, staring at the familiar containers in his hands, and your breath caught in your throat. It wasn’t just any takeout—it was your favorite order from your absolute favorite restaurant. Your mind struggled to process how he could have known, and your body felt like it was on the verge of exploding with a tidal wave of affection and gratitude.

“H–how?” you stammered, unable to get out anything more coherent as your emotions threatened to overwhelm you.

Spencer shrugged in that sweet, almost bashful way he did sometimes, his eyes meeting yours as he simply said, “I pay attention.”

Those three words hit you harder than anything else he could’ve said. It wasn’t just the dinner, or the cake, or even the fact that he’d remembered your birthday without you saying a word—it was that he saw you, truly noticed you, in ways you didn’t think anyone ever did.

Without thinking, you stepped closer, your eyes soft and full of everything you couldn’t put into words. “Reid, you didn’t have to do all of this,” you whispered, but there was no mistaking the happiness in your tone.

He smiled gently, placing the food down on the counter. “I know,” he said, his voice soft, “but I wanted to.”

And just like that, your quiet birthday became something more than you ever could have expected—because of him.

As the two of you settled into an easy rhythm of conversation over dinner, it felt surprisingly natural—despite the unexpectedness of the evening. You sat across from each other at your small kitchen table, the soft clinking of forks against takeout containers punctuating the space between your words. Spencer, usually so reserved and careful, seemed more relaxed, as if the intimacy of the moment had broken down some of his usual barriers.

“You know,” Spencer began between bites, “this restaurant has one of the highest customer satisfaction ratings in the area. I didn’t just pick it at random—I wanted to make sure it was perfect.” He looked up at you, his eyes bright with sincerity.

You smiled, taking in how thoughtful he had been without even realizing how much it meant to you. "I can’t believe you went to so much trouble for this. I really don’t expect anything big for my birthday."

Spencer shrugged, his expression so genuine it made your heart ache just a little. "Well, it’s not just any day. It’s your day. And you deserve to feel special."

His words landed gently, but with a depth that made your pulse quicken. You had always seen Spencer as more than a colleague, but you’d never really considered him in a romantic light. The way he was speaking tonight, though, made you notice things about him you hadn’t before.

“You’re really thoughtful, Reid,” you said, picking at your food, your voice soft. “I don’t think I’ve ever had someone remember the little things like you do.”

He glanced at you with a shy smile, pushing his glasses up slightly. “I like to notice the important things. People tend to overlook those details, but they matter.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, and you suddenly realized how much attention he must’ve been paying all this time. Spencer was always observant—he was a profiler, after all—but this was different. He was talking about you, not in a way that made you feel studied, but in a way that made you feel seen.

“I guess I’ve never really thought about it like that,” you replied, your voice light, though your heart felt anything but. “Most people don’t pay that much attention.”

Spencer looked at you intently then, his gaze soft but unwavering. “It’s hard not to pay attention to you.”

The statement was simple, but the way he said it felt like something more. You felt your cheeks warm, caught off guard by the realization that Spencer Reid might see you in a way you hadn’t seen yourself.

“Reid, I—” you started, but he interrupted, not even realizing the shift in the conversation.

“And you’re always so organized with your case files,” he continued, a small smile playing on his lips. “I appreciate that about you. You make my job easier, and honestly, it’s hard not to enjoy working with you.”

You laughed softly, feeling flustered but trying to keep it light. “You make me sound like I’m perfect or something.”

He tilted his head, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. I’ve always thought you were... well, pretty amazing.”

“I... I didn’t know you felt that way,” you admitted quietly, playing with your fork to avoid looking directly at him.

Spencer, seemingly oblivious to the weight of his own words, shrugged again. “I'm not always good at saying what I’m thinking, but you’ve always stood out to me. I guess it’s just… obvious to me.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and for the first time, you found yourself really considering Spencer Reid in a different light. Sure, he was brilliant, kind, and more attractive than you’d ever let yourself dwell on—but you had never imagined he might see you that way.

You felt... average. Just you. How could someone like Spencer, with his genius mind and thoughtful nature, possibly see you as anything more than a friend or colleague?

As you looked across the table at him, his expression soft and open, you realized that maybe—just maybe—you had been wrong about where you stood with him.

After the plates were cleared, you and Spencer sat side by side, laughing as you decided to abandon any pretense of formality and dig into the cake with forks. It was just the two of you, after all, and the evening had become too comfortable for anything else. Every bite seemed to add to the warmth between you, and even though neither of you had touched a drop of alcohol, it felt like you were both intoxicated—drunk on the unexpected affection and connection between you.

You noticed Spencer watching you with an intensity that was both thrilling and unsettling. His gaze felt heavier than usual, more present, more... intentional. You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a little self-conscious under his watchful eyes. “What?” you asked, your voice light but breathless as your lips curled into a small, uncertain smile.

Spencer let out a soft laugh, a sound so gentle it sent warmth coursing through you. He shifted closer, his hand lifting, and before you could process what was happening, his palm was cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushed across your lips tenderly, lingering there. 

“You have...” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours, “some frosting.”

His touch was electric, sending a shiver through you, though you were frozen in place. Your lips parted slightly in surprise, but you couldn’t move. Spencer's thumb continued to gently trace the curve of your bottom lip, the moment stretching between you, thick with something you hadn’t realized was there until now.

He leaned in a little closer, his breath brushing your skin as he whispered, “Y/N… I’m going to kiss you. Is that okay?”

His words, soft and tentative, sent your pulse racing, and you barely registered the nod you gave in response. But that was all he needed. Spencer's gaze flicked down to your lips, and he closed the remaining distance slowly, as if giving you every chance to stop him, though you knew you wouldn’t.

His lips met yours gently, a hesitant kiss that was soft, warm, and everything you hadn’t realized you’d been craving. The world seemed to fall away for a moment, leaving just the two of you, locked in something fragile and sweet.

Spencer’s hand stayed cradling your face as he deepened the kiss just slightly, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. When he finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his forehead rested gently against yours, and his eyes were still closed as if he were savoring the moment.

“Was that okay?” he asked quietly, his voice thick with emotion, still holding onto the last traces of your kiss.

You let out a shaky breath, your hands instinctively finding their way to his chest. “Mhm, very okay,” you whispered, smiling softly as your heart raced in your chest.

Spencer opened his eyes slowly, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. The room felt heavier with meaning now, but it was the kind of weight you welcomed, a sense that things had shifted between you in the best possible way.

“Can I do it again?” Spencer asked, his voice playful, his lips pulling into a silly grin that made your heart flip. 

You couldn’t help but giggle at his eagerness, your cheeks warming as you nodded once more. This time, though, you didn’t wait for him to make the first move. You leaned up toward him, your hands sliding from his chest to the back of his neck, your fingers gently threading through the soft strands of his hair.

Spencer’s hands moved from where they had been resting on your face, sliding down to your waist as he pulled you in closer, your bodies now pressed together with a new, delicious kind of tension. He let out a soft, happy hum, the sound vibrating through you, making you feel like your entire body was alight with warmth. 

When you felt his tongue gently part your lips, exploring your mouth with such tender care, you couldn’t help the soft, sweet moan that escaped you. The sound seemed to stir something in Spencer, and you felt his fingers tighten on your waist just as a low, deep groan rumbled from his chest.

Encouraged by his reaction, you tangled your fingers further into his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. The world outside this moment seemed to fade even more, leaving just the feeling of Spencer against you, the intoxicating heat between your bodies, and the soft sounds of contentment that passed between you both.

Each kiss was deeper than the last, each touch more deliberate, as if you were both slowly learning a new language made of gentle caresses and lingering glances. Spencer’s lips were soft and insistent against yours, but always so tender, as if he was savoring each moment, never wanting to rush. The feeling of his body pressed so intimately against yours, his hands gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go, made your pulse race.

Spencer pulled back ever so slowly, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. You let out a soft whine, your body instinctively leaning forward, both at the loss of his lips and the delicious pull of his teeth. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he tried to catch his breath, the air between you thick with unspoken feelings.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," he murmured, his voice soft and almost breathless, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Your heart skipped at his words, and you tilted your head slightly, curiosity getting the better of you. "How long?" you asked, your voice just as quiet, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile intimacy between you.

Spencer laughed, the sound low and almost bashful. "Two years and three months," he said with a soft chuckle, his breath tickling your skin.

You paused for a moment, realizing how specific that time frame was. Then it hit you. "That's... that's when I started at the BAU," you said slowly, your mind racing to piece it together.

He nodded, his forehead still resting gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between. "Since the first day I saw you, I knew you were special."

His words hung in the air, and something inside you shifted. You could feel the weight of his confession settle in your chest, and it only made the moment feel more intense, more real. Spencer had been feeling this way for so long, waiting patiently, watching from the sidelines, all without you ever knowing.

That’s when you made your decision.

"Take me to the bedroom, Reid," you said, your voice steady but filled with anticipation.

Spencer pulled back instantly, his eyes wide in surprise, his expression almost comically stunned. "What?"

You held his gaze, your hand gently brushing his cheek as you repeated, more softly this time, "The bedroom, please?" You threw in your best puppy dog eyes, knowing it would be hard for him to say no.

For a moment, Spencer was frozen, his mind clearly racing to catch up with the reality of what was happening. "Okay—yeah, yeah," he stammered, still in shock but unable to hide the excitement building in his voice.

He stood back quickly, offering his hand to you with a mix of eagerness and hesitation. You took it, letting him pull you gently from the kitchen, the warmth of his palm against yours sparking something deep inside you. As he led you down the hallway toward the bedroom, your heart raced, the anticipation growing with every step. 

As soon as the bedroom door closed behind you, your hands were already tugging at Spencer’s sweater vest, pulling it over his head with eager fingers. His usually neat hair was left a little wild and messy, and you couldn't help but giggle softly at the sight. He grinned back at you, shaking his head like a dog trying to shake off water, making you laugh even harder.

"You're ridiculous," you teased, but your words were laced with affection.

Spencer just smiled wider, his eyes filled with mischief and desire. Without missing a beat, his hands found the hem of your shirt, slowly lifting it up as you raised your arms in surrender, allowing him to undress you with deliberate care. The fabric slipped over your head, and as soon as it was discarded to the floor, you could feel his gaze roaming over your body.

His eyes lingered on your chest, clearly noticing the absence of a bra, and the way his breath caught sent a shiver through you. There was something so intense, so reverent in the way he looked at you that it made your skin tingle. His hands found their way to your breasts, his touch gentle yet filled with hunger, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

Without another word, Spencer dipped his head back down, capturing your lips in another kiss that left you breathless. This time, it was deeper, more urgent, as if all the emotions he'd been holding back for years were pouring into this moment. His thumbs rubbed at your nipples as he kissed you, and you could feel his heart beating wildly against your chest, matching the rhythm of your own as you whined softly into his mouth.

Your hands found their way to his hair again, tangling in the soft strands as you pressed your body closer to his, craving more of him, more of the way his lips moved against yours, more of the way his hands explored you.

The moment you felt the unmistakable press of Spencer’s arousal against you, your instincts took over. Your hands trailed down, quickly working at the waistband of his pants, eager to feel more of him. Spencer’s fingers left your body only long enough to undo the buttons of his shirt, your breaths becoming heavier as the distance between you both shrank even more.

Soon, he was down to just his briefs, his skin warm against yours, and for a second, you thought he was about to pull you into another kiss. But instead, he surprised you by crouching down in front of you, his hands resting on your hips. You looked down at him with curiosity and amusement, tilting your head.

“What are you doing down there?” you asked, laughing softly, though your heart was racing.

Spencer looked up at you, and the look in his eyes sent a rush of warmth through your body. There was something almost reverent about the way he gazed at you, like you were the most precious thing he'd ever laid eyes on. “I have wanted this for so, so long,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I want to savor every little bit of you.”

His words made you flush with heat, the intensity of his desire crashing over you like a wave. Your entire body felt like it was on fire, and before you could say anything in response, Spencer's hands were moving again, removing the last pieces of your clothing as he kissed the newly exposed skin. 

And then, you were standing completely bare before him, your most intimate parts now level with his face. The vulnerability of the moment, combined with the raw hunger in Spencer’s eyes, made you feel dizzy, but you couldn’t look away.

It seemed like this was exactly what he had wanted all along. Without hesitation, he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin before his tongue traced a sure stripe through your slick folds. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure up your spine, your knees almost buckling from the sheer intensity of it.

A gasp escaped your lips as Spencer continued, his mouth working with a determination that made it clear this was something he had imagined countless times before. His hands gripped your thighs, steadying you as he continued his ministrations, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes designed to unravel you from the inside out.

You couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips, your fingers tangling in his hair once again as he savored you, just like he said he would.

"You taste better than I imagined," Spencer murmured between breaths, his voice thick with desire before he dove back in, his mouth moving over every inch of you, leaving no part untouched. His tongue was thorough, his lips relentless, and each movement made it harder for you to hold on to any coherent thoughts.

Your grip on his hair tightened as a desperate whimper escaped your lips. "You—ungh—you imagined this?" you managed to gasp out between moans, your voice shaky and breathless.

Spencer hummed against you in response, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body. He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, his mouth latching onto your clit with more intensity, suctioning his lips tightly before shaking his head back and forth, creating a sensation so intense it made you scream out, your body trembling with the force of it.

The sound that left you was raw, completely involuntary, as waves of pleasure rolled through you, Spencer's hands gripping your thighs tighter to hold you steady as you lost yourself in the moment. He was relentless, devouring you with an eagerness that matched his earlier words. It was clear he had thought about this—dreamed about this—and now, with you here in front of him, he wasn’t going to waste a single second.

"Reid..." you moaned, your voice breaking as your entire body responded to his touch, your legs threatening to give out beneath you. Each movement of his tongue, each gentle bite or hum, pushed you closer and closer to the edge, and all you could do was hold on tight, letting him take you wherever he wanted you to go.

But then, just as you were teetering on the edge, Spencer pulled back, leaving you breathless and aching for more. The sudden absence of his touch made your body tremble, a desperate whine escaping your lips. When you looked down, confused and still dazed with pleasure, you noticed the almost stern look in his eyes, his lips glistening as he gazed up at you.

"Spencer," he said, his voice low, full of intent.

Your brow furrowed slightly, your mind hazy from the high you had been riding. "What?" you managed to ask, your voice breathless and needy.

His eyes softened, but his expression remained firm. "Call me Spencer," he repeated, his tone a mixture of command and affection, as if this small detail mattered more than anything in that moment.

Before you could fully process it, he leaned back in, parting you gently with his thumbs to give himself even more access. The feeling was overwhelming, your body trembling as he resumed his ministrations with renewed intensity, his tongue and mouth working in tandem, more precise and focused than before.

The need in you swelled again, even stronger than before, and this time, you couldn’t hold back the moans that spilled from your lips. "Spencer," you gasped, his name escaping your lips like a prayer, your body arching into him as he pushed you further and further toward the edge.

Hearing his name on your lips seemed to spur him on, his movements growing even more deliberate as he devoured you with every ounce of the hunger he had been holding back. You were completely at his mercy, unable to think, unable to do anything but feel as he brought you closer and closer to the peak of pleasure, his name falling from your lips again and again.

Spencer could sense how close you were, your breath hitching and your body trembling beneath his touch. He doubled his efforts, his tongue moving with precision and urgency, his fingers pressing against your thighs to keep you steady. The need to see you completely unravel, to give you that release, spurred him on as he focused entirely on you.

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, and then, finally, the tension that had been building in your core snapped. You tilted your head back, your body arching as the overwhelming pleasure took over. With a loud, uncontrolled moan, your hands found Spencer’s hair, gripping it tightly, tugging hard as you released, your body shuddering and your mind reeling from the intensity of it all.

Spencer didn’t stop, his mouth never leaving you as he worked you through your climax, swallowing everything you offered him. The feel of your fingers gripping his hair, the way your body shook as you released in his mouth—it was everything he’d dreamed of, and more. Only when your body began to calm, your breath evening out, did he slowly pull back, his lips brushing against your skin one last time, savoring the moment.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and full of satisfaction as you slowly came back to reality. You were still breathless, your body weak from the intensity of your orgasm, but the way Spencer looked at you, filled with awe and admiration, made you feel like you were floating.

"That," he murmured softly, "was everything."

“Uh huh,” you mumbled, still floating in the afterglow, your head in the clouds, your body humming with the remnants of pleasure. Spencer slowly rose from his knees, his hands gently skimming your skin as he stood to his full height, a soft, amused smile playing on his lips as he looked down at you.

“You with me, beautiful?” he asked, his voice full of warmth and amusement as he stroked your hair, fingers threading through the strands tenderly.

You blinked up at him, your eyes still hazy with satisfaction, but your smile was soft and content. “I’m with you,” you replied, voice breathy but sincere, your whole body feeling like it was made of light.

Spencer chuckled, the sound affectionate and full of something deeper. “Good, good,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. “Do you want to keep going?”

A slow smile spread across your lips, and the way you said, “Please, Spencer,” made his heart race with excitement and affection.

Spencer grinned, the playful glint in his eyes returning as he gently guided you down onto the pillows, his hands firm but tender. He leaned over you, his fingers brushing your cheek as he whispered, “Anything for the birthday girl.”

With that, Spencer lowered himself over you, his body pressing against yours with a sweet, delicious heat. You could feel the warmth of him, the anticipation growing as his lips found yours once again, slow and lingering, savoring every second. His hands explored your body as though he wanted to memorize every curve, every inch of your skin, and the way he touched you made your heart race all over again.

This wasn’t just about physical pleasure anymore—it was about something deeper, something that had been quietly building between you both for much longer than either of you had realized.

"Can you..." you started, but then hesitated, suddenly feeling a wave of shyness crash over you. This was Reid, after all, your colleague and friend, someone you'd see at work tomorrow. The reality of that hit you, and it made your heart race for an entirely different reason now.

Spencer, noticing the shift in your demeanor, raised an eyebrow, his voice soft and reassuring. "Can I what, darling?" he asked, a small, amused smile on his lips as he looked down at you.

You shook your head, trying to brush it off, but Spencer’s expression quickly shifted to concern. His hands, which had been tracing gentle patterns on your skin, paused, and his voice became softer, more serious. "Y/N... are you okay?"

You let out a quiet sigh, nodding, but there was still a lingering tension in your chest. "Just... is this going to be weird tomorrow?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The intimacy of the moment, the emotions wrapped up in everything that had just happened—it suddenly felt fragile when faced with the idea of seeing him at the office the next day, going back to the usual routine like nothing had changed.

Spencer's face softened even more, and he tilted his head, his eyes searching yours. "Weird?" he repeated, his voice thoughtful, as if he was carefully considering your words. He shifted slightly, his hand coming up to gently stroke your cheek. "No, Y/N, this doesn’t have to be weird."

You blinked up at him, your heart settling slightly at his calm demeanor. He continued, his voice gentle but certain. "We can take it one day at a time, okay? But if you're worried about work, nothing between us will change unless you want it to. I care about you too much to let this ruin anything.”

"If anything, this makes everything better," Spencer continued softly, his eyes full of sincerity as his hand stayed gently on your cheek. "I’ve wanted to be close to you for so long. I wouldn’t do anything to mess that up or make you feel uncomfortable. We can handle this however you want—slow, steady, or even just keeping it between us for now."

His words soothed the unease that had started to form, the tenderness in his tone making it clear that he wasn’t rushing anything, wasn’t trying to push for something more than what you were ready for. Spencer, as always, was careful, deliberate, and understanding. The way he looked at you, the way he touched you, made you feel safe, even in this new, uncertain territory.

You took a deep breath, feeling some of the weight lift from your chest. "I just… I don’t want this to change things in a bad way," you admitted, your fingers lightly brushing over his arm as he hovered over you, your bodies still close but the air between you calmer now.

Spencer shook his head, his smile warm and full of affection. "It won’t. I promise. I’ll still be me, you’ll still be you. And we’ll figure out whatever this is together, one step at a time. You don’t have to worry about work or anything else right now. Just... be here with me tonight."

You felt a sense of relief wash over you, his words grounding you in the moment. The fear of what tomorrow might bring began to fade as you looked up at him, trusting that Spencer, with all his care and thoughtfulness, would never let this turn into something that would hurt either of you.

"Okay," you whispered, offering him a small smile. "I’m here with you."

Spencer’s face lit up with a soft, almost shy grin as he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, his hands once again finding their way to your waist, holding you close as if reassuring you through his touch.

“Good,” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and comforting. "Because I’m not going anywhere."

With that, the tension between you melted away, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the moment. Spencer guided you back onto the pillows, his movements slow and deliberate as he kissed you again, this time with more ease and tenderness, making it clear that whatever happened next would be on your terms, whenever you were ready.

Spencer groaned deeply into your mouth as you pushed his briefs down, your hand wrapping around him, stroking him with just enough pressure to make his breath hitch. You guided him into position, your need for him clear in the way your body responded. His lips never left yours, but his breath grew more ragged as the tension between you mounted.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours, his voice thick with restraint.

You whimpered in response, the feeling of him grinding against you, the tip of his cock hitting your clit, making it impossible to think of anything else. “Please, Spencer,” you begged, your voice trembling with need. “I want you so badly. Please.”

He let out a strained groan, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as your words washed over him. "Okay, okay," he whispered, trying to soothe you even though he was losing his own control. "Shh, you never have to beg me for anything, ever."

Your body writhed beneath him, desperate for more, for him, and you shifted your hips instinctively, trying to coax him to push inside. The anticipation was almost too much to bear, and your need for him was palpable in every shaky breath you took.

Spencer, however, managed to hold onto a sliver of resolve, even as it wore thin. "Y/N, beautiful," he said, his voice rough, "we need to use a condom."

"Top drawer," you gasped, your words nearly a plea as your body moved beneath him, craving the release only he could give you. "Hurry!"

With a nod, Spencer fumbled toward the bedside table, pulling the drawer open with shaky hands. He found the box quickly, tearing it open with urgency. Your eyes stayed locked on him, watching every movement, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your skin burning with need.

He returned to you swiftly, sliding the condom on with practiced care, though his hands were trembling. The moment he was ready, he positioned himself above you again, his eyes filled with both desire and affection as he leaned down to kiss you, this time slower, savoring the feel of your lips against his.

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice softer now, filled with reassurance as he finally pressed forward, slowly pushing inside of you, the sensation sending a wave of pleasure crashing through both of you.

Your head fell back against the pillows, a loud, satisfied moan escaping your lips as he filled you completely, your body welcoming him in a way that felt natural, perfect. Spencer groaned, his breath hitching as he felt your tight walls constrict even further around him. 

"Y/N, darling, relax, please," Spencer panted, his voice laced with both urgency and concern as he struggled to hold himself back, his body tense with restraint. He could feel your tightness, the way you clenched around him, and it was driving him wild, making it hard to stay in control. 

You whimpered, your body still adjusting to the sensation. "You're just—ah!" Your voice broke into a loud gasp as he finally pushed all the way inside, filling you completely. The stretch was intense, overwhelming in the best way. "You're so big... why didn't you tell me you were so big?"

Spencer let out a tense chuckle, clearly amused by your reaction despite his own effort to keep himself in check. "I, uh... didn't think it was that big," he managed to get out, his breath shaky as he looked down at you, his forehead damp with sweat from the strain of holding himself back. 

“You’re a fucking liar,” you laughed breathlessly through your whimpers and whines, your body trembling with both pleasure and amusement.

His chuckle, though filled with affection, was also tight with restraint, and you could feel the tension in his body as he tried to keep from moving too quickly. "Just... breathe," he murmured, his voice gentler now as he leaned down to kiss your forehead, trying to calm both you and himself. "I'll give you as much time as you need. I don't want to hurt you."

You nodded, taking deep breaths as your body slowly adjusted to the feeling of him inside you. Spencer’s hands stayed gentle, stroking your sides and thighs as he gave you time to acclimate, though you could feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.

After a moment, you shifted your hips, testing the sensation, and the movement elicited a low groan from Spencer, his self-control wavering. "Okay..." you whispered, your voice soft but filled with need. "I’m ready."

Spencer’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening with desire as he slowly began to move. His pace was careful at first, each thrust deliberate as he let your body adjust to his size, but the tension between you built quickly, and soon, the rhythm grew more urgent, more desperate.

Each movement sent sparks of pleasure through you, the sensation of him filling you so completely making you dizzy with desire. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the way he moved so perfectly in sync with you, as if you were made for each other.

Spencer groaned deeply, his forehead pressing against yours again as his movements grew more intense. "You feel so good," he murmured, his voice strained as he fought to hold himself back just a little longer, wanting to make this last as long as possible for both of you.

"Spencer!" you cried out, your nails digging into his back as your body trembled beneath him, the pleasure overwhelming you.

"Yeah, baby?" he panted, his voice rough and breathless as his hips slapped against yours in a steady, rhythmic motion. "Tell me what you need."

"You! More! Please!" Your voice was a desperate plea, every inch of your body burning with want.

"Fuck," he breathed, his control slipping as he sped up, his thrusts becoming more intense. His hand snaked between your bodies, fingers finding your clit as he began to rub you in time with his movements. The sensation made you cry out again, the combination of his fingers and his body sending you spiraling toward the edge.

“I’m—I’m gonna come,” you whined, your body trembling as you clenched tightly around Spencer, the sensation pushing you toward the brink.

“Y/N!” he gasped, his voice strained as he tried to hold on. “Calm down, baby, you’re going to push me out.”

But you were too far gone to hear him, lost in the overwhelming pleasure that was building inside you. Your whimpers grew louder, your body thrashing uncontrollably as Spencer’s fingers moved faster, working in perfect rhythm with your body's need.

Suddenly, it hit you all at once, the most intense release you’d ever experienced. You let out a violent scream, your entire body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, something deeper and more powerful than anything you'd ever felt before.

Your walls clenched so tightly that you did, in fact, push Spencer out, and you gushed all over him, your body overwhelmed by the force of your orgasm. Spencer let out a low groan at the sensation, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and arousal as he watched you come undone in front of him, watched your release coat his stomach and thighs.

“Did you just... squirt?” Spencer asked, his voice full of pure awe as he looked down at you, his eyes wide with amazement.

You were a panting mess on the bed, completely spent from the intensity of what had just happened. “That, or I just peed on you,” you mumbled, half-joking but still trying to make sense of the overwhelming sensation you had just felt.

Spencer laughed, shaking his head as he dipped down to kiss you, his lips soft against yours. “You are so sexy, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice full of affection and admiration.

You kissed him back tiredly, your body too exhausted to do much more, but the desire to give him what he needed still lingered. "Want you to come too," you whined softly, your words almost pleading.

“Okay, okay,” Spencer soothed, his breath hitching as he positioned himself once more, slowly pushing back inside you. The sensation made your body jolt, and you cried out, your back arching from the overstimulation. It was too much and yet not enough, the oversensitivity sending sharp pulses of pleasure through you.

“Are you okay, darling?” Spencer asked, his voice breathless as he fought to hold himself back, concerned about your comfort.

You nodded quickly, though your body was trembling beneath him. “Nuh huh,” you whimpered, your voice shaky as you gripped him tightly, pulling him closer. “I’m okay, I want this. Please,” you urged, your body still sensitive but craving the closeness, needing to feel him chase his own release.

Spencer groaned at your words, his resolve crumbling as he began to move again, thrusting into you with an increasing pace. His body was tense, his breath ragged as he neared the edge, each movement sending both of you into a dizzying spiral of pleasure.

You clung to him as he chased his release, your breaths mingling, your bodies connected in a way that felt intimate and overwhelming all at once. And when Spencer finally let go, his body shuddering as he found his own climax, you held him close as he groaned and whispered your name. 

After Spencer had taken care of both of you, gently cleaning you up and even changing the sheets that had been soaked in your release, the two of you finally settled into bed, wrapped up in each other's arms. His body was warm against yours, his breath steady as he held you close. Everything felt so perfect, so right in that moment, like the world had shrunk to just the two of you in that cozy little space.

You nuzzled into Spencer's chest, feeling his heartbeat under your lips as you placed a soft kiss there. "I want things to be different," you mumbled, your voice quiet and filled with a softness that made his heart swell.

Spencer looked down at you, his hand stroking your hair gently. "Yeah?" he asked, the happiness in his voice evident. "Different how?"

You shifted slightly, still cuddled close, your lips brushing over his skin. "I want everyone to know," you murmured, your voice more certain this time.

Spencer chuckled softly, though he held you tighter, a smile spreading across his face. "Know what exactly?" he asked, teasing slightly, though he had a feeling he knew where this was going.

You tilted your head up, meeting his eyes with a sweet, serious look. "That you're my boyfriend," you said, your voice full of affection, but also with a sense of determination.

Spencer’s heart fluttered at your words, and he couldn’t help but break into a grin. He’d never thought he’d hear you say something so simple yet so powerful. "Boyfriend, huh?" he teased softly, though his own voice was thick with emotion. He pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours. "I think I’d like that," he whispered.

You smiled, feeling the warmth of his words settle over you like a blanket. "Good," you replied, kissing him softly. "Because I want everyone to know how lucky I am."

Spencer let out a soft laugh, his thumb gently tracing the outline of your face. "I think I’m the lucky one, Y/N," he murmured, his voice filled with nothing but pure, overwhelming happiness. And in that moment, with the two of you wrapped up in each other, everything felt like it was exactly as it should be.

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[ssahotchnerr]

Hello! How are you doing?

I don't have anything extremely specific (sorry, I'm just leaving work and haven't really thought about this).

But if you want to, how about jealous Aaron who has the, very rare, opportunity to go pick up the reader from her job and see her all smiles with another coworker? In this case I was thinking that there might be a age gap between them and the male coworker is more of her age? So a bit of jealous and insecure Hotch?

If you feel comfortable with this of course!

Have a good day 😊

in comparison

cw; fem!reader, age gap, insecure :( and jealous!aaron, some angst, small suggestiveness, fluff <3 wc; 1.2k

You were exiting the building with a few of your colleagues, partaking in what appeared to be an entertaining conversation from Aaron's line of sight. The liveliness on your face was vivid, undoubtedly enjoying whatever the whole of you were collectively discussing.

You looked comfortable, relaxed, happy. You molded into the group well. One of your male colleagues in particular was inching a bit too close, a near awestruck expression on his face as a laugh escaped you. If he took one step to his right, his shoulder would be touching yours. While you were clueless, he was enamored.

Aaron felt his eyes harden involuntarily, a jealous heat swarming through his body; he wanted to march over there and assert his role as yours. However, the feeling wasn't long lasting. A profound sadness climbed up his spine, as he gained a different perspective.

It wasn't that you didn't fit into his life. On the complete contrary: you were the perfect addition.

But something about seeing you with others, with someone closer to your age, was daunting. Intimidating. It sickened him how natural the visual appeared. Reality has smacked him in the face numerous times over the years, he wouldn't be surprised if it happened again. That somehow, someway, you would prefer the latter. The one that had nothing to do with him.

As you walked towards Aaron's car, you glanced back at your coworkers, offering a wave and a smile as they jointly headed to the parking lot. His window was opened a crack, and he heard you call back towards them, "Have fun tonight!"

Aaron exhaled a breath.

"Hey." You chirped as you slid into the passenger seat, leaning over the center console to place a kiss on Aaron's cheek. He was rather stiff as you did so, causing you to lightly scrunch your nose in confusion, pulling away slowly. Something was up.

"Hey," He echoed, greeting you with an almost forced smile. The abruptness of his thoughts had unsettled him deeply - he couldn't shake them. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be." You responded hesitantly, searching his face as you buckled your seatbelt. You added after a moment, happy to be in his company and the emotion overtaking your heart. "I missed you today."

But your words went unnoticed, as he had already reentered the void that was his unwelcome thoughts.

In result the car ride home was silent, Aaron's pout unfaltering. His mind was plagued by the image of your coworker being in his place, driving you home, or the two of you huddled together amongst a night out with friends. It caused an uncomfortable, sad pit in his stomach.

"You missed a turn."

"What?"

Your statement jolted him back to earth. No he didn't... did he? His eyebrows furrowed in a line, reassessing the current surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary, all familiar street signs. When he confirmed he, in fact, did not miss a turn, he turned to you, only to find a knowing smirk plastered on your face.

His eyebrows quirked softly, obstructing the line drawn above his eyes. "What was that about?"

"To get your mind off whatever you're stewing about."

A smile threatened his lips, due to your witty expression and observation, "I'm not." His tone found a slightly lighter note - amusingly guilty. Anything but convincing.

"Aaron, darling, you're gonna break some teeth if that," Your playful demeanor dropped for a moment, your eyes tracing back and forth, as if you were in a trance. "Jaw of yours tightens anymore."

Your brief distraction eased a notion of his jealousy, he still had that effect on you, thankfully. He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his stare forward.

"So what is it?" You asked, "Did you have a bad day?"

He shook his head.

"Bad bout of cases?"

Aaron grimaced, his knuckles letting up only to secure his fingers over the wheel again, "They're always bad."

"Something I did?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but only silence came out. His hesitation caused your face to fall, your shoulders dropping and posture succumbing to the back of your seat.

"No honey, no you didn't do anything." He was quick to reassure, feeling entirely worse. "I can assure you."

Your eyes met his, needing more.

He sighed defeatedly, surprisingly not afraid to bluntly admit, "I'm jealous."

"Jealous?" You froze, but then it clicked. You gestured behind, as if your colleagues were somehow tailing the two of you. "Of...?"

Aaron bit his lip, nodding slowly.

Your expression lightened, a soft and genuine wonder in your eyes, "Why?"

"Are you okay with this?" Confusion arose on your face once more, so he clarified. "This. Us. You signed up for a lot, quickly at that."

Truth be told, the two of you had progressed at a rate neither of you expected, due to the sheer infatuation you possessed for one another. That, too, had been natural.

"I'm divorced, widowed, a father - I come with baggage. My 'going-out' are days long gone. I don't want you missing out."

"Aaron." In a way, you could laugh. It tore your heart into pieces he was thinking this way, doubting himself but he was clueless in an adorably, idiotic way. In summary, he simply never gave himself the credit he deserved. "What could I possibly be missing out on?"

"You could be spending your weekends out, socializing, with people closer in age. And yet, you're..." He came up with an example. "Making pillow forts. These are supposed to be the best years of your life. I'm terribly boring in comparison."

"Hey, I make a mean pillow fort."

He gave you a look.

Your hand grabbed his bicep affectionately, clinging onto it as if you were knocking some sense into him. "I chose this. I chose you. Jack is the addition to my life I never knew I needed. And I don't want to be out galavanting bar to night club to bar. I jump at the opportunity to deny a night out to spend it in. With you. When have you ever seen me wanting to go out and party?"

An expression of distaste flashed across your face at the concept, and Aaron's head tilted to the side as he considered your point.Yeah, that was true.

"I'm a homebody. And if there's anything I've realized over the course of the past months, you're my home. You."

Aaron let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"I know what I'm in for. And I embrace it with open arms. I want it." Your face was content, even more so than when you were talking with your colleagues. "I love you. And I love the life we're creating. It's so special, beyond my wildest dreams."

"Really?" A boyish, hopeful expression graced his face.

"Really. I wouldn't want it any other way. I can promise you. This- you're everything I could ever want."

Aaron's hand found your thigh, giving it a gentle, loving squeeze. "I love you too, sweetheart."

You beamed in response - you'd never get tired of the words leaving his lips.

"That one guy though," Aaron raised his eyebrows, taking a quick glance at you. Envy began creeping back, "He seemed interested. Wasn't a fan of that."

You scoffed, unbothered. "I'm into men, not boys. Which again, you are the utmost depiction of." Your delightful smirk resurfaced, admirably looking him over. "Believe me, I couldn't be more satisfied."

He wanted to play into your suggestive remarks, but he needed further confirmation. Once more. "You sure?"

"Oh, I'm positive."

Finally satisfied himself, he surrendered, "Okay."

"In fact, I can think of a few ways to show you just how much later."

[martian-astro10]

Astrology observations - Part 5 (use whole signs)

🌶️ I've noticed that Saturn in 8th house people always end up having to give their hard earned Money to their in-laws, like they're never able to keep it and if not in-laws then they end up losing it in some other way.

🍵 Saturn in 10th house people usually have a very bad relationship with their fathers, I know so many people with this and it's true for all of them (tbf, their fathers deserve it, so I don't blame them). Whenever i visit them, their father will start fighting even when I'm present 🥲 like some parents atleast pretend to be on good terms in front of others, but theirs do not.

🌶️ On the other hand, moon in 9th house people are usually very close to their father. He may not always be emotionally present in their lives but they still have this desire to prove their worth to him. But most people I know, who have this, actually love their dad and frequently spend time with him. It's cute.

🍵Mars/Sun in the 1st house people are some of the most ambitious individuals. I noticed that many billionaires have this. It doesn't mean that they're good at what they do, it's more like, they'll step over anyone to get what they want, can be greedy as well. If a person has sun AND mars in 1st..... don't mess with them, because they will RUIN your life.

🌶️ Jupiter in 2nd house people suck at financial management, these people are so talented and will do a great job, get paid a hefty amount, and then just lose all that money, I actually don't even know how they manage to do it, but they just do 😭. If you have this, please give your salary to someone more responsible and only then will you be able to become rich.

🍵3rd lord in 12th house people ALWAYS do better in life when they leave their birth land. Nothing goes their way as long as they stay where they were born, but once they move abroad, it's like, their whole personality changes (in a good way), they also start feeling more comfortable in expressing their talents.

🌶️ Sun in 2nd house people are REALLY good singers, I don't know about the celebrities, but we have so many amazing singers in our university and all of them have sun in 2nd house, the type depends on the sign. But all of them have such a beautiful voice.

🍵 Saturn in 2nd house people are the ones who act like the elder sibling even when they're the youngest or the only child. Idk how to explain it, but they just have the "oldest child" energy. They're very responsible and I know people with this, whose parents did not treat them in a good way and yet they do not hold a grudge, they're like "it's okay, they were also having problems of their own, so I get it, I know they actually love me" and it's.....kind of sad. But also, very inspiring in a way. They're also very very responsible with money. They know how hard it is to earn before they even start working themselves.

🌶️ Mars in 3rd...these people....first of all, if you're reading this, please learn to talk slowly bro. These people always be talking like they gonna miss out some shit 😭, like bro calm down. Also, they wanna argue ALL THE TIME. I have a friend with this and and she makes ME cry with how long she's able to argue, they will make you agree with them before they leave you alone. So now whenever she says something that I don't agree with, I just go "yeah, you're actually right" cuz I'm NOT taking risks.

🍵 Mercury in 3rd house people can be amazing journalists and writers. They really have this ability to make you FEEL things through their writing, especially if it's in a water sign. Can be very passionate about certain social causes as well. I know two people with this and both of them have a secret twitter and Tumblr account and they refuse to tell us the username. So, they like to fight for things, from behind the scenes and avoid spotlight.

© martian-astro All rights reserved, 2024

[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

Diasomnia with “who hurt you” trope

Lilia Vanrouge:

Lilia doesn’t feel like himself when he sees you, your eyes closed, your body impossibly still - he can feel his heart hammering in his chest as he approached you, fingers desperately searching your skin for a sign of life. It seemed his touch brought you back, even briefly, eyes finding his alongside a weak smile. He whispered his question with an intensity you’d never heard from him before, flinching as he almost yelled it in his next breath. He had to know who did this to assure they never did it again. When he sees fear reflected in your eyes he calmed himself, a hand delicately caressing your cheek as he asked again in a gentler tone and leaned down so you wouldn’t have to strain yourself or your voice. He hummed thoughtfully at the description and seared it into his head, hiding the eerie look on his face as he pressed a kiss to your head and promised you’d be okay soon.

Malleus Draconia:

Malleus had always been observant of the people he cared about, especially when there was a comfortable routine to be found. He had found such a routine with you, where your classes were right next to each other and you had the same lunch; you would often walk to the cafeteria together, getting your food and finding a much quieter spot to eat or enjoy each other’s company. He can’t say he hadn’t been curious about how long this might last until you forgot, when this wouldn’t just be a daily pleasantry to you but like an appointment you were expected to keep to appease the dragon. He tastes bile in the back of his throat the one day you don’t appear, a lingering disappointment though he tried not to let it show as his emotions tended to cause disasters. It’s only when he sees you again, your eyes looking lifeless and your body language closed off, that he realized something must have happened. He wants to pry, to ask a million questions to get to the bottom of this so things could return to normal, but his experiences had taught him many things, so he chose to wait beside you until you were ready to confide in him. He was confident he’d find out who hurt you regardless, and that he could handle it swiftly.

Sebek Zigvolt:

Sebek doesn’t immediately notice any odd behavior, going about the conversation regarding your schoolwork as normal. It’s when tear drops began to stain the paper in front of you that he’s rendered speechless, knowing you weren’t weak enough to cry over something like potion ingredients. He’s incredibly clumsy in his attempts to understand what upset you, who upset you — it wasn’t him, right? As brash as he could be he had learned the proper way to act without pushing you away, so he’s confident it wasn’t that. He’s meant to be a fighter and if someone had physically hurt you, he’d know exactly how to restore your honor. However, with only figurative bruises on your heart he’s struggling, twice as much as he would with a regular friend due to the depth of his feelings for you. You can at least find some amusement in Sebek’s ever changing facial expressions as he used all his brain power to remedy the situation.

Silver:

Silvers steps were steady as he approached, stealthily following the trail of blood and hoping it didn’t lead to an unfortunate prize. He broke out into a sprint when he sees your form curled up on the ground, a much larger puddle of blood gathered nearby to hint he had found the main source behind the trail. He’s fighting not to panic as he kneeled over your body, hands holding your face as he begged for you to wake up, to just look at him. When you do it brings him enough relief that he could cry, forehead pressed to yours as he asked who did this to you. He doesn’t know what his next course of action is, frown plastered to his face as your eyes slid shut again; he could see your chest moving now, in the familiar way it did when you slept, leaving him a little more at ease. Silver felt like he might not sleep for another hundred years, not until the person who hurt you was thoroughly punished.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine, I kept thinking about a Kamisato Ayato in a modern day AU in which him and the reader were going through a divorce because things are not going the way it was supposed to be and the marriage is just not working out anymore. When suddenly, suddenly he had an amnesia.

Imagine instead of his mistress, it was you whom he kept looking for, demanding to see upon waking up after the accident. Leaving his mistress baffled and confused just as you are upon arriving at the hospital, hoping that little shitty of a husband dead only to find him demanding and desperately looking for you in the midst of this messy and chaotic moment.

"Anata." His voice soften in contrast to his shouts earlier before you enter the room, doctors, nurses and his mistress all inside. "Anata." He called out again but you just stood there as he desperately tried to call your attention. "Anata, who are these people inside the room? What's happening?" He called out and question you, you knew he was calling you because he was looking at you, not anyone but you. Which is pretty funny because he haven't called you that for years, ever since the marriage started falling apart.

"He must have hit his head pretty hard Doc." You spoke nonchalantly, not in the mood to deal with all this bullshit. "It's been years since he called me like that. Can someone explain to me what's happening with my husband?" "Husband? Then who-?" "His mistress." You replied. "As I'm saying- asking rather, can someone explain to me what happened to this guy over here?" "... Very well, Mr. Kamisato over here is involved in a car accident and had brain concussion. As we can see..."

Imagine walking into the room, not that you want to. But upon walking into the room, you are quite surprised to find him alone in there. You were quite expected him to have his mistress with him but turns out that was not the case. "Who's that?" "Who's who?" "That person who was here earlier calling me her lover." "Oh. Well she is exactly who she said she was, she's your lover." You answered, sitting on the sofa inside the private room. Looking away and pulling your phone to check out your notifications. Because goddammit, how dare he look so hurt by those words?

"She what-? Why? Tell me you're joking." You have never seen him look so confused before. Looking back and forth to the notifications on your phone and to the man right in front of you. You sigh, causing him to flinch. "The doctor told me you can be dismissed in two days because you're still under observation. And while you're current suffering from amnesia, they said there was still a possibility of you regaining your memories so don't treat her pretty harshly. I know it could be confusing at first but you'll het over it." You explain and then stood up, "Then, I'll get going now."

Imagine glancing at him only to see him look so broken, like he was waiting, begging for someone to wake him from his dream, from his nightmare. You look away, it's not like it hurts to see him like that. It stopped hurting years ago. Nevertheless, once again you sigh. "Anata-" "I can't have children." "It doesn't matter-" "Well it does now, Ayato." You smile softly at him. "And that explains everything." You added before turning your back at him and walking towards the door. "Oh right, please sign the divorce paper. You wouldn't want your future child to be labelled illegitimate, no?"

Imagine hearing him call out- scream after you but you just kept walking without looking back. You ignore his cries and call with all your might, and walking past the corridor, "Go on, comfort him." You said as you walked pass the woman. "I'm sorry." She said, sounding like she was about to cry and you couldn't help but to smile a little, "No, I'm sorry." You replied as you continue to walk your way out of the hospital.

Imagine going inside the car, your cachuffere already waiting for you inside. And in the middle of the ride, "Want to smoke?" "Nahh" You declined as you look at the city lights. "Are you sure you wouldn't regret this?" "What are you talking about." You chuckle. "He might remember everything one day." "He won't. And even if he did, he wouldn't be able to do anything by then." You answered. "He would hate you." "Then much better." You replied.

"Is it?" "Hmm?" "For the better?" Well in comparison to the amount of suffering he has to go through cause by his elders just because he has yet to produce a heir to the clan, questioning and criticising his title as the chairman and chief of the Kamisato clan, it would be much better to get rid of his one of only flaw. His spouse that couldn't give him a heir. Closing your eyes, this is nothing, "Yeah, for the better." I'm sorry, my love.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: I'm getting a hang of this crocheshit. Ily may pasok na ko bukas yawa ayoko na pumasok. Also, this imagine escalated real quick like no sht. I was writing this for fluff but???

[im-so-normal-iswear]

Hellooooo!

I have an idea and I am going to give it to you if you want.

Reader that is deaf, Yandere!Sonic, yandere!Knuckles, yandere!Shadow (separately) the bois didn't know that reader is deaf until eggman's robots decided to attacked them. They called out for reader but only to realize that reader is deaf.

A/n: these were kind of rushed

Yandere!Sonic/Knuckles/Shadow x Deaf Reader

Sonic:

Being around Sonic was always an adventure. His constant energy and carefree attitude could light up any situation, and for someone like you, Sonic's world was exhilarating. He’d often dash off mid-sentence, leaving you to guess what he was saying, but you didn’t mind. His antics spoke volumes on their own.

What Sonic didn’t know about you, however, was your deafness. You’d learned to adapt, reading lips, watching expressions, and observing the world carefully. Sonic, being Sonic, never noticed. His world moved so fast that he didn’t question why you didn’t always respond immediately or why you tilted your head to watch him so closely.

It all came down one day when Eggman’s robots attacked. You were walking through Green Hill Zone, enjoying the breeze, when the ground trembled beneath your feet. Sonic, as usual, showed up in a flash, shouting something. You didn’t catch it, but you smiled at him and nodded.

"Hey! You’ve gotta get out of here!" Sonic yelled, but when you didn’t move, his smile faltered. He darted to your side, grabbed your hand, and led you away from the battle.

As you both reached a safe spot, he turned to you, his brow furrowed. "Why didn’t you move when I told you to?"

You could tell he was upset, but before you could explain, another explosion erupted, and Sonic raced back. He took down the robots effortlessly, but his mind was racing faster than his feet. Something wasn’t adding up.

After the battle, Sonic confronted you again. His normally carefree demeanor was replaced by concern "Hey, you’re gonna tell me what’s going on, right?"

When you finally explained your deafness, Sonic’s eyes widened. At first, he was stunned, then guilty, and finally, protective.

"Oh, man... I had no idea. That’s why you didn’t move?" He paused, running a hand through his quills. "I can’t believe I didn’t notice. You could’ve gotten hurt!"

From that moment on, Sonic became glued to your side. He was always watching you, ensuring you were safe. He started learning sign language, obsessively practicing until he could communicate with you fluently. While his efforts seemed sweet at first, his protective nature quickly became suffocating.

"I can’t leave you alone," he’d say, standing in your doorway as you tried to explain that you needed space. "What if something happens? What if I’m not there to protect you?"

Sonic’s world was fast-paced, but when it came to you, he was willing to slow down, if only to keep you by his side.

Knuckles:

Knuckles wasn’t one for small talk. His nature meant he rarely spoke more than necessary, which suited you just fine. Your communication with him was largely through gestures and expressions, and he didn’t question it. To him, it felt natural, like the two of you shared an unspoken bond.

But that bond was tested the day Eggman’s robots came for the Master Emerald. You had been helping Knuckles keep watch, your presence a calming effect on him. When the first robot appeared, Knuckles barked out a command.

"Get back! I’ll handle this!"

You didn’t move, too focused on the robot’s sudden approach. Knuckles sighed in frustration, rushing to shield you. After taking down the first wave, he turned to you, his eyes blazing with anger.

"I told you to move! Why didn’t you listen? Are you even listening?"

Your confusion must have shown on your face, because Knuckles stopped mid-rant. His fists unclenched as realization dawned. "Wait... can you even hear me?"

When you shook your head, tears stinging your eyes as you signed your explanation, Knuckles froze. He wasn’t mad at you, he was furious with himself.

"I didn’t know..." he muttered, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. "You’ve been here all this time, and I never noticed."

From that day forward, Knuckles became overbearing. He was always by your side, watching you like a hawk. He insisted on teaching you how to defend yourself, his training sessions grueling and relentless.

"You need to be able to protect yourself if I’m not there," he’d say, though the thought of leaving you alone made him sick to his stomach.

Knuckles’ obsession with your safety only grew. He’d isolate you on Angel Island, insisting it was the only place you’d be truly safe. "I alone, am capable enough to protect you" he’d say, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Shadow:

Shadow was observant by nature. It didn’t take him long to notice that something was different about you. You rarely reacted to loud noises, and your eyes were always focused on his lips when he spoke. Still, he didn’t say anything, content to keep his suspicions to himself.

That changed during a mission to stop Eggman. You were part of the team, assisting while Shadow handled the heavy lifting. When the attack came, Shadow barked out a command.

"Get to cover!"

You didn’t respond, your attention fixed on the approaching danger. Shadow cursed under his breath, teleporting to your side just in time to shield you from an explosion.

After the battle, he confronted you, his eyes narrowed. "Why didn’t you listen to me?"

When you explained your deafness, Shadow’s expression didn’t change, but his mind was racing. He hated the thought of you being vulnerable, especially in a fight.

"You should’ve told me," he said, his voice cold. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

From that moment on, Shadow took it upon himself to protect you. His methods were extreme, he shadowed your every move, ensuring you were never out of his sight. He even went as far as to demand that you stay out of battles entirely.

"You’re a liability," he’d say, though that wasntbthe full truth. Shadow didn’t see you as a weakness, he saw you as his responsibility. And in his mind, that meant keeping you safe at all cost, even if it meant controlling every aspect of your life.

"You don’t need anyone else," his voice soft yet chilling. "I’ll protect you. Always."

[yuutawe]

YUUTA OKKOTSU AS A BOYFRIEND! ﹕headcanons

꒰ warnings!!꒱ there is a nsfw part near the end ! aged-up yuuta (he's 21 here) ! yandere yuuta ! reader is implied to be into his obsessions + at least slighly aware ! delusional yuuta ! mentions of marriage ! manipulation (lovebombing) ! ⤷﹒✦┆mentions of bdsm + switch yuuta + overstimulation (implied) + dacryphilia (implied).

ꖛ about. * reader is gender-neutral. no anatomy specified + they/them pronouns and genderless nicknames.

ꖛ author's note * aaaaaghhh wanted this to be longer. got embarrassed writing nsfw, ngl. hope you enjoy ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎[ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎NOT PROOFREAD!]

PRE-RELATIONSHIP !! ꒱୨९

yuuta being yuuta, you probably were the one to ask him out. the life of a sorcerer was one where relationships didn't have much space on the personal agenda (unless he made a few extra efforts). initially, the big obstacle is yuuta's own shyness and the traumas he carries with his bruised soul.

when he starts to get interested in you, his first reaction is to panic. pure and fickle, sprouting in his heart like a parasite. it starts innocently enough: liking older photos on your social media. late-night messages. drinks at the weekend, until he notices his hand on your lower back as he guides a drunken you to the car.

you’re snoring on the passenger’s seat and yuuta is wide-eyed, his thoughts a mile per minute. this can't be happening.

yuuta can't dodge maki's taunts, toge's questions (which are too judgemental for someone who only talks in onigiri ingredients) and panda's cupid advice. nobody really understands how he's feeling.

even though he has learnt a lot from losing rika and eventually letting her go, he still fears and longs for true, pure love. it's almost a necessity. he underwent grief counselling and still got over his old crush in a surprisingly healthy way, for someone who was literally haunted by the ghost of said crush for years of his life.

then you arrive. with a gentle smile, sweet words and an unforgettable body. how could he resist? god, he wants to marry you in the spot. but yuuta knows it's a selfish desire.

he's very, very respectful, and tries not to let his interest show in a way that makes you uncomfortable. it's all about knowing how to read the smallest, subtlest signs, and he'll be well understood. yuuta is the kind of guy who will walk you to your car when you leave somewhere, the guy who remembers to take an extra jacket or offers you his when it's too cold, the guy who always remembers your preferences, allergies, and other small details.

an observer, he's always the silent one who rarely engages in conversation. initially, it's very much a ‘you talk, he answers’ kind of thing, but eventually he gains enough confidence to open up and constantly initiates and continues conversations with you.

his lingering glances at your body don't go unnoticed by you. maybe there's a bit of teasing coming from you, depending on your personality, but it doesn't matter. he's too shy to make the first move. so you do.

after the first date, that's when things blossom.

HONEYMOON PHASE !! ꒱୨९

the honeymoon phase is one of the best experiences you can have dating yuuta. things are new, slightly superficial, but overall very nice and gentle. he is unfortunately a bit prone to lovebombing, even if he doesn't realize it. he can be extremely smothering and hyper-protective at times, but an honest conversation of five to ten minutes can easily help him correct this behaviour.

he's a great listener, and fights are almost non-existent. gestures of love are constant and always innovative: flowers every week, homemade chocolates if you're a fan, reservations at places that interest you and even simple dates at home. marathons of series or films that end in soft kisses and warm hugs.

he does ask for you two to live together a bit too quickly.

POST-HONEYMOON PHASE !! ꒱୨९

even when the honeymoon phase is over, yuuta is never less romantic. he makes a point of doing little gestures like cooking, cleaning and organising the house for when you arrive. It starts as a surprise in a few days — surprise, love! Now you don't have to clean anything — but if you don't want to let him do all the work, he'll agree to a routine where the two of you can alternate housework. the only thing he asks for in return for all the hard work is a few kisses and a cute name as his contact in your phone (like ‘love’, ‘mine’, ‘promised’, ‘husband’).

he's clingy. yuuta is completely starved for touch. he always likes to end an evening by wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in the soft curve of your neck and shoulder. if he can leave a few kisses there before he falls asleep, even better. he doesn't move much during the night, but he's the type with cold hands and a warm body.

yuuta is the kind of man who, if you get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, when you come back to the bedroom, you'll see him sitting on the bed, devastated — why did you leave me. dramatic, but in a way that can end up being cute.

GENERAL VIEW !! ꒱୨९

in general, if you can ignore “petty” habits like stalking, overprotection and are willing to hug him and wipe the blood off his face when he comes back from missions, it's a great relationship. if you like men who are obsessed with you, he's simply the best possible option. always trying to touch you or be close to you, making sure you're comfortable — a sweet voice asking is everything okay, love? we can leave if you want.

he wants to take you away from the world and have you all to himself, sometimes, but he makes the sacrifice of sharing because it's what makes you happiest. yuuta is super supportive with your career or if you want to be the type to look after the house. whichever is best for you, he's happy! he's willing to listen to you complain about work while he massages your shoulders, takes your shoes off for you and carries you around the house to the bathroom.

“i'll love you forever.” he murmurs as he kisses your forehead.

SEX LIFE !! ꒱୨९

although it doesn't seem like it, yuuta has a relatively high libido. if this is a problem for you, he can get used to solving it on his own. however, all his fantasies involve you in some way. often, while spending days away on a mission, he begs for a photo or audio of your voice, because he can't enjoy it without you. “please, love, i need you.”

distance is a cruel poison, but he makes a point of not bothering you about it if he can sort it out himself.

his stamina is good. yuuta can last three rounds before having to give up. if you push his limits, he can last six, and fall asleep minutes later.

he's a switch. he's naturally a bit submissive, and the type who lives to give you pleasure. service sub and soft dom, it's basically him.

when he is the submissive one, he sounds more like: “please, please, please, more— don’t stop, don’t stop, i’ll do anything—”

and when he is the one domming you, he's more: “is this good, my love?” he presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder, smiling. “you’re so perfect.”

he'll do anything you want — hit him, push him to the limit, pull his hair. slap him, make him cry just to lick the tears off his cheeks (he loves that crap). he’s yours.

he likes it when you bite and leave marks on him. yuuta will often wear the hickeys and bites as a trophy. as living proof on his body that your love belongs to him, and vice versa.

he moans really, really loud. probably more than you do. it's the kind of whine and long moan that makes the neighbours complain. even when he's on top, he can't hold back the noise he makes when you're together. if you want him to be quiet, you'll have to gag him, or he'll need to bite your shoulder or have his face buried in the pillow.

always after sex, yuuta tries to make you stay in bed, clinging to you and hugging you like a teddy bear. he demands his cuddles. and of course, how could you deny anything to him?

he loves you as much as you love him, after all.

© made by yuutawe on tumblr. do not copy, repost, modify or translate my works in this or any other site — inspirations allowed with credits.

[dontbesoweirdkira]

How would Platonic! Yan! Batfamily react to Reader with Narcolepsy?

A/N:Thank you for requesting. I hope I did okay with this, please respectfully correct me if I got anything wrong or unintentionally offensive with this as I do not suffer from narcolepsy.

Warnings: Toxic and abusive family dynamics, infantalization, medication tampering, worsening issues

Masterlist

Requests: always open

Oh my gosh that would be the worse thing to deal with in a Yan! family. Especially with one as affectionate as them.

Can you imagine trying to avoid Dick or Tim but just falling right asleep in their arms from the stress...then when you wake up moments later, they aren't allowing you to leave their grasp...oh how terrifying that'd be.

Anyways, they are rather attentive to your needs and observant. If one of the siblings notice that you are showing signs that you will abruptly collapse, they will rush over and quickly guide you to a safe area where you can rest.

The family is very strict on not giving you certain tasks that may be hard on your body. Especially if you deal with cataplexy. If you need help with moving something, or completing a task, just ask someone. They will be very upset if you get yourself hurt.

The down side of not having great muscle control or overall weakness is the constant babying. They treat you as if you were made out of glass. It can be quite annoying when you need to strengthen your muscles even if it's very difficult for you. They also might enjoy keeping you weak and vulnerable because you have less of a chance to escape and no real ability to fight back. You are far to precious to not be in their care.

Your family is strict about not allowing you to hang out with friends and staying only in the home. Occasionally they'll allow you to have a supervised visit. They even may force you to take up schooling at home and you're not allowed to work. It's all far too dangerous when they aren't near to assist you. You cannot trust anyone outside of them.

If you suffer with hallucinations, whether that may be audio or visual, they will be very understanding. You aren't the only one in the family to suffer with symptoms like such. Many days Jason and Bruce are struggling with those things. I can't imagine anyone would poke fun, they'd just redirect you.

But his can kind of suck given that sometimes you cannot tell if something that happened was real or not. Your family may say that you were just having a hallucination but you swear that you heard them talking about tampering with your meds.

Speaking of such, they most definitely do. The medicine that is supposed to help with your EDS seems to have the opposite effect on you. Some days it seems like you've been sleeping for weeks. You swore that you feel asleep in the living room...why are you now in an entirely different sect of the mansion..???

If you suffer with memory issues, that will be a huge problem because so many things they get away with or manipulate you about and because you have no recollection of any events..you are just forced to go with it, even if your gut says something is wrong.

Sometimes the family can get a bit worried if you are up all night..they worry you might wonder off or get hurt while they are either on patrol or sleeping so one designated person must be up with you at all times.

Even when you're sleeping. Someone is monitoring you and your health. Usually Alfred or one of the siblings if they are free.

Often Tim will take the shift since he is usually home and doing work anyways. Too many times have you randomly woken up in his dark room with him in the corner watching you.

Your constant fatigue is an excuse your siblings may use to just carry you around without your consent. Yes, you were struggling up the stairs. but no. you didn't really want Dick to just come and pick you up and carry you around the house like a pet. It's worse when it's Jason because he throws you over his shoulder...he's working on it.

Alfred has a specialty diet for you, which kind of sucks sometimes when the others are eating your favorites. But it's for the best he tells you. It's supposed to help with your symptoms but...every time you eat his cooking, you just feel sick then super drowsy..Alfred says it's the adjustment period to the new diet..but you can't shake the feeling that the food is worsening your conditions

[vieoeil-riae]

Could u do Steb having a crush/pre-relationship? Headcannons or fic whichever is easiest for you! Your writing is so good omg

hey babycakes 😘 this one's for you 🫵🫵🫵 *shoots and misses*

anyways, I didn't know if you wanted it SFW or NSFW so I just made it SFW in case but if you want me to write something spicy all u have to do is come back and ask so dw

I see you more, more, and more

steb/gn!reader

warnings: SFW, zaunite!reader for the fic section, selectively mute! steb (HOWEVER he does speak once ☝ and it is treated with appropriate gravity), unintentionally gn!reader so if something isn't gn then gimme a shout and I'll reword, mix of hc and fic, fic is 3.6k words

synopsis: Steb, the romantic

read on ao3 | ao3 profile | ao3 collection | masterlist

this guy is like. old school, kinda. like fairly traditional in the sense he's very much into doing things for you and being someone you can depend on, just without any pressure on you to give him what he wants because of it

additionally, while respectful and not touchy when getting to know you, he tends to hover closer to you the more he comes to like you, he's called the silent guardian for a reason

keenly observant, notices if and when you fluster because of him

HOWEVER he does have insecurities that quietly float around the back of his mind when he's not actively fighting them, and because of that, tends to deny to himself the fact he almost definitely caused that heat on your cheeks

the insecurities aren't major per say, but as you get closer you notice how he tends to avoid your eyes when you're tracing the feature of his face

if you subtly tell him you think he's beautiful, he'll have a bit of an internal freak out, but the most you'll see on his face is a small, wobbly smile

quietly leaves you love letters, not as secretive as a secret admirer, but enough that it keeps a bit of doubt in the back of your mind - he likes the slight mind game as well as the suspicious gaze you give him if you ever read one in front of him, it's cute

will leave you flowers when he's deeper into the crush

that also means he sometimes has a small bouquet of them on his desk at work, waiting to be given to you, and his coworkers have teased him for it before

he doesn't have many friends, something he's honestly okay with, but pre-war he had introduced you to maddie whilst "stumbling across you" while working

he pays for things for you, but respects you so he'll let you split the cost of something if you really want, he just wants to help you

you rolled your ankle once and being medically trained, he wanted to take a look. that involved taking off your shoe and holding your ankle in a way that felt more intimate than he thought it would, all you could see was him worrying his lip, but inside he was having... a moment

if you wanted him to quit his job, you could convince him with a LOT of talking but he has a very strong sense of duty so he'd probably become a paramedic or something similar if you were successful/ post!war he'd likely be more critical of his occupation, he was hopeful policing could be a good thing but he becomes disillusioned after fighting alongside zaunites and seeing how poorly sevika was received by the council

he does have the balls to admit when he's wrong, he just has a stubborn streak that you wouldn't notice immediately because of how quiet he is

speaking of quitting being a cop, he's actually quite open-minded and likes listening to you talk - he's gotten very good at it (he likes the sound of your voice, okay? and definitely not in a weird way! deffffinitely not. totally.)

he likes it when he makes a face at something and you laugh

teaches you sign language, touching your hands so much is just a bonus to the already immense reward of you finally being able to understand all the compliments he gives you

you two end up keeping small notepads on you to talk with as well, you don't particularly need them to talk but you often find yourself writing your responses

steb likes your handwriting, he sees you in everything once he's fallen for you, so seeing something made by your own hand feels like seeing a part of you

You met while he was on duty, minding your own business as you busted dishes at the tiny cafe you worked at in the boundary markets, closer to Zaun's side.

Golden hour sank over the city, glinting off of the bronze trimmings and smooth glass of the market's highest buildings — shadow pooling where the high arches and packed structural webbing hid the flagstone from the sun.

It was just another day in the small cafe you found work in, a popular place for anybody worth anything (though the number was low, only a decent handful of well-known zaunites ever crossed the threshold, maybe a shifty looking piltie now and then but it was rare) to take a shopping break.

The outside seating was understandably unpopular, too many eager hands and too much industrial smog for a drink to really be enjoyed. Still, some thick piltie had managed to have a sit-down without getting shaken down on the table you were clearing.

You muttered under your breath, cussing them out for having left the table in such a mess - seriously, how much coffee could one person spill! They hadn't even tried to leave it orderly like most other people did. That meant you were stuck putting a hell of an amount of elbow grease into scrubbing a ring of dried coffee from the wood.

You never looked up, not even when you slapped the rag you were using down, digging one fist into your hip as your other swept over your hair in an attempt to tame it despite the humid nature of Zaun's air.

That meant you never caught the first time Steb ever saw you, missing the way he seemed to freeze in his tracks at seeing you — ears perked, eyes curious.

He would never be able to tell you what made him stop verbally, but that wasn't a problem. In fact, in hindsight you almost appreciated it since it meant many a carefully crafted love letter being slipped towards you with flushed cheeks and fluttering frills.

Steb had written it out once, for an important occasion you don't remember as well as the letter. He spoke of you, how the light caught on your hair, your skin, the way you looked so... human. Frazzled, pissed off, and alone was his first impression of you — a strike of something beyond reason drew him closer.

You noticed him the second time, however, when he broke up a brawl just starting to form outside of the cafe. It didn't go well per say, the people not taking well to an enforcer trying to get in their business, resulting in a swift punch to the jaw before they dispersed — apparently too pissed about Steb's interference to argue straight away.

You peeked out of your shop door, staring at the way he gently rubbed his jaw, paying attention to the way he traced the two slits just above his jawbone. For an enforcer, he was damn pretty, but you still didn't want anything to do with him. You shut the door.

Another letter detailed the first time he saw your eyes properly, you had blushed horribly, hiding your hot cheeks in the paper once you'd finished reading how, in explicit detail, how beautiful they were. Steb had tugged the paper down with a pleased grin, haloed by the mid afternoon sun soaking through the botanical garden's trees, quite happy with your reaction. A bouquet of carnations sat by your thigh, organised and carefully wrapped by hand.

He’d started coming into the shop during his patrols at some point, ignoring the sharp looks he got from most of your usual customers. At first, he had a ginger girl in tow — Maddie, you later learned — who ordered for the both of them, but eventually, after almost a month of ordering the same drink he started to come alone. 

You’d get him the same thing every time, getting more and more used to finding his face through the market’s crowds. Familiarity begets fondness, you supposed, as you started to appreciate the way Steb managed to look so angular but so soft at the same time while trying not to feel like too much of a class traitor. Nothing wrong with a bit of window shopping, right? 

He never talked, but as a service worker that was something you’d come to appreciate; no awkward small talk or verbal abuse, just a sweet smile and a cursory chin raise to the item board and you already knew what he wanted. Though while making his order, black coffee, you’d find yourself making small talk; eyes shifting back and forth from your work and his face as you looked for his expressions and head tilts. You were a service worker, you were meant to be friendly, nothing wrong there.

His handwriting, neat and sometimes swoopy, layed out how much he enjoyed watching you watch him. The way you managed to carry the conversation without his verbal feedback, the way you cared enough to look for what he was saying with his face — and eventually his hands — where most other people would opt to brush him off. It made his heart beat out of time when you’d laugh at your own jokes; all the furious blushes fought down when your fingers slid over his to give him his drink.

Steb had noticed you outside of work too, running errands. It was his duty, he rationalised, to help people and that totally justified swooping in to help you with your shopping. It was the friendly neighbourhood cop situation of all time, why wouldn’t he? It didn’t mean anything, drinking in your face as it went from confused to surprised when you realised you’d managed to catch him somewhere other than the markets, listening contently as you described your mundane day — surely.

But that was a lie, one he could justify getting closer to you with, and as much as he didn’t like lying, it was worth it. You were brighter than him, naturally, based on the mere fact you talked and he didn’t; it was no surprise that your alien nature drew him in. You were warm too, you gave a damn about things other than yourself.

A Zaunite, you talked, you lived in a completely different world to him; there was no reason for him to like you so much, in fact, by all accounts you should hate each other. That didn’t stop him from flustering immensely when the small talk over the counter started to include small flirts thrown his way.

Compliments, off-handed and usually one word, ‘hey, handsome’ thrown his way when he walked in the door. It caught him off guard the first time. Force policies on public relations clashing with this tumbling wave of lovesickness and pride that spiked his veins leaving his mouth open as he stared at you, faint blush dusting his cheeks.

His frills fluttered out of time, you noticed, enjoying the show as Steb came back to his senses. You’d given him a teasing apology, melodramatic through a smile, telling him that you were sorry about increasing his risk of arrhythmia more than you already were with the coffee.

More bashfully than he would’ve liked, he’d slid an envelope across the counter towards you with the payment. You gave him a weird look when you turned to it, flicking your eyes up at him in question before tucking it in your pocket and giving him his drink.

You turned to clean, and Steb slipped extra cash in the tip jar; more than necessary, but he’d seen you looking a little thin recently.

It was only a minute or two later when you hastily slid into the seat across from him with the envelope in your hands, open this time. Steb watched your mouth open and close as you tried to ask him what the hell he was thinking, amused by the fact he’d finally managed to render you speechless too.

“You… want to take me out on a… date?” You had asked with a deeply confused tone. He liked the way your eyebrows furrowed, a tinge of embarrassment laced in the mix. The way you seemed disbelieving would’ve been cuter if he wasn’t getting antsy himself.

He was in the minority in terms of appearance; fishy, a little amphibian, a lot greener than his peers. The city of progress was a real mix of people, but that didn’t stop a cloying feeling of insecurity following him from childhood to right now. He was odd, he knew that, but he chewed the inside of his cheek as he hoped you wouldn’t outright turn him down.

Steb looked the smallest you’d ever seen him, shoulders hunched and expression troubled in a far cry from his usual neutral expression. Have you said something wrong?

“It’s not a no!” You shot, straightening up from your casual, slumped position to lean towards him, elbows on the table. You rolled the words around in your head and he watched as your expression shifted. “It’s just… Why me?”

A zaunite, no one special, just a barista, what would a piltie want with you of all people? 

Steb made the sign for a pen; you tossed him one quickly alongside your notepad. You watched as he scribbled out a page, and then another, and then another. At this point you were more shocked that he had so much to say.

The pad was promptly slid back to you, and Steb avoided looking at your eyes, forcing you to look at the writing.

It was one hell of an explanation, you could’ve mistaken him for a poet despite the rushed look of the whole thing. Heat prickled at your skin as you kept reading all the internal reasoning you hadn’t been privy to until now. He described almost everything about you in such a rosy way it left your jaw dropped, stumped on just how observant (and into you) one guy could be.

Still looking at the notepad, you began to nod, “yeah… yeah! Yeah! I’ll- yeah.”

You giggled, a hand running over your hair as you looked up at Steb again — who’d been quietly observing your expressions from the moment you started reading. There was a whole world to be found in your face, in his opinion, it felt like watching hundreds of great masterpieces of art work move in front of him in real time when he looked at you. 

Senselessly, in a way he could never phrase right, you were beautiful the same way space was. A vast space full of bright lights that dazzled in a way that was nearly spiritual. Maybe it was a bit much for the crush he had on a barista from the boundary markets that he’d only known for a couple of months, but he was a romantic at heart.

“I’d like that.” You smiled, unable to look him in the eye until you noticed the way he perked up. That was one of the joys of knowing Steb, learning to read him and finally seeing what he wanted to say. Miniscule gestures suddenly carried the weight of the world.

His frills fluttered with a sense of pride and he stood from his seat. You watched him, almost perplexed but ultimately enamoured by the new lens you were seeing him in, as he hesitantly reached for your hand. You gave it to him, curiosity brimming.

Tenderly, gently, barely even a brush, Steb kissed your knuckles. Stooped over just for you, treating you like you were precious; it just about set your face on fire. He tipped his hat to you just before you left, a smuggish look that barely differed from his usual expression passed across his face. Raised eyebrows and a fond, teasing smile made you flush even worse. All that, and he quietly exited the shop, leaving you a mess in his wake.

You weren’t told until a long time after, but the second he was out of sight from the cafe, Steb was fighting a speed-walk all the way to Maddie’s station to tell her about you. The story was shared quietly, written out in a notepad while you were curled up in each other on the sofa. The mood was somber, but his heart was still out for you to see, that meant more than the way his ears were pinned to his skull and the way you could feel him sink just a little deeper into you.

Next Friday had rolled around and you were dressed up more than you ever had been, standing on your doorstep, peering down the street in search of the hot cop you absolutely had a crush on. God, some zaunite you were. 

It was clumsy, you spent the night at a fancy (by your standards) restaurant flirting the best you could — feeling out of place unless you were looking at Steb. But by the time you left, you’d started to relax.

You strolled by a fountain at some point. You didn’t remember, but Steb did. A letter hidden under your pillow after a fight that told you about what it was like to see you start to bare your soul to him. He said he could’ve mistaken you for glowing, street lights painting you in gentle, warm hues as your eyes sparkled at him, telling him something about water pipes at home. The words didn’t matter so much as the joy in your voice.

It had made him feel like he was living life how he was meant to. Just you, Steb, and a night that felt nearly infinite and it made him wonder if love always felt so freeing. Billions before you had shared moments similar, and all of a sudden it felt like he knew every inch of adoration ever felt towards anything. He didn’t tell you then, it would’ve been too much, but he told you in the letter. 

You sought him out the next day, not entirely forgiving him yet, but assuring you’d still be there when he got home.

Outings with Steb became more frequent, but importantly he had invited you over to his home more than once. You’d been so curious but so timid, not wanting to intrude too much, endearing in the contrast to your Zaun-built, confident demeanor.

The only problem was that seeing you eventually get comfortable in his home, around the places he went, was doing something to his heart; much worse than before, it squeezed at the thought of you in his life properly. Imagined mornings of waking up to see you in bed next to him almost did your arrhythmia comment justice.

More strikingly though, was the accompanying acknowledgement that in those fantasies, you tended to be… bereft of clothing. Padding around his room with every inch of your skin there for him to see, not provocatively, just comfortably. It made him needier than he’d ever want to admit (then, at least) and he didn’t invite you over again until you grew comfortable enough to be touchy with him.

Light brushes; hand holding; hugs that lasted too long to be just friendly, to him they meant he was allowed to imagine more with you. He invited you over for dinner the day after you slid your hands under the back of his uniform’s half-jacket while you hugged him.

There were flowers, dances, cute dates he absolutely insisted he paid for — everything gentlemanly he could do, he did. Treating you right was a reward in itself to Steb, loving you wasn’t housekeeping, it was a way of existing; a comfort; a lot of things he didn’t know how to say despite the fact you teased him for having the soul of a poet. It felt right and you smiled genuinely, that’s all that mattered.

The breaking point was a little date he took you on, having swept into the cafe and slipped a note asking (almost pleading) for you to take a trip inland to a large lake with sandy beaches. When you inevitably said yes, he grinned in a way you’d have never guessed was possible about a year ago.

His face was typically stoic, only small shifts and twitches you had to know him to pick up on really gave him away. Over months you’d not only learned them, but had been let in on his feelings too — a facet of himself gifted almost exclusively to you.

It was his own doom he was walking into, he knew that and felt rather guilty about it, but the image of you dripping wet — standing half-submerged in a still lake, maybe in the golden hour he first noticed you in, was enough temptation for him to bend to his own wants.

The actual journey was revealing enough, you hiked and stumbled, laughing the whole way; comfortable with him. It made him realise what he felt towards you wasn’t just a fragile thing to be stoked tenderly like a fire he was worried about going out. Watching you gasp for breath in between laughs as you beat him to a trail marker but fell over once you reached it, he realised what he felt for you was fully formed.

He did get his moment, watching the lake water pool over your skin, ultimately lost in you and the feeling he’d swim with you forever if you just asked. Your background didn’t matter, he was concerned only with the endless possibilities of a future with you, if you wanted that too.

Steb joined you, a feeling of relief flooding him like the water did, sending you a small, but intimate, smile before sinking beneath the surface. 

The water wet his gills properly for the first time in a while, something that always felt satisfying, and he aimed for you. Your feet still touched the ground, semi-hesitant about going much deeper. He surfaced behind you, mindfully pulling you into a hug. You leaned back, enjoying the closeness for a moment before you turned around.

“Thank you for bringing me. It’s beautiful out here.” You spoke softly, tracing the paths of water droplets that slid down his skin in reverse. Your fingers skimmed the very edges of Steb’s gill slits and he shuddered all the way to the frills on his face.

Carefully, not looking away from your face for a second, he traced your lips with a delicate finger. You stayed quiet, questioning, but transfixed on the way he looked at you so reverently; there was a look in his eyes, warm in ways you’d never seen turned to you in full before.

His eyes darted down to your lips, then back to your eyes, a request swirling in his irises. He wanted you, and it was only a matter of if you wanted him back. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a hurt little feeling cooed worries at him. Unable to quash them, he settled into the uneasy feeling — letting the moment continue.

You leaned towards Steb, your nose skimming over his. The feeling quieted, like a held breath.

You met his lips with the same human-ness and soft edge he’d seen in you from the beginning, fireworks weren’t what he felt; he felt like melting wax, fluid and free with relief — wanting to sink into the shape you wanted him to be while also feeling more in control in some way he’d never felt so much before.

You gasped at his wet hand, cold from the air meeting the remaining water on it, that cradled your waist. The gentle tip of his tongue brushed your bottom lip, asking for permission you gave him almost instantly with a tilt of your head.

It was an electrifying taste, a fraction of the warmth you held that felt like it carried the weight of the world in the way you let him — even wanted him — to explore your mouth. Your hands slipped over his shoulders, trailing over his skin as if trying to memorise them in excruciating detail.

Your hand found his jaw again, swiping gently over the bone before running along his gill slits again. He made a choked sound you swallowed before pulling away, resting your forehead against his. He nuzzled his face into the side of your head soon after, you heard him breathe, catching the soft sound of every inhale. Steb inhaled sharply.

“May I be yours?” He whispered in your ear, his voice raspy with disuse. It was by no means a small act, talking was made difficult by his biology already; a lifelong fight that had at some point turned into an emotional discomfort with talking as well. For his job, his sense of duty could shove the deep-rooted pang of fear down enough, but in any other case his voice disappeared like steam in the wind.

But it was important here, with you, who had taken up residence in his heart — never once making or even asking him to talk, accepting him as he was. The fizzing of his nerves in this moment was down to anticipation, not fear; and with all his need for you, he could bare a whisper.

“Please.” You whispered back before the gravity of it all left you scrambling, “And let me be yours, too.”

Steb captured your lips in a wordless kiss, more passionate than gentle, his fingers digging into your waist like was afraid you’d disappear if he let go even for a moment. The initial shot of relief gave way to a feeling of satisfaction that purred in his chest, the press of your warm body against his made him feel full.

His hand twisted in your hair, dragging you into his lap as he sank into the water’s buoyancy.

A/N: SURPRISEEEEEE ITS NOT SMUT FOR ONCE!! did I getcha????? I'll be honest writing something that wasn't porn for him was harder than expected bc I've got NO practice for him

also perhaps I have outed myself as a league lore knower but that's fine I've been into worse I used to like hetalia

anyways hope u like this anon 💕💕