#though more like in a scientific sense

[shoechoe]

it's so weird when some article says a disorder/condition is "rare" and then it says it effects about like 1-2% of the population... that sounds pretty common to me

[mexicangrizzlyappreciation]

Making this easier to communicate is one of the reasons why the term climate change has overtaken global warming as the way to refer to this slow disaster in the last decade or so.

So many people do not understand the relationship between climate change and cold weather.

[drdemonprince]

The data does not support the assumption that all burned out people can “recover.” And when we fully appreciate what burnout signals in the body, and where it comes from on a social, economic, and psychological level, it should become clear to us that there’s nothing beneficial in returning to an unsustainable status quo. 

The term “burned out” is sometimes used to simply mean “stressed” or “tired,” and many organizations benefit from framing the condition in such light terms. Short-term, casual burnout (like you might get after one particularly stressful work deadline, or following final exams) has a positive prognosis: within three months of enjoying a reduced workload and increased time for rest and leisure, 80% of mildly burned-out workers are able to make a full return to their jobs. 

But there’s a lot of unanswered questions lurking behind this happy statistic. For instance, how many workers in this economy actually have the ability to take three months off work to focus on burnout recovery? What happens if a mildly burnt-out person does not get that rest, and has to keep toiling away as more deadlines pile up? And what is the point of returning to work if the job is going to remain as grueling and uncontrollable as it was when it first burned the worker out? 

Burnout that is not treated swiftly can become far more severe. Clinical psychologist and burnout expert Arno van Dam writes that when left unattended (or forcibly pushed through), mild burnout can metastasize into clinical burnout, which the International Classification of Diseases defines as feelings of energy depletion, increased mental distance, and a reduced sense of personal agency. Clinically burned-out people are not only tired, they also feel detached from other people and no longer in control of their lives, in other words.

Unfortunately, clinical burnout has quite a dismal trajectory. Multiple studies by van Dam and others have found that clinical burnout sufferers may require a year or more of rest following treatment before they can feel better, and that some of burnout’s lingering effects don’t go away easily, if at all. 

In one study conducted by Anita Eskildsen, for example, burnout sufferers continued to show memory and processing speed declines one year after burnout. Their cognitive processing skills improved slightly since seeking treatment, but the experience of having been burnt out had still left them operating significantly below their non-burned-out peers or their prior self, with no signs of bouncing back. 

It took two years for subjects in one of van Dam’s studies to return to “normal” levels of involvement and competence at work. following an incident of clinical burnout. However, even after a multi-year recovery period they still performed worse than the non-burned-out control group on a cognitive task designed to test their planning and preparation abilities. Though they no longer qualified as clinically burned out, former burnout sufferers still reported greater exhaustion, fatigue, depression, and distress than controls.

In his review of the scientific literature, van Dam reports that anywhere from 25% to 50% of clinical burnout sufferers do not make a full recovery even four years after their illness. Studies generally find that burnout sufferers make most of their mental and physical health gains in the first year after treatment, but continue to underperform on neuropsychological tests for many years afterward, compared to control subjects who were never burned out. 

People who have experienced burnout report worse memories, slower reaction times, less attentiveness, lower motivation, greater exhaustion, reduced work capability, and more negative health symptoms, long after their period of overwork has stopped. It’s as if burnout sufferers have fallen off their previous life trajectory, and cannot ever climb fully back up. 

And that’s just among the people who receive some kind of treatment for their burnout and have the opportunity to rest. I found one study that followed burned-out teachers for seven years and reported over 14% of them remained highly burnt-out the entire time. These teachers continued feeling depersonalized, emotionally drained, ineffective, dizzy, sick to their stomachs, and desperate to leave their jobs for the better part of a decade. But they kept working in spite of it (or more likely, from a lack of other options), lowering their odds of ever healing all the while. 

Van Dam observes that clinical burnout patients tend to suffer from an excess of perseverance, rather than the opposite: “Patients with clinical burnout…report that they ignored stress symptoms for several years,” he writes. “Living a stressful life was a normal condition for them. Some were not even aware of the stressfulness of their lives, until they collapsed.”

Instead of seeking help for workplace problems or reducing their workload, as most people do, clinical burnout sufferers typically push themselves through unpleasant circumstances and avoid asking for help. They’re also less likely to give up when placed under frustrating circumstances, instead throttling the gas in hopes that their problems can be fixed with extra effort. They become hyperactive, unable to rest or enjoy holidays, their bodies wired to treat work as the solution to every problem. It is only after living at this unrelenting pace for years that they tumble into severe burnout. 

Among both masked Autistics and overworked employees, the people most likely to reach catastrophic, body-breaking levels of burnout are the people most primed to ignore their own physical boundaries for as long as possible. Clinical burnout sufferers work far past the point that virtually anyone else would ask for help, take a break, or stop caring about their work.

And when viewed from this perspective, we can see burnout as the saving grace of the compulsive workaholic — and the path to liberation for the masked disabled person who has nearly killed themselves trying to pass as a diligent worker bee. 

I wrote about the latest data on burnout "recovery," and the similarities and differences between Autistic burnout and conventional clinical burnout. The full piece is free to read or have narrated to you in the Substack app at drdevonprice.substack.com

[ssahotchnerr]

Could you maybe write another little blurb where the bau team calls reader and hotch mom and dad? That is like one of my favorite things in the world!!

parental units

i'm so glad you asked <3 cw; fem bau!reader, established relationship, teasing from the team (lovingly), aaron and reader are down bad for each other, your usual (brief) cm violence

"Why do they always need to run?" Panting, you loosened your vest as Aaron handed the unsub off to one of the officers. "Why can't they just willingly turn themselves in."

"You're awfully quick for someone who despises cardio." Aaron teased as he assisted you, undoing your last velcro strap. Same as you, he was normalizing his breathing, but for his own reasons.

The unsub had attempted to escape; you bolted right after him into the dense trees, fleeing into the darkness.

You can hold your own; strongly, confidently, and Aaron knew that. He didn't worry about you in that regard, whereas he worried for you. However, you were out of his line of sight for a good five minutes, the sound of a stray gunshot nearly causing his heart to give out.

Thankfully, the unsub had missed you and hit a tree instead. He and Morgan caught up as you had the guy shoved into it, cuffing him. A few scraps were present on your face to show for your hustle through the trees, but you were unfazed; it was as if you hadn't been shot at at all. Contrary to Aaron, still regaining his composure.

"Oh please," you shook your head, holding onto your side. Your eyes held a playful glint, "I stay in shape just to keep up with you."

His lips formed into an easy smile. "Is that so?"

You hummed softly in return, stealing a second to check him out. "You're very... enduring."

"I aim to please, sweetheart. Over and over again."

You blushed as Aaron laughed lightly, playfully bumping his shoulder into yours. Behind you, the sound of crunching leaves halted, as did the following footsteps.

"The two of you couldn't have waited what, five? Ten more minutes?" Derek groaned, his nose scrunched in disgust as his hand stretched outward. "The guy isn't even in the cruiser yet, and you're already all over each other?" With a subtle shake of his head, mischief in his tone, "this is why we drive separately."

You snorted a laugh. "What?"

"No one wants to ride with Mom and Dad." He shrugged, failing at keeping a smile at bay. "We prefer the cool car."

"You all cram into the SUV... to avoid us." Aaron's expression quirked, his eyebrows lightly furrowing. "Do we need to have a discussion about road safety?"

"The cool car?" Priorities. Slight offense was intertwined with your amusement, your gaze switching between the two of them. "We're cool."

Another famous Derek Morgan grin. "Eh, that's debatable."

"Emily willingly came with us though." You protested, but it was beginning to make sense. The reluctance, the way they all nearly fought over seats, the newly formed rule when applicable: Hotchners always ride together. "So we can't be that bad, right?"

By now you have reached the others, illuminated by the red and blue flashing lights.

"Drew the short straw this time." Emily shrugged, her lips pulling up mischievously. It was clear they were just loving this. "Loser rides with the parents."

Your mouth dropped open, a surprised laugh escaping you. "Seriously?"

"We love you both. We do," Dave reassured, holding his hands up in surrender. "But I already get carsick. Don’t need to add witnessing your foreplay on top of it."

Aaron's brows drew into a line once more, humorously crossing his arms. "Maybe you just have a weak stomach."

Spencer perked up, inputting, "You know, carsickness is-"

"No need for fancy, genius scientifics here Reid." Emily offered you a smirk, feigning a gag once Aaron's hand habitually found the small of your back. You don't think he even realized he'd done so. "They're gross."

"In that case," Aaron rolled his eyes, his brows relaxing as they lifted playfully - it was your turn to poke fun. "My wife and I will be getting into our SUV now. Go ahead, draw your straws. And if whoever loses has a problem with us showing our affection, they can feel free to walk back."

[3liza]

after meaning to get around to it for years i finally listened to almost the entirety of Sold a Story and it is as groundbreaking as everyone says it is. it's also the most confusing, to me, single event in American culture in my lifetime and my reasons for thinking that are pretty complex so im not sure theyre fully formed yet. there's a list of shit in this podcast that made me feel like i was going insane

i KNEW something was going on at a population level, i've been noticing it for years, people kept telling me i was imagining things, but i was RIGHT, two generations of kids have been reduced to barely-literate levels of language function because of this shit and you CAN see it and hear it while talking to people in the world!

the entire adoption of the Calkins programs in the first place were based on the majority of people responsible for American child education deciding basically overnight that "children don't need to learn phonics in order to become strong readers" which is literally and not figuratively equivalent to saying "children can learn algebra without learning what numbers are". it is so self-evidently false i dont even know how to respond to such an assertion. you have to be fundamentally devoid of common sense to think this is true. language is comprised of sounds (phonemes), sounds are represented by letters, letters make up the alphabet, the alphabet makes up words, and words make up sentences. you cant just skip over the parts of this you dont like, it's the basis of our entire civilization. "i dont need to learn individual notes i just want to play to saxophone" okay well. too bad? you cant

american primary education apparently has no communication whatsoever with the scientific fields of human behaviorism, pediatrics, neurology, linguistics, the science of learning generally, and there is next to zero communication between teachers who are actively responsible for educating children and the entire research field of educating children. they just dont talk to each other, at least in huge swaths of the country. in retrospect this is obvious, i just have been assuming incorrectly this entire time that maybe, surely, some aspect of how our public schools are administered is in some way being guided by scientific evidence and research. this has apparently not been the case for 20+ years. Lucy Calkins herself claims she "didn't know" that the research on how children acquire language had been essentially settled by the 1990s, she just wrote her stupid book based on her own self-assurance that what she THOUGHT children were doing when they learned language was correct. she ddin't check, she didnt ask about research or studies, she didn't test her hypothesis, she just told everyone she had figured out how to teach kids to read based on nothing but her own untested assumptions. and everyone was like "okay sounds good". every single person involved in this process is or was in a position of responsibility for educating american children. and almost none of them thought to ask "okay, but have you tested it? does it work?" because they didn't test it, and it doesnt work, and for some reason that was never even brought up

teachers kept being interviewed on this podcast who kept saying things like: "they never taught us how to teach children to read" and "they didn't teach us how children learn so i had no idea how it worked" and then explaining this was why they were so easily hoodwinked by the Calkins program. i don't understand this. what is actually taught during the two year degree programs at teaching colleges? if it's not child psychology, pedagogy, neurology, and actual techniques for teaching children, what are they teaching you to do there? one of my friends who went to a teaching college told me they mostly provided classes on lesson planning.

individual teachers apparently are not reading books or articles or papers on any of these subjects either. so having graduated from a teaching college knowing nothing about children, teaching, or even basic english literacy ("i didn't know how to teach phonics and no one told me" is another thing actual teachers kept saying on the podcast. girl, SESAME STREET can teach basic english phonics, and it does), almost none of them actually do any investigation on their own. they just show up to their workplace (the school) and "teach" whatever admin hands them. ?????????????? how is this possible?

i realized last night in a fugue of post-exertional malaise that the three-cueing method of teaching reading is training children to approach language very similarly to how a large language model does it. they laboriously instruct the children to guess what the next word in a sentence will be, often by actually covering the word with a post-it note and then cajoling and badgering the child until he guesses the word under the post-it, based on the vibes on the sentence he's reading. this doesnt teach you to read, it teaches you to act like youre reading

this isnt directly addressed in the podcast but we used to just teach everyone english like it was an actual system that has parts and rules and structures, because that's what a language is. everyone would start with phonics and the alphabet, then later do stuff like sentence diagramming and grammar, neither of which have been taught in primary schools in decades. i think i was probably the very last generation of kids to get ANY of that stuff unless they went to an exceptional school, and it was only because my 8th grade teacher knew it was important and went against school admin's instructions in order to teach it. the couple days of sentence diagramming and grammar he gave us, out of SPITE, have been more useful to me in reading and writing than the entire rest of primary english education i received in public school, and i didn't even go to a school that had adopted three-cueing stuff yet.

[tinypinkheart]

I spent too long swallowing everything down and it made me sick. now my body doesn't work quite right

and the top theory from the doctors is that I swallowed down too much sadness and it's begun to act like a poison (rather slow moving if it took this long, geez).

oh, it seemed so silly at first!! a diagnosis of "got too distressed"?? let's be serious now. medical offices are not the place for such wildly fanciful conjecture. but as time keeps passing and symptoms get weirder and tests keep coming back strange and my prognosis remains a question mark - I'm no longer so sure.

when I last saw my therapist, he had told me he was astounded I was not dead. it was meant to be somewhat complimentary - commenting on how most people get faced with extreme hardships one or two at a time, whilst I'd had to face several in rapid succession. now, his words give me an ominous feeling about the growing sense of rot coming from my gut.

If I were to venture out into the world of fanciful conjecture: I spent too much time wishing myself dead, and my body is engaging in some spiteful irony. "see how you like it!!" well I don't, thank you.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Bossware is unfair (in the legal sense, too)

You can get into a lot of trouble by assuming that rich people know what they're doing. For example, might assume that ad-tech works – bypassing peoples' critical faculties, reaching inside their minds and brainwashing them with Big Data insights, because if that's not what's happening, then why would rich people pour billions into those ads?

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/06/surveillance-tulip-bulbs/#adtech-bubble

You might assume that private equity looters make their investors rich, because otherwise, why would rich people hand over trillions for them to play with?

https://thenextrecession.wordpress.com/2024/11/19/private-equity-vampire-capital/

The truth is, rich people are suckers like the rest of us. If anything, succeeding once or twice makes you an even bigger mark, with a sense of your own infallibility that inflates to fill the bubble your yes-men seal you inside of.

Rich people fall for scams just like you and me. Anyone can be a mark. I was:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/05/cyber-dunning-kruger/#swiss-cheese-security

But though rich people can fall for scams the same way you and I do, the way those scams play out is very different when the marks are wealthy. As Keynes had it, "The market can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent." When the marks are rich (or worse, super-rich), they can be played for much longer before they go bust, creating the appearance of solidity.

Noted Keynesian John Kenneth Galbraith had his own thoughts on this. Galbraith coined the term "bezzle" to describe "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it." In that magic interval, everyone feels better off: the mark thinks he's up, and the con artist knows he's up.

Rich marks have looong bezzles. Empirically incorrect ideas grounded in the most outrageous superstition and junk science can take over whole sections of your life, simply because a rich person – or rich people – are convinced that they're good for you.

Take "scientific management." In the early 20th century, the con artist Frederick Taylor convinced rich industrialists that he could increase their workers' productivity through a kind of caliper-and-stopwatch driven choreographry:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

Taylor and his army of labcoated sadists perched at the elbows of factory workers (whom Taylor referred to as "stupid," "mentally sluggish," and as "an ox") and scripted their motions to a fare-the-well, transforming their work into a kind of kabuki of obedience. They weren't more efficient, but they looked smart, like obedient robots, and this made their bosses happy. The bosses shelled out fortunes for Taylor's services, even though the workers who followed his prescriptions were less efficient and generated fewer profits. Bosses were so dazzled by the spectacle of a factory floor of crisply moving people interfacing with crisply working machines that they failed to understand that they were losing money on the whole business.

To the extent they noticed that their revenues were declining after implementing Taylorism, they assumed that this was because they needed more scientific management. Taylor had a sweet con: the worse his advice performed, the more reasons their were to pay him for more advice.

Taylorism is a perfect con to run on the wealthy and powerful. It feeds into their prejudice and mistrust of their workers, and into their misplaced confidence in their own ability to understand their workers' jobs better than their workers do. There's always a long dollar to be made playing the "scientific management" con.

Today, there's an app for that. "Bossware" is a class of technology that monitors and disciplines workers, and it was supercharged by the pandemic and the rise of work-from-home. Combine bossware with work-from-home and your boss gets to control your life even when in your own place – "work from home" becomes "live at work":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/24/gwb-rumsfeld-monsters/#bossware

Gig workers are at the white-hot center of bossware. Gig work promises "be your own boss," but bossware puts a Taylorist caliper wielder into your phone, monitoring and disciplining you as you drive your wn car around delivering parcels or picking up passengers.

In automation terms, a worker hitched to an app this way is a "reverse centaur." Automation theorists call a human augmented by a machine a "centaur" – a human head supported by a machine's tireless and strong body. A "reverse centaur" is a machine augmented by a human – like the Amazon delivery driver whose app goads them to make inhuman delivery quotas while punishing them for looking in the "wrong" direction or even singing along with the radio:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/02/despotism-on-demand/#virtual-whips

Bossware pre-dates the current AI bubble, but AI mania has supercharged it. AI pumpers insist that AI can do things it positively cannot do – rolling out an "autonomous robot" that turns out to be a guy in a robot suit, say – and rich people are groomed to buy the services of "AI-powered" bossware:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

For an AI scammer like Elon Musk or Sam Altman, the fact that an AI can't do your job is irrelevant. From a business perspective, the only thing that matters is whether a salesperson can convince your boss that an AI can do your job – whether or not that's true:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/25/accountability-sinks/#work-harder-not-smarter

The fact that AI can't do your job, but that your boss can be convinced to fire you and replace you with the AI that can't do your job, is the central fact of the 21st century labor market. AI has created a world of "algorithmic management" where humans are demoted to reverse centaurs, monitored and bossed about by an app.

The techbro's overwhelming conceit is that nothing is a crime, so long as you do it with an app. Just as fintech is designed to be a bank that's exempt from banking regulations, the gig economy is meant to be a workplace that's exempt from labor law. But this wheeze is transparent, and easily pierced by enforcers, so long as those enforcers want to do their jobs. One such enforcer is Alvaro Bedoya, an FTC commissioner with a keen interest in antitrust's relationship to labor protection.

Bedoya understands that antitrust has a checkered history when it comes to labor. As he's written, the history of antitrust is a series of incidents in which Congress revised the law to make it clear that forming a union was not the same thing as forming a cartel, only to be ignored by boss-friendly judges:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

Bedoya is no mere historian. He's an FTC Commissioner, one of the most powerful regulators in the world, and he's profoundly interested in using that power to help workers, especially gig workers, whose misery starts with systemic, wide-scale misclassification as contractors:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/02/upward-redistribution/

In a new speech to NYU's Wagner School of Public Service, Bedoya argues that the FTC's existing authority allows it to crack down on algorithmic management – that is, algorithmic management is illegal, even if you break the law with an app:

https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/bedoya-remarks-unfairness-in-workplace-surveillance-and-automated-management.pdf

Bedoya starts with a delightful analogy to The Hawtch-Hawtch, a mythical town from a Dr Seuss poem. The Hawtch-Hawtch economy is based on beekeeping, and the Hawtchers develop an overwhelming obsession with their bee's laziness, and determine to wring more work (and more honey) out of him. So they appoint a "bee-watcher." But the bee doesn't produce any more honey, which leads the Hawtchers to suspect their bee-watcher might be sleeping on the job, so they hire a bee-watcher-watcher. When that doesn't work, they hire a bee-watcher-watcher-watcher, and so on and on.

For gig workers, it's bee-watchers all the way down. Call center workers are subjected to "AI" video monitoring, and "AI" voice monitoring that purports to measure their empathy. Another AI times their calls. Two more AIs analyze the "sentiment" of the calls and the success of workers in meeting arbitrary metrics. On average, a call-center worker is subjected to five forms of bossware, which stand at their shoulders, marking them down and brooking no debate.

For example, when an experienced call center operator fielded a call from a customer with a flooded house who wanted to know why no one from her boss's repair plan system had come out to address the flooding, the operator was punished by the AI for failing to try to sell the customer a repair plan. There was no way for the operator to protest that the customer had a repair plan already, and had called to complain about it.

Workers report being sickened by this kind of surveillance, literally – stressed to the point of nausea and insomnia. Ironically, one of the most pervasive sources of automation-driven sickness are the "AI wellness" apps that bosses are sold by AI hucksters:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/15/wellness-taylorism/#sick-of-spying

The FTC has broad authority to block "unfair trade practices," and Bedoya builds the case that this is an unfair trade practice. Proving an unfair trade practice is a three-part test: a practice is unfair if it causes "substantial injury," can't be "reasonably avoided," and isn't outweighed by a "countervailing benefit." In his speech, Bedoya makes the case that algorithmic management satisfies all three steps and is thus illegal.

On the question of "substantial injury," Bedoya describes the workday of warehouse workers working for ecommerce sites. He describes one worker who is monitored by an AI that requires him to pick and drop an object off a moving belt every 10 seconds, for ten hours per day. The worker's performance is tracked by a leaderboard, and supervisors punish and scold workers who don't make quota, and the algorithm auto-fires if you fail to meet it.

Under those conditions, it was only a matter of time until the worker experienced injuries to two of his discs and was permanently disabled, with the company being found 100% responsible for this injury. OSHA found a "direct connection" between the algorithm and the injury. No wonder warehouses sport vending machines that sell painkillers rather than sodas. It's clear that algorithmic management leads to "substantial injury."

What about "reasonably avoidable?" Can workers avoid the harms of algorithmic management? Bedoya describes the experience of NYC rideshare drivers who attended a round-table with him. The drivers describe logging tens of thousands of successful rides for the apps they work for, on promise of "being their own boss." But then the apps start randomly suspending them, telling them they aren't eligible to book a ride for hours at a time, sending them across town to serve an underserved area and still suspending them. Drivers who stop for coffee or a pee are locked out of the apps for hours as punishment, and so drive 12-hour shifts without a single break, in hopes of pleasing the inscrutable, high-handed app.

All this, as drivers' pay is falling and their credit card debts are mounting. No one will explain to drivers how their pay is determined, though the legal scholar Veena Dubal's work on "algorithmic wage discrimination" reveals that rideshare apps temporarily increase the pay of drivers who refuse rides, only to lower it again once they're back behind the wheel:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

This is like the pit boss who gives a losing gambler some freebies to lure them back to the table, over and over, until they're broke. No wonder they call this a "casino mechanic." There's only two major rideshare apps, and they both use the same high-handed tactics. For Bedoya, this satisfies the second test for an "unfair practice" – it can't be reasonably avoided. If you drive rideshare, you're trapped by the harmful conduct.

The final prong of the "unfair practice" test is whether the conduct has "countervailing value" that makes up for this harm.

To address this, Bedoya goes back to the call center, where operators' performance is assessed by "Speech Emotion Recognition" algorithms, a psuedoscientific hoax that purports to be able to determine your emotions from your voice. These SERs don't work – for example, they might interpret a customer's laughter as anger. But they fail differently for different kinds of workers: workers with accents – from the American south, or the Philippines – attract more disapprobation from the AI. Half of all call center workers are monitored by SERs, and a quarter of workers have SERs scoring them "constantly."

Bossware AIs also produce transcripts of these workers' calls, but workers with accents find them "riddled with errors." These are consequential errors, since their bosses assess their performance based on the transcripts, and yet another AI produces automated work scores based on them.

In other words, algorithmic management is a procession of bee-watchers, bee-watcher-watchers, and bee-watcher-watcher-watchers, stretching to infinity. It's junk science. It's not producing better call center workers. It's producing arbitrary punishments, often against the best workers in the call center.

There is no "countervailing benefit" to offset the unavoidable substantial injury of life under algorithmic management. In other words, algorithmic management fails all three prongs of the "unfair practice" test, and it's illegal.

What should we do about it? Bedoya builds the case for the FTC acting on workers' behalf under its "unfair practice" authority, but he also points out that the lack of worker privacy is at the root of this hellscape of algorithmic management.

He's right. The last major update Congress made to US privacy law was in 1988, when they banned video-store clerks from telling the newspapers which VHS cassettes you rented. The US is long overdue for a new privacy regime, and workers under algorithmic management are part of a broad coalition that's closer than ever to making that happen:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

Workers should have the right to know which of their data is being collected, who it's being shared by, and how it's being used. We all should have that right. That's what the actors' strike was partly motivated by: actors who were being ordered to wear mocap suits to produce data that could be used to produce a digital double of them, "training their replacement," but the replacement was a deepfake.

With a Trump administration on the horizon, the future of the FTC is in doubt. But the coalition for a new privacy law includes many of Trumpland's most powerful blocs – like Jan 6 rioters whose location was swept up by Google and handed over to the FBI. A strong privacy law would protect their Fourth Amendment rights – but also the rights of BLM protesters who experienced this far more often, and with far worse consequences, than the insurrectionists.

The "we do it with an app, so it's not illegal" ruse is wearing thinner by the day. When you have a boss for an app, your real boss gets an accountability sink, a convenient scapegoat that can be blamed for your misery.

The fact that this makes you worse at your job, that it loses your boss money, is no guarantee that you will be spared. Rich people make great marks, and they can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent. Markets won't solve this one – but worker power can.

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[vxn3lla]

a scientific explanation as to why "reality" does not exist and why this proves anything is possible

first i want to say yes it "exists" but there's more to it than we can experience with the human senses.

we only see 0.0035 percent of reality. all of the atoms and molecules and vacuums between them are so tiny but that's not what i mean by not seeing all of reality. the real reason has to do with our biological makeup, our eyes are not designed to see everything, every wave on the electromagnetic spectrum or things outside of what we call "visible light"

knowing this what makes you think anything is impossible? what you think is possible is only 0.0035 percent of reality

a recent noble prize winning study was proving that the universe isn't "locally real" what is "locally real" though?

things exist in YOUR reality when you are aware/conscious of those things, when the light or sound allows you to experience it with you human senses however when your attention or external factors such as light and sound waves go away it ceases to exist in your consciousness. this doesn't mean it doesn't exist in the external reality. like "oh my phone is in another room so phones were never invented" no it's just showing that the internal reality has more power, has more meaning. and the outer reality is just an effect or mirror.

with how little we perceive with the senses and how much the 4d makes possible why are you limiting yourself to the outer senses? now I'm not saying go out blindfolded across a busy street with music blasting in you headphones so you have no awareness of the external things going on around you but a mindset that may be helpful is to think

"if humans only experience 0.0035 percent of reality then how is anything impossible, there are endless opportunities, and because of that why don't i make it so the small amount of reality i experience is what i want it to be?"

[girllblogging777]

IN WHICH you get sick in the morning, and your husband stays by your side. it’s probably the flu, right ?

౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ husband!spencer reid x reader (fluff)

“spence ?”

the sound of your voice echoed from the bathroom to the room where your husband was, folding laundry. he was usually quick to react when you called him, always on the lookout. and this time, he picked up on the nervous tone in your voice, and practically bolted towards where you were.

“what’s wrong, love ?” he asked, his hand resting on the doorknob.

except, he didn’t need your words to figure it out. he expected you to be asking for help with your hair, or your skin products - but here you were, kneeling in front of the toilet seat, the pale color of your skin matching the marbled floor tiles.

“i think… there was something wrong in the food we had last night” you spoke, taking deep breaths as you tried to fight the nausea rising in your throat. “don’t you feel weird ?”

he walked up to you, crouching down to your level to reassuringly massage your shoulders. “no, love, i feel alright. i’m sorry, though, i wish it was me.”

and he stayed by your side the whole morning, while you barely had the strength to get up from your spot on the floor. he simply comforted you, holding your hair carefully and murmuring sweet praise words in your ear as you threw up.

except, as grateful as you were to have him by your side, like the loving partner he was, this lasted way too long. you found yourself being sick again the next morning, and the day after, which alarmed spencer at some point.

on the fourth day, he sat you down on the closed toilet seat and pressed a wet cloth on your forehead, interrogating you like he was your personal doctor.

“so, you’re getting nausea but it’s not from something you ate, we already established that,” he spoke, the gears working in his head “it could be the flu, or something else you would’ve catched at work. was anyone around you sick ?

you shook your head, swallowing and reminiscing your last couple of days. “no. but they’ve been getting on my nerves. especially at lunch, my coworker brought some tuna sandwich that smelled so bad… made me wanna throw up”

the more you described it, the more his brain began to get foggy. nothing you talked about could be linked to any sickness he knew about, and the heightened sense of smell made no sense apart from- no. no.

it couldn’t be.

silence. you took the cloth from his hand, looking up to make him focus on you. “what is it ?”

mouth agape, he was staring at you with wide eyes. like saying the words was too much for him. “love. i don’t think you’re just sick.”

and then it all clicked. the recurrent sickness every morning. the sensitivity to smells and irritability. how had you been so obvious ?

“oh.”

“yes… oh”

none of you had the courage to word anything for a couple of seconds, and you focused on the ticking of the clock on the wall like it was the most important thing at this very moment.

but a couple of hours later, after a trip to the pharmacy to get a test, and some more pacing around the bathroom from both of you, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

spencer’s hand on your shoulder brought you back to reality. “hey, i’m right there with you, okay ?” he reminded you. “it’s all going to be fine, you know… and statistically, we’re definitely in the best situation to have a baby”

“right. we’re married. we have stable jobs. a house. a cat. it’s gotta be the next step, yeah ?” you asked, still refusing to look down at the result of the pregnancy test.

he took it from you, and nodded. “it is. but that’s not why we’re doing this.”

“it’s not ?”

“no, love. it’s because we love eachother, and we’ll support eachother no matter what.” he corrected you, like he was stating an obvious scientific fact. “and yes, i want a family with you, more than anything in the world. but it doesn’t mean i’ll love you any less if now isn’t the time. i just… i just want you to know that.”

a smile creeped up your face, despite the anxiety you were feeling, and you studied his adorable expression for any doubt, which you didn’t find. he had this ability to always make you feel safe. but you still had to ask.

“are you sure ?”

he rolled his eyes, some hair strands falling in front of them. “that i love you ? yes. it’s the thing i’m the surest about, actually. probably more than my knowledge of the digits of pi, even”

genuine giggles escaped your throat, but they faded when you noticed he was about to look at the result on the plastic object in his hand.

“together ?”

“yeah. together.”

and you both looked down at it, your eyes darting towards the little pink rectangle. two soulmates in the bathroom, with their future in their hands. two lines on the test.

you didn’t exactly register what was happening until he took you in his arms, and your ears were ringing too much to answer his repeated “i love you’s”. this was real. you were having a baby.

spencer’s embrace was bone crushing, and if he normally would have cursed himself for not figuring this out earlier, nothing else matted at this exact moment, apart from you. and the baby.

“we’re going to be parents,” he said, pulling back a little, teary eyed, to cup your face.

you couldn��t help the curse words that came out of your mouth, and he chuckled.

his hand found your waist, and he squeezed it reassuringly. “you’re going to be an amazing mom.”

“i… a mom, yeah. and you’re going to be the best dad”

“you think so ?” despite always being clear on the fact that he wanted kids, this was a lot of pressure. he didn’t want to raise a child the way his father did. he wanted to be there.

you nodded, resting your cheek against his hand “oh baby, i think there’s no one else i possibly could’ve wanted to do this with”

because spencer and you would be scared. you would have trouble, and you would have to be prepared. but you would also always have one another.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Imagine sentry interacting with bobs very honesty, straightforward s/o.

Sentry on a bender:"I'm the best. I am scientifically better and BEST in EVERY way. I. Am. God."

S/O off behind him, having been casually listening. "Ya your lovely"

Sentry IMMEDIATELY right up to s/o's face blushing:"-Do you mean that?"

S/O casually this happens a lot :"I mean ya I hardly every say things I don't mean."

Sentry:"...m-maybe you should say other nice things about me. Coward."

Sentry is like a puppy that never got a good home or affection, he’s full of himself but yet seeking praise at every corner simultaneously.

Sentry would thrive off of your praises and compliments, it staves off the doubt and second guessing he does when he doesn’t feel as though he was living up to the potential others have made up on a whim.

It’ll be really easy to please this man, yet it’s best to be cautious too…after all he will switch up if he senses that there’s not a lot of truth to your words…

Sentry: *sat on your lap, kicking his feet* how much do you like me? Tell me.

You: *caressing his waist* well you’re pretty, powerful, smart, capable of great feats if you just trust yourself, someone who can already amount to so much with or without the powers.

Sentry: you think I’m pretty?

You: I wouldn’t by saying so if it wasn’t already true gorgeous. *winks*

John: Welp we’ve found our sentry stopper. Who would’ve guessed that it’s (name), what a shocker-

Sentry: *waves his hand and John is thrown out of the window before he looks back at you* praise me more.

You: all in due time sweetheart, I’ve got plenty more saved up just for you.

Sentry: of course you do, I mean why wouldn’t you, I’m amazing.

You: *kisses his cheeks* yes you are.

[obsessedwhyyes]

A Sound Hypothesis

Part 1 of The Scientific Method series.

Summary: Inexperienced in the ways of love, you often find yourself labelled an overthinker. But then again, you are a scientist. When your incredibly beautiful travelling companion proposes a night you'll never forget, suddenly you're left wondering, are you really ready for this? Ever the scientist, you propose an experiment, and get more than you bargained for.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4762 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader Content: Act 1, smut with plot, inexperienced nerd reader, making out, oral sex (giving and receiving), hand job, cock worship, blowjob and handjob instruction (ie. Astarion teaches you how to pleasure him).

A/N: Can't believe this got to nearly 5k words, good lord. Actual smut comes in half way through, but it's still rather spicy before then. Also, writing handjobs is hard.

The events of the night prior felt like a dream, yet you remembered each moment vividly.

“I’m beginning to like the whole package, honestly,” he had purred, “and you clearly like me too, so I was thinking…”

You looked into his eyes as he gazed confidently, hungrily into yours. There was only him in this moment. Well, him and the quickened pulse of your heart pounding in your ears. You were certain he could hear it.

“We could take an evening to ourselves. Get to know each other a little more intimately.”

But you were struck with a hit of nerves then. You had lived a sheltered life before your abduction. A wizard and a scholar, your pursuits had been in the sciences and that of perfecting your craft, rather than in stolen moments of lust with beautiful strangers. Not to say you hadn’t experienced a few stolen kisses, however. But to give oneself entirely to another - that was a very different, much more intimidating affair. Yet there was no denying the spark that flickered between the two of you as you spent your days and evenings together, and that spark ignited a growing ache within you that lingered each night you retreated to your bedroll.

“I want to, Astarion. Gods, I really want to, but I’m…”

You hesitated and tore your eyes from him; fiddled with your fingers for a moment.

“You’ve never done this before,” he finished, causing you to look up suddenly from your busying hands.

“I had my suspicions. I’d have already bedded you twice over otherwise.”

You could only laugh, not only at the sheer audacity of his remark, but because of course he knew. Gods, he could probably smell the inexperience on you from a mile away.

“It’s your decision, of course. Should you wish to keep things light between us, we’ll end our evenings together as friends. If you decide you want a little more, however–”

He stepped closer to you - close enough to feel his cool breath on your skin and smell the freshness of his cologne.

“I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his hand lingering delicately where your neck meets the line of your jaw. He was playing you like a fiddle, and you knew it. But gods, if his tune wasn’t a siren’s song in the night. You wanted nothing more than to dance to it.

And then he kissed you.

Gods, the way he kissed you.

There was need, yes; a hunger not unknown to you even in your limited experience. But it was a hunger wrapped in a velvet blanket of familiarity, as though he had known your lips as long as his own. He was certainly skilled, there was no denying that.

The chill of the night air felt like a splash of cold water to your senses once his lips left yours, and you found yourself mourning the loss of his touch.

“Think about it,” he had said that night, before retreating back to his tent.

–

And here you are, wrapped in your bedroll, thinking about it. Ceaselessly.

About his voice, laced with the sweetest honey, speaking promises of nights wanton and dripping with ecstasy. About his smile, teasing and rakish, and the feel of his lips against yours which you missed like home.

You think about the times you let him feed from you; the gentle way he held you, one hand cradling your head. The soft, pleasured noises that would rumble from his chest as he grazed over the soft flesh of your throat - and sunk his teeth into it. Then, greedy, he would begin to pull you close, your chest flush against his own. Every time he fed, it was as though the gates holding back the flood of every primal vampiric instinct within him were unleashed at the taste of you; the ambrosia that is your life essence which you willingly gift to him. And every time he fed, before you reached the point of no return, you would break him out of his trance - a simple series of taps on his shoulder - and he would release you from his predatorial embrace.

It was in those moments, you would see the look in his eyes: ravenous, pupils blown, boring down into you as you lay there beneath him, vulnerable. Your gazes would linger and gods, how you imagined what it would feel like to be entangled with him; for him to take his pleasure from you.

No, you tell yourself. This has been going so fast. Your time together has been so short in the grand scheme of things yet, with the threat of ceremorphosis looming over you, your time on this mortal plane may be fleeting. One might argue that now is surely the time to experience that which you have not… isn’t it? 

But what if this isn’t what you actually want and this aching need within you is simply a manifestation of the stress your increasingly bizarre situation has brought you? It is not unknown for one to develop bouts of hypersexuality in times of stress, or so you have read in books detailing such occurrences.

Suddenly, an idea presents itself. A scientist such as yourself requires a chance to gather all available evidence before coming to a conclusion. A little experimentation, perhaps. Then, you’ll know for certain if your attraction runs deeper than you give your body credit for. Your honed mind will not be governed by a set of primitive bodily urges - you’re better than that. You won’t allow it.

For now, sleep beckons. Tomorrow, you shall put your idea into practice.

– 

The next day passes as swiftly as you had hoped. You’re eager to welcome the night. You and your companions had seemingly settled into a predictable routine when it came to your evening endeavours: your fellow wizard and friendly rival, Gale, would slave over the cook pot with the limited items you had procured over your journey, while the Blade of Frontiers himself regaled your group with stories of his adventures, punctuated with commentary from your remaining companions, ranging from crude to complimentary. Food would be eaten and domestic duties fulfilled, after which, everyone would begin their journeys to their bedrolls. Well, everyone bar you and Astarion. As the resident elves, you require far less rest than that of your travelling companions. It was in these moments, where the camp lay dormant and the two of you sit against a fallen log by the campfire, that you had developed something resembling a rapport with Astarion. You have become rather fond of your night time talks.

Tonight, however, you have plans beyond repartee.

You feel emboldened by your plan. Where before, you were thrown into territory unknown, unprepared and anxious, now you have the comfort of scientific method on your side. You know exactly what to say - you’ve thought of every possibility after all.

Sitting side-by-side, you turn to him, determined.

“I was thinking about your little proposition last night.”

“Were you now?” Astarion replies with a smirk on his lips and a gleam in his eyes.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself just yet. I always imagined that the first time I, um…”

“Did the horizontal dance with an esteemed companion? Engaged in amorous congress? Fucked?”

“Had sex,” you quickly correct, halting his attempts to fluster you further. “I always imagined the first time I had sex would be under slightly less unusual circumstances. We’ve been under nothing but stress ever since we got off that damned Nautiloid. I can’t tell if this desire I’m feeling is because I truly want to spend the night with you, or because my body just wants a distraction.”

“Is that such a bad thing? We’ve worms in our brains and danger is lurking around every corner. Our time is short, darling. If I can provide our dear leader a little respite in these tumultuous times; offer up my services in her time of need, that sounds like time well spent, does it not?”

He shuffles closer to you, resting his arm behind you on the log which you both lean against.

“Besides,” he continues, his voice low and close to your ear, “you’ve been so good to me, offering up your neck for me to savour. It’s only fitting that I offer you a little distraction in return.”

“I don’t want to just… use you as a distraction, Astarion. Gods, I offered you my blood because I wanted to help you, not because I expected a favour.”

For a fleeting moment, his expression shifts. And just as quickly, his smirk returns, embodying a practised sultriness that has surely wrapped many a soul around his fingers.

“No,” you continue, “if I have sex, it will be because it’s something I truly want to do; that I’m ready for. Not just a fanciful distraction. I hope you feel the same.”

That expression again, barely noticeable. You can’t quite decipher it.

“So, darling,” he purrs, “what do you suggest?”

“I was wondering if I could kiss you.”

“Ha! Can’t get enough, eh?”

“I just think that, with a little more evidence, I might be able to see if this is something I’m truly ready for; to discern whether this desire is real, or simply a physical response to this gods-awful situation we find ourselves in.”

He laughs, seemingly amused by your reasoning, and your heart flutters at the sound. Unexpected.

“Gods, are you always such an overthinker?”

“I just think it would help me come to a decision.”

“Is that what this is then? Your little experiment?”

“I’m nothing if not a scientist,” you tease back.

“Alright, my dear. Your terms are acceptable. A kiss, for scientific reasons, of course.”

Of course, you say to yourself. That… is what this is, isn’t it? Simple evidence gathering?

You have no time to consider this as Astarion places a finger under your chin, lifting your gaze fully to his, and suddenly, you hear your pulse pounding loudly in your ears once more. Gods, his eyes are beautiful.

An easy smile, a tilt of his head, and he presses his lips to yours, delicate and familiar. He’s gentle, at first: his lips linger on yours a moment before kissing you again, a tender sensation. As you close your eyes and immerse yourself in the feeling, the world around you quietens. No longer do you hear the crackling of the fire as it dies, the chirps of insects, or the rustle of leaves in the breeze. 

At this moment, all you know is him.

You succumb to the coolness of his touch, the smoothness of his skin, the freshness of his scent - sensations so overwhelming that your body responds of its own accord, letting free a soft moan into his mouth.

As though in response, Astarion’s hand lowers from your cheek and trails from your neck, your shoulder, to your waist, as though committing each dip of your body to memory, before pulling you closer to him. Your hands, in return, plant themselves against his chest. His body feels hard and angular against the softness of your own.

As his tongue seeks permission to dance with yours, there is a hunger; a fieriness that threatens to engulf you. The kiss deepens, and you realise with a start that your legs have entangled themselves with his.

Pull yourself together, your mind screams. You’re meant to be in control of your body, not the other way around.

Or so you think, when suddenly, Astarion’s hand moves to your arse - the cheeky sod - and he skillfully, seamlessly rolls you onto his lap, taking advantage of your entangled legs, purposefully positioning you so that you’re straddling him.

Shit.

You gasp. You had forgotten to breathe. He notices and, gods, the smug look on his face. He knows he’s taken you off guard, and worse still…

He knows the effect he’s having on you.

The wall you had carefully constructed between your mind and body begins to collapse, brick by brick. As you kiss, the final fragments fall away, and everything that was once separated threatens to come together in a powerful, unified surge of desire if not for the final threads of your self-restraint.

His body desires this as much as yours, it would seem. As you straddle him, his hands caressing you as they drag up and down your back, you notice a distinct hardness digging into you, oh so close to your core. It takes more willpower than you’ve ever known to not grind into that hardness, seeking the release which you ache for. You are a tautly drawn bow, the tension between your mental focus and physical yearning almost unbearable.

Noticing how stiff you become, Astarion retreats from your lips, tilting his head in playful curiosity.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, darling?”

“I… I…” You barely recognise your own voice as it strains to come out of you.

The bowstring snaps.

You yield.

Your mind and body merge into a mess of lust and desire, and you kiss him hard and greedily. He returns the enthusiasm in kind, releasing a groan into your mouth as he does so. You want this. You want him.

Astarion pulls himself from your lips and turns his attentions to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses where, other nights, he had sunk his fangs. As he does so, you hear his voice, husky in lust.

“You know, if you still need a little more “experimentation,” I have a couple more ideas for you…”

His voice gives you goosebumps.

“... I’m particularly skilled with my tongue, after all.”

You nod.

“Your tent or mine?”

–

As you’re pushed against the bedroll within the privacy of your tent, you’re overwhelmed by a desire to feel every inch of Astarion’s cool, hard body on yours. It was such a primal need, to be enveloped by him; an urge beyond anything you’ve experienced, causing you to wrap your arms greedily behind his neck as you kiss each other, pulling him closer, but never close enough. His hips grind against you slowly, deliberately, granting you a brief, delicious friction which sends shivers up your body and fuels the incredible ache between your legs.

Astarion sits back up on his knees, admiring the mess of you, a smile on his pretty lips. You can only imagine the state you must be in: hair wild, eyes wide and hungry, clothes dishevelled. But your appearance is a distant notion in the back of your mind as Astarion lifts the hem of your skirt and removes your undergarments, sopping wet from your arousal.

You feel vulnerable, exposed to him like this, your desire on full display in front of the very man who you spent nights dreaming about. While his lustful gaze lights a flush of red across your cheeks, it doesn’t cause you to recoil; instead, you find yourself emboldened as he lowers himself between your legs, holding your gaze with eyes hungry and hooded.

He drags his lips up your thighs, leaving kisses so teasing that brings forth the neediest of sounds from your chest. When he reaches your core, he slides a tongue up the slit of you, agonisingly slowly, painfully gently.

Head rolling back, you anticipate the feeling of his tongue within you, but then…

He diverts his attention back to your thighs.

Bastard.

“Astarion..!”

“Eager little pup, aren’t you? Don’t you worry, darling - you’ll get what you desire. Once I have my fun with you, of course.”

He shifts, propping your legs over his shoulders as he grants you an audacious glance and grazes his tongue over you once more, sending a wave of tingles radiating across your body.

You begin to pout at his teasing action, and–

His tongue enters you.

He glides it firmly from your entrance to your clit, lapping you up in one motion, releasing the most wondrous groan, as though the nectar of your arousal is sweeter than any honey.

And so, like a man starved, he devours you, gauging quickly the sensations you prefer, alternating skillfully between firm strokes of his tongue, and the most teasing of flickers across your clit.

Your back arches, and you can do nothing but grasp at the edges of your bedroll as he works at you, leaving you in a state so blissful that you don’t notice the wanton sounds being cried from your lips.

“Easy, love,” he purrs, the loss of his tongue against you causing you to whimper. “As much as I enjoy hearing those delectable sounds of yours, let’s not wake the others, hm?”

You can only cover your mouth with your hands in a feeble attempt to hush yourself as he continues his ministrations. As your eyes meet and the pleasant ache in your core begins to swell into an all-encompassing warmth across your body, you wonder if this is what it feels to be revered as a deity would, your every sensation treated with the kind of awe that only a god might know.

It is when he enters you with his fingers - first one, then two, thrusting in rhythm with his tongue - that the warmth, now an inferno, reaches its peak. It surges through you like a divine crescendo, each wave of your climax a new blessing that floods your senses with a celestial rapture, singing his name like the sweetest hymn.

He caresses your thighs as he brings you down slowly from your high, grounding you.

As you return once again to this mortal plane, the lingering euphoria elicits a fit of giggles from you.

“Well,” Astarion smiles in return, removing himself from the home he has made between your legs, “you certainly seemed to enjoy yourself.”

“I did. I really did. Thank you.”

As you both sit yourselves upright once more, he presses another kiss to your lips. You taste yourself on him.

“I hope our little experiment was very informative for you,” he says with a wink. His words are teasing, but spoken with a gentleness that surprises you.

The truth is, you do have one more idea.

“Can I, um… Can I do the same for you?”

“What?” He says a little too quickly. Noticing this, he brushes his hair back with his hand to a more presentable condition, regains his composure, and continues. “I mean, you don’t have to. To see you squirm under my touch, that’s pleasure enough for me.”

“I want to make you feel good too.”

“You want to?”

That same indecipherable expression. A man with as many notches on his bedpost as he claims must have had some less than favourable conquests every now and then… Perhaps he’s had some bad experiences when receiving too? You suddenly find yourself cursing your lack of experience in these matters. You’re not exactly brimming with social expertise either.

“I probably won’t be the best - not as good as you - but I want to try. I always find that the best way to develop one’s skills is to practise under the guidance of a trusted expert. So… could you teach me how to make you feel good?”

Your gazes linger for a moment as he seems to assess your resolve.

Seemingly satisfied, he smirks, a well-practised aura of sultriness fitting back into place once more. All traces of that mysterious expression dissipate before your eyes.

“Well, darling, if you’re so eager to please me, who am I to stop you?”

You slide up to sit next to him as he begins to unlace his trousers, and suddenly you find yourself unsure of where to look. You’ve a scholar’s knowledge of the physical form; men’s anatomy is no stranger to you from an analytical perspective. And yes, you’ve fantasised about Astarion’s… parts before, as much as you have tried to deceive yourself into believing it was nothing more than a passing, intrusive thought. Yet, now that you’re here, about to perform the most intimate of acts to your beautiful travelling companion for the first time, you become bashful. You can’t quite believe the situation you’ve gotten yourself into tonight.

Yet, as he lowers his trousers and underwear to his thighs, revealing himself to you, all thoughts of bashfulness, of anxiety, cease to be for a moment.

“Hells, Astarion.” You look upon his hardened member with disbelief, measuring its girth against your arm. “How is that going to fit inside me, exactly?”

A slip of the tongue.

He grins, very pleased with himself. “Getting ahead of ourselves, are we?”

… And there returns that familiar flush of heat to your cheeks. Shit.

His chuckling lets you know that he has, in fact, noticed your embarrassment.

Seeking to swiftly change the subject to the much more pressing matter at hand, you ask, “can I touch you?”

In wordless agreement, Astarion guides your hand to his cock, which glistens slightly from the beads of precum elicited from the head. As you hold it, his hand remains over yours, coaxing you to move up and down the shaft.

His cock isn’t warm as you would imagine a regular man’s to be, owing to his vampiric nature, but you note its hardness; the way it pulses beneath your touch; the way his foreskin glides over the head so seamlessly. You squeeze him, fascinated.

“Gently, love. Like this.” He demonstrates by applying a light pressure to your hand and twisting ever so slightly as you both reach the tip, then loosening his grip as he slides you back down his length. You repeat the motion, tentatively. Gods, you hope you're doing this right. He made you feel incredible. You want him to feel incredible too. But oh, what if you hurt him, what if you–

“A-ah…”

The softest sigh of pleasure from your companion interrupts your thoughts. It sends wonderful shivers throughout your body. You find yourself eager to coax more of those little sounds from him.

A newfound confidence flares within you, and you gradually increase your pace, up and down and up and down the shaft, squeezing and twisting lightly as your beautiful instructor taught. In a sudden bout of curiosity, you glide your thumb over the head on your way back down and–

“Ah!”

There it is again. That most delicious sound.

“Exactly like that, darling. Exactly like that.”

He removes his hand from yours as you continue to pump him - you are a fast learner, it would seem - and moves it to reach your cheek, turning you to face him. As he leans his forehead against yours, you notice his breathing has become heavier, just ever so slightly. Instinctively, your breathing begins to match his, and you feel an intensity in the air that gives you goosebumps. Then he kisses you, and it is hungry. Ravenous. Greedy. His hand moves from your cheek to the back of your head, gripping your hair lightly, pressing your lips firmly against his.

As you continue to pleasure him, you find yourself becoming greedy too.

You want to taste him.

Between gasps for air, you ask him, “can I use my mouth on you? The way you did for me?”

“Mmhm,” he says into your kiss. It feels almost a shame to remove yourself from his lips, but you have greater plans yet. 

You both reposition yourselves. He turns to lie himself back on the bedroll, and you crawl down his body to position yourself between his legs. So close to his cock, you find yourself admiring it, taking in every detail: the thick vein on the underside of the shaft, the way the head throbs a colour darker than the rest, eager for release.

You're overwhelmed with a primal desire - a need - to please, to give.

To worship.

“Gods, it's beautiful,” you think aloud.

“I know,” he remarks confidently in return. You roll your eyes at his arrogance, but in this moment, in your eyes, even you can't deny that his cock is perfection. Your mouth waters at what is to come.

You hold his member delicately, like a jewel most precious, planting kisses up his length. A soft sound escapes from Astarion’s lips and suddenly you are emboldened, determined to gift him with bliss as he had gifted you. To do so, however, you would need a little instruction.

“Tell me how to please you,” you plead, and you feel him twitch at your words.

“You are eager,” he purrs, propping himself up with his hands to gaze down at you. You notice a shiver and a sigh, ever so slight, when you trail a line of wetness from base to tip with your tongue.

“In that case,” he continues, brushing a strand of hair from your face, granting him a better view of you, “lick your lips and hold it at the base. Then I want you to get to know it a little, so to speak. Use your mouth around the head and start slowly - there's no point in rushing in, eh?”

You obey, shaking off the lingering feelings of bashfulness at the directness of his words, and wrap your lips around him. Out of curiosity, you swirl a flattened tongue around the head and gods, his skin is so smooth, still slightly salty from precum. His cock twitches and you hear him gasp above you - he’s especially sensitive there, it would seem. 

Where are his other sensitive spots, you wonder.

Time to experiment. You are nothing if not a scientist.

You bob your head and relax your jaw to the best of your abilities, taking in just a little bit more of him each time your mouth glides up and down, keeping your tongue flat against him to flick against the sensitive tip each time you glide back up the length. The sounds he makes - oh, those sounds. His moans are like velvet, a soft, deep timbre that caresses your senses and makes your loins ache once more. Every murmur seeps into your being, igniting your senses and fuelling your need to explore every inch of him. You continue your journey down and down his length, savouring the taste and the texture and–

You gag as his cock touches your throat.

Astarion recomposes himself. “Easy, darling. Use your hand where your mouth can’t reach.”

“Like this?” Your hand pumps the shaft in rhythm with the motions of your mouth and tongue, and Astarion’s head rolls back for a moment.

“Like that,” he exhales heavily, “and suck gently.”

There’s a certain sense of empowerment, unravelling him like this. You relish in every moan that escapes his lips, every twitch and pulse of his cock as you attend to him. The lewd, wet sounds emitted as your hollowed cheeks suck his length. His hand finds its way to your hair, fingers weaving through the strands with a gentle authority, pushing you hard enough to guide you to an ever-quickening rhythm, but gentle enough not to force himself down your throat.

“Use your other hand,” he says between breaths, “hold the balls softly.”

You do as he says, giving them the gentlest of squeezes as you attend to him, and his breaths grow deeper, uneven. You sense the rising tension in him, a tide gathering strength beneath the surface.

He gives one final instruction.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes meet with a stormy intensity and, as you pump up and down with your lips and fingers at a dizzying pace, the intensity seems to surge through him with the force of an ocean swell, powerful and all-encompassing.

With a tremor and a groan so delicious that you find yourself moaning instinctively in response, his cum fills your mouth. Your eyes water, taken by surprise by the force of his release, but you do your best to swallow each wave, releasing him with a wet pop as his climax subsides.

Some moments pass and, in the afterglow, the tent is filled with a comfortable, profound stillness, and only the sounds of heavy breathing - yours and his - as you both return to your senses.

“Did you just..?” He asks, breaking the silence.

“I did,” you reply with a grin, showing him your tongue to reveal that not a drop went to waste.

He laughs warmly, and your heart flutters.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” He kisses you deeply as he sits up, seemingly undeterred by the taste of himself.

“I think I’ve gathered enough evidence to consider your proposition,” you say teasingly.

“Tomorrow night then, darling?”

Bastard.

But yes, you think to yourself. Tomorrow night. You’re ready.

Part 2, An Empirical Study, can be found here!

Masterlist can be found here.

[rin-may-1103]

Delilah's language (part three)

Previous | Master Post | Next

Danny stood next to Mr. Bruce, watching as people milled around and chatted. a large group gathered right in front of them.

They had flown to Gotham last night, and Danny had been given a nice room to stay in at some fancy hotel. motel? which one was supposed to be fancy?

eh, either way, Danny settled into the room and promptly went back to sleep. He managed to get a total of twelve(12) hours of sleep before waking up. he spent the time after that just sitting and playing on his phone until his alarm went off.

that was two hours ago, and now here he was, standing in the middle of Gotham City Zoo at 8 in the morning. No one had noticed them yet, which Danny was greatly appreciative of; he had not been ready for this.

Sure, Mr. Bruce had said he invited all the scientists, but this? this was not what he was expecting.

he was expecting maybe one or two scientists to be standing around, watching Dalilah and her family as some rich kid hounded them for answers. they were scientist, surely, they had better things to do than attend some kid's birthday party.

but no.

All of them were here. All. Of. Them.

the whole scientific team was in attendance, and right in the middle of them was the birthday boy. his voice drowned out by the scientists all hungrily trying to force their knowledge into his brain.

oh dear ancients what had Danny agreed to?

suddenly, an older boy (slightly younger than Danny, it seemed) approached the group and turned the birthday boy to look in their direction. Danny's poor overstimulated enhanced hearing instantly zeroed in on what they were saying, a pool of dread settling in his stomach. "look, Damian. Bruce is back with that dude you wanted to meet."

Immediately, the kid's green eyes lit up in excitement as they settled on Danny and the kid's father. The boy promptly shoved past the other scientist and marched over to them, mouth somehow set into a scowl even though Danny could feel the kid's excitement increase tenfold. The older boy easily followed behind in amusement.

before the kid could open his mouth, Danny felt the air shift next to him. It wasn't a ghost, they wouldn't have been so obvious, and his sense hadn't gone off, so human then. (he should have heard them earlier, but with how loud it was? Danny wasn't too worried about how he had missed the person) which means, Danny couldn't react obviously or people would ask questions.

tensing up, to prevent his body from reacting on instinct, he waited for the person to act. Not even a second later, someone threw their arm around Danny's shoulders and pulled him close to their side, their voice bright and cheerful. "Damian! look who Bruce dragged in!"

Danny turned his head to glance at the man, he had black hair and blue eyes. This wasn't a surprise, considering almost all the kids Bruce adopted had the same features, so which one was this? One of the older ones, obviously, hmmm. Slim frame, but still musculer. perfect for swimming or gymnastics. So, that would mean, this was Dick Grayson, the oldest?

"tch," Damian scowled even more, "release him, Grayson." bingo. Danny had been correct then. and that was one heck of a scowl, how did the kid do that? Danny could feel he was happy at the sight of the older boy, but somehow, he looked like he'd rather be eating snails than deal with the man.

maybe he should introduce him to Sam, she'd love to learn how to do that.

"Alright! Alright!," Grayson chuckled, what was Danny supposed to call him? Dick or Grayson? Richard? "I'm just trying to be nice."

he turned to face Danny, releasing him from his grasp, his smile almost blinding, "Hi there! my name is Dick. Yes, that is my name. No, I'm not joking. It's nice to meet you, what's your name?"

Danny blinked, then hesitantly shook the man's hand. he should have stayed home, anything would have been better than this. oh, shit they're all looking at him now. "uh, my name's Danny. Danny Fenton."

"Danny! nice. So, what did you do to be invited?" Dick asked, resting his hands in his pockets and lifting a brow. Mr. Bruce had walked away a while ago, so Danny would have to deal with this himself it seems.

Damian rolled his eyes but looked curious as well.

"uh, Mr. Bruce," This got an immediate reaction from all three of them; their eyes widening in surprise and maybe a hint of glee, "invited me. something about how Damian wanted to learn how to speak with Dalilah."

"Really?" asked the other boy, Tim? "you can actually speak with them?"

"Tch, of course not, Drake. The purple-backed gorillas do not have a spoken language, they use their bodies to communicate. Daniel here is the only person in the world to figure out how to communicate with them."

"Don't call me that," Danny cut in, wincing when they turned to look at him, "my name's Danny, not Daniel."

"isn't Danny a nickname for Daniel?" Damian asked, his brows furrowed. "I do not call people by their nicknames, it creates a false familiar connection."

"Usually," Danny conceded, "but my name isn't Daniel. My parents chose Danny, it's not a nickname. and if you really don't want to call me that, then you can use my last name. It shouldn't be a problem considering I'm the only Fenton here."

"Oh," Damian blinked, then thought about it for a second, "Danny it is then."

The other two shared a glance, clearly surprised for whatever reason. Sighing, Danny waved his hand in agreement. The kid could call him whatever he wanted, just not Daniel. Anything but Daniel. (Ancients forbid if he gets called Dan.)

"Anyway, like you were saying. Delilah speaks with her body movements but there is a vocal part. It's a little like sign language and that one whistle language combined, but instead of just using your hands, facial movements, and whistles to communicate, you have to use your whole body. All at once."

Danny then rubbed his neck, "And I'm sure someone else would be able to speak with her if they just paid attention. It's not that hard."

"Not that hard?" Grayson asked, glancing at the gorillas. "how long did it take you to figure out her language then?"

"Oh," Danny blinked, then shrugged, "like, two hours. Like I said, it's really not that hard, you just have to watch her talk for a while."

"two hours?!" Tim, Danny's pretty sure his name was Tim, gaped, staring at Danny like he was nuts. which, Danny didn't appreciate by the way. "It only took you two hours to figure it out?"

Danny wasn't sure if he should feel offended or amused...

"That's impossible," someone scoffed, dragging all of their attention to an approaching scientist. "It takes upwards of three months to multiple years of hard work to even understand human sign language, let alone animal gestures. You couldn't have learned it in just two hours."

Danny rolled his eyes, he remembered this guy. Dr. Trynul or something or whatever, he absolutely refused to believe Danny the last time they talked. he was a real stick in the mud if Danny ever saw one.

"Danny Fenton is listed as the only person in the world to have the ability to communicate with the gorillas. It even says as much in the scientific papers your group released last month." Damian huffed, narrowing his eyes at the man.

Dr. Trynul rolled his eyes, "I requested they leave that false information out, but Mertil absolutely refused to listen to reason."

"and it's a good thing she didn't," another researcher cut in. Danny remembered her from the first time he had to talk with the scientist involved with Dalilah. Real stern but a nice lady.

"This young man can communicate with them just like he would if he was one of them. I've seen it with my own eyes." she then turned to the group, a small smile growing on her face.

"Danny, it's so good to see you again! Delilah has been just such a sweetheart, and her baby is just the cutest thing in the world. You have to come and see them."

Danny rubbed the back of his neck and smiled back, "Sure, Oh!" He turned back to Damian, "maybe I can introduce you to them if you haven't been already?"

The boy nodded his head, his excitement rolling off of him in yellow swirls. Turning back, Danny nodded his head with a small smile, "Please, lead the way."

Next

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae! I hope you’re having a great weekend. You asked for whimsical reader and I feel like that would be an interesting dynamic with Spencer (if you’re willing to write it ofc) bc he’s typically more logical and analytical. Like she is talking to him about one of her interests or showing him something and it’s so not Him but he’s fascinated by her and how her mind works

Thanks lovely!

Spencer Reid x whimsical!reader ♡ 557 words

“I’m only saying that we can’t know for sure.” 

“We do know.” There’s no pique in Spencer’s tone. For anyone else there might be, but he can never bring himself to agitation around you. You have a presence that feels like rain in summer. It lulls Spencer without him realizing it’s happening. 

“Spencer.” You give him a look. Indulgent, fond. “How much of the ocean did you say humans have explored?” 

He frowns. “About five percent.” 

“And we evolved from fish, didn’t you say that?” 

“Yes, but—” 

“So we can’t say for sure that mermaids don’t exist,” you say, patiently. Going back to braiding together three dandelions still rooted in the ground. Joggers pass on the park trail nearby. “Humans have come from the ocean before, and we haven’t seen enough of it to know that some who stopped halfway through evolution aren’t down there somewhere.” 

Spencer exhales a laugh. Something you and he have in common is your insatiable curiosity. If there were suddenly a way to go to the bottom of the ocean and explore everything humans have never seen, Spencer would go in a heartbeat and he really believes that you would, too. His curiosity is scientifically-minded, though, based in evidence. You work differently. 

“They’re always discovering things they weren’t expecting down there,” you go on. “Like sea angels. Nobody could have come up with that.” 

Spencer watches you. Your careful fingers, your relaxed posture, the way the afternoon sun tangles in your hair. He’s not sure when looking at you became less about fascination and more about feeding the aching hunger in his chest. 

“You know, there’s some speculation that early human sightings of animals like manatees or dugongs might have inspired stories of mermaids.” You glance up at him, intrigued. Like Spencer around you, you never seem to get upset when he argues. You’re only inquisitive. “Ancient Assyrians believed that Atargatis, the goddess of water and the moon, dove into a lake to take the form of a fish. Because the gods wouldn’t allow her to give up her beauty, they forced her to keep half of her human form.”

Your expression is rapt. “So she was the first mermaid.” 

You phrase it like it’s more than myth. “That’s the oldest known belief of mermaids, yes.” 

“I hope it’s true.” You go back to braiding your flowers. “That’s such a cool story.” 

You say it so contentedly Spencer can’t bring himself to contradict you. It’s not about what you hope is true, an insistent voice in his head cries. But maybe it is. With you, you’re happy enough just to believe in what you hope is true. 

You seem to sense what Spencer is craving, scooting over in the grass so that you’re closer to him. You lay your head on his shoulder. He can feel the warmth of your cheek through his sleeve. 

You say in a placid tone, gaze fixed on some faraway cloud, “Maybe some humans evolved into butterflies, too.” 

Spencer smiles and turns his head, enjoying the tickle of your hair against his chin. “You won’t convince me fairies are real, sorry.” 

“How much of the sky have we explored, Spencer?” 

“I work for the government. If there were fairies, I would tell you.” 

“What makes you think the government would know? Fairies are very good at hiding.”

[yuu-kantokusei]

Playing with your hair~

Pair: twst x you

Characters: NRC (-Ortho)

Reader is yuu

Genre: fluff

Heartslabyul

Riddle Rosehearts: He's hesitant at first, clearly not used to such a casual gesture. His fingers are careful and precise as they glide through your hair, as if trying to ensure every strand is in its proper place. Occasionally, he’ll pause, smoothing out any imaginary tangles. “This should look neat,” his meticulous nature shines through, and you can tell he’s quietly proud of the result.

Ace Trappola : He dives in with zero hesitation, ruffling your hair playfully rather than actually styling it. His fingers run through your hair with deliberate carelessness, making it stick up in all directions. “It’s a masterpiece,” he jokes, laughing at his own antics. You’re not sure if you should trust him with your hair, but his carefree energy is infectious.

Deuce Spade: He approaches your hair as though it’s a serious responsibility. His hands are gentle, moving through your strands with a careful focus, though you can sense his nervousness. He stops occasionally to ask if he’s doing it right, but you can feel his determination to get it perfect. His clumsy but earnest effort makes the experience oddly endearing.

Cater Diamond: He immediately suggests snapping a “before and after” photo. His fingers glide through your hair smoothly, trying out different styles with practiced ease. He tries braids, twists, and even adds a few accessories, grinning the entire time. “This is so gonna go viral!” he says, clearly enjoying the process as much as the outcome.

Trey Clover: His touch is calm and steady, his fingers moving through your hair with an almost parental care. He doesn’t fuss too much, opting for a simple style that keeps things neat and presentable. There’s something soothing about the way he works, his quiet presence making the experience feel comfortable and relaxing.

Savanaclaw

Leona Kingscholar: He leans over lazily, his hands heavy and deliberate as they comb through your hair. He doesn’t put much effort into styling, instead lazily ruffling and smoothing it back down. “Your hair’s soft,” he remarks casually, as though it’s no big deal. His touch is surprisingly gentle, and despite his indifferent attitude, you can tell he’s enjoying the calm moment.

Ruggie Bucchi: He can’t resist the temptation to mess with your hair, his fingers light and quick as he twists random strands into silly shapes. He laughs to himself, clearly having fun at your expense. “This is payback for all the times you made me work hard,” he teases. Despite his playful nature, there’s a care in the way he handles your hair.

Jack Howl: He approaches the task with a quiet seriousness, his hands moving hesitantly as if he’s afraid of messing something up. His touch is firm but careful, smoothing your hair with an awkward gentleness. He doesn’t say much, but you can tell he’s focused on doing a good job. His wolfish tail swishes behind him, betraying his enjoyment of the moment.

Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto: His hands are methodical and precise as they comb through your hair, his touch soft yet calculated. He takes his time, occasionally stepping back to assess his work like a businessman ensuring perfection. “I can’t have my image tarnished by poor styling,” he murmurs, though you can feel the pride in his careful attention to detail.

Jade Leech: His touch is elegant and deliberate, his fingers brushing through your hair with a slow, almost meditative rhythm. He seems to take great interest in the texture of your hair, occasionally tilting his head in thought. “Fascinating,” he muses, as if styling your hair is more of a scientific study than a casual gesture. His sharp gaze makes the moment feel strangely intimate.

Floyd Leech: He immediately throws himself into the task with enthusiasm, his hands darting through your hair in random patterns. “This is fun!” he exclaims, laughing as he twists your hair into chaotic shapes. He doesn’t care about neatness, but the wild energy he brings makes the experience unexpectedly entertaining.

Scarabia

Kalim Al-Asim: His hands are light and quick as they weave through your hair, his excitement palpable. He tries different styles, laughing and chattering the entire time. “This is so fun!” he says, his joy contagious. You can feel his genuine care in the way he adjusts every strand to make sure it looks just right.

Jamil Viper: His touch is quiet and deliberate, his fingers moving through your hair with practiced ease. He works efficiently, tying sections into intricate braids with a precision that reflects his disciplined nature. There’s a quiet pride in his work, though he doesn’t say much. The result is stunning, and you can tell he’s pleased with his handiwork.

Pomefiore

Vil Schoenheit: He approaches your hair like a professional stylist, his hands confident and graceful as they glide through each strand. He critiques the texture and condition of your hair as he works, offering advice on how to maintain it. His movements are so fluid and precise that you feel like a canvas being turned into a masterpiece. The end result is nothing short of perfection.

Epel Felmier: He is surprisingly hesitant, his hands unsure as they move through your hair. He seems determined to prove he can handle the task, though his inexperience is evident. His grip is a little rough, but he tries his best, occasionally muttering about how he’s “totally got this.” His earnest effort makes up for the lack of skill.

Rook Hunt: His touch is light and deliberate, his fingers moving through your hair as though he’s savoring the experience. “Magnifique,” he murmurs under his breath, clearly enjoying the artistic process. He works with surprising skill, crafting an elegant style that feels like a piece of art. His enthusiasm is infectious, and you can’t help but smile at his passion.

Ignihyde

Idia Shroud: He's hesitant to even touch your hair at first, his hands hovering nervously above your head. When he finally does, his touch is feather-light, as though he’s afraid of messing up. “It’s not like I’m good at this,” he mutters, his awkward movements betraying his lack of experience. Despite his self-consciousness, there’s a certain charm in his shy effort.

Diasomnia

Malleus Draconia: His touch is gentle yet commanding, his long fingers moving through your hair with a calm grace. His actions feel deliberate, as though he’s studying the texture and flow of your strands. The way he handles your hair is almost reverent, his focus creating a serene, almost otherworldly atmosphere. You feel completely at ease in his hands.

Lilia Vanrouge: He treats the task as a playful game, his fingers darting through your hair with mischievous glee. He experiments with wild styles, giggling to himself as he makes your hair stick out in all directions. Despite his teasing, there’s a care in the way he handles your hair, ensuring that it’s never uncomfortable.

Sebek Zigvolt: His hands are firm but careful, his movements stiff and mechanical as though he’s following a set of instructions in his head. He takes the task seriously, occasionally stopping to assess his progress. Despite his overly formal approach, there’s a surprising gentleness in the way he handles your hair, as though he doesn’t want to hurt you.

Silver: His touch is soft and unhurried, his fingers moving through your hair with a sleepy gentleness. He occasionally pauses, his hands lingering as though he’s lost in thought. There’s a peacefulness in his movements that makes you feel completely relaxed, the quiet moment stretching on like a pleasant dream.

[minswriting]

No Higher Being Than You - Spencer Reid x Reader

about: for all my girlies who love munch spencer, here is a one shot about spencer worshipping you like you’re a god

warnings: NSFW content, minors do not interact, oral (f receiving), hair pulling, religious comparisons, not an accurate depiction of religion whatsoever.

word count: 0.6k

Ever since Spencer was a young boy, he had never really believed in a higher power. His mother was a paranoid schizophrenic and his father was never really around. Religion was never a topic of his childhood. How could it be? Spencer had to raise himself. And by doing so, he read many books, one of them including the Bible. When he read the Bible, he didn’t believe any of it to be true. It was all fictitious, nothing of real value that could explain how the world came to be. The scientific theories about the world had always made much more sense than a silly book. So it was safe to say that religion was not something Spencer believed in. He was a man of science.

Until he met you.

When you had walked into the coffee shop that Spencer frequently went to before work, he was completely mesmerized. The Boy Genius didn’t care for beauty most of the time. He wasn’t really too interested in people as a whole until he had met Maeve. But as he saw you, took in your appearance, he couldn’t help but thank the Lord above for blessing him with such a sight. And he had thanked the Lord once more when you had given him your number that exact day.

And ever since then, the two of you had clicked.

Not only were you the most beautiful person Spencer had ever laid eyes upon, you were the kindest and sweetest person ever. Your smile radiated the room each time you walked in, your laugh was music to Spencer’s ears. You were a mixture of funny, sarcastic, intelligent. You truly were a divine being. Spencer was completely and utterly enamored by you. He never failed to make sure you were shown just how much he adored you. Especially right now.

Spencer’s tongue lapped around your cunt, taking in the sweet essence that were your juices. You tasted magical as though derived from the Garden of Eden. The forbidden fruit that was worth every drop. Spencer took his time eating you out, savoring each and every moment. His nose rubbed against your clit as he tongued your hole. If premarital coitus were truly a sin, God wouldn’t have made it so lovely.

You were whining and moaning beneath him, your hand tugging his brown curls. Your sounds were beautiful, everything Spencer could’ve dreamed of. The hitch of your breath, the arching of your back, the curling of your toes, all because of Spencer’s touch. It was a blessing to be with you and his reward was making you feel good in any way he could.

“S-Spencer!” You moaned, tugging at his hair.

Spencer replied with a moan, burying his face deeper into your cunt. The vibrations of his voice sent tingles into your pussy, causing you to whine in pleasure. He moved his mouth to suck on your clit, swirling his tongue around the nub. You let out a high pitched moan, relishing in the pleasures Spencer was giving you. And Spencer could tell just how close you were.

You were his muse, his higher being. If God were real, you were it. You were the divine entity from the Heavens, blessing the Earth with every fiber in your being. When you came, thighs clenching around Spencer’s face, he felt praised by the skies. And he didn’t stop there. He made sure to make you cum multiple times.

Spencer Reid isn’t a religious man. But meeting you had given him a new meaning of religion. You were his higher being, his one true God to worship. And you absolutely knew it.

[girlgenius1111]

grey november

leila ouahabi x reader r moves to manchester to be with her girlfriend, leila. manchester, however, is very different from barcelona where r grew up. it's an adjustment, and one that's taking it's toll on r. leila notices, and tries to make it better any way she can think of.

basically r has seasonal depression. very light angst, mostly fluff and leila being the sweetest girl in the world 🥰🥰

—

Manchester was very grey. Of course you’d known that, but the reality of living it was something else entirely than hearing about it. Rainy and overcast could be cozy. Spending the occasional rainy day inside wasn’t something you minded living in Barcelona, but your move to Manchester had increased those rainy, overcast days. 

It was your first winter there, the first time you’d be spending an extended period of time in Manchester. The first two years Leila had spent in England, you’d remained behind in Spain. Mostly because your career, your family, your whole life was in Barcelona. Except… it wasn’t. Two years passed of flying to Leila, and her flying to you, and you never got used to it. Never got used to waking up most days alone in the bed you used to share, cooking breakfast in the kitchen alone where she’d used to sing off key every morning. And after two years, and no indication that Leila was coming back anytime soon, you’d realized life was too short. There would be plenty of years in the future, after football, that you could spend with Leila in Spain. For now, though, you ached for her every day. For her infectious laugh, the lines by her eyes when she’d smile, the way she slept with her head shoved under her pillow instead of laying on top of it. 

Leila had wanted you to come in the first place, yet understood it didn’t really make any sense for you. But as much as you missed Leila, every second of every day, she missed you more. She’d never ask you to move for her, but she needed you. 

She’d cried when you told her you’d be moving to Manchester. 

It was the end of May, one of the biggest months for your girlfriend and her team, and you’d taken time off work to go see her. The idea of moving to her had been swirling around in your head for a few weeks, and it slipped out one morning as she tried to extract herself from your embrace and leave for training. 

 “I just want to be with you. All the time,” she’d murmured. 

And with very little grace and absolutely no planning, you’d replied. 

“What if I moved here?” 

First, it was disbelief you saw on her face. And then, when she was sure you were serious, large tears welled in her eyes as she tackled you back down onto the bed, shoving her face into the crook of your neck and repeating over and over that there wasn’t anything she wanted more than that. 

Leila had been late to training that day, and you’d made the move in July. 

The first month was perfect. August and September, as well. October brought colder weather, more rain, more clouds. November was where it really started to go downhill. Leila was away with City and with the national team for what felt like half the month, and you were just… there. 

There, in Manchester, with only your job to keep you busy. Very few friends outside of Leila’s football ones. It seemed lonely, more than anything. You didn’t realize what it really was until it was already happening, until you’d slipped back into a place you hadn’t been in since you were an overly angsty teenager. 

Every day was harder than the last, the ones without Leila being the absolute worst. But you couldn’t let her see, couldn’t let her know. Your sweet, sweet Leila would be crushed with guilt. She’d try to move teams or scientifically alter the climate in England. You didn’t want her to feel bad; it wasn’t her fault the weather had an alarming impact on your mental health. 

So, when Leila was home, you were fine. You were good, because you had to be. You laughed at her jokes and let her put on a film in the evenings after dinner knowing full well she would start kissing your neck within 10 minutes, and the movie would be forgotten. 

When she was gone, you let yourself crumble. Staying in bed longer than was socially acceptable, wallowing in the oppressive weight that had settled on your chest. And when she’d get back, you’d make yourself pull it together. It was a cycle, one that began in November, and by December, one that you weren’t sure how to get yourself out of. 

The thing was, you were so busy acting fine that you forgot to make sure Leila actually believed that you were. 

—

Leila had been gone all weekend. An away game in London and an issue with their return trip kept her gone an extra day, but finally she was due home. The weekend for you had been… well, what had become averagely terrible. Most of it had been spent doing absolutely nothing, all the while your mind raced with all the things you should have been doing. You simply didn’t have enough energy for any of those tasks, though, the exhaustion you felt bone deep and paralyzing. 

A few hours before Leila was due home, though, you dragged yourself off the couch. If there was one motivator, one thing that could get you out of your head, it was that Leila couldn’t find out. She just couldn’t. 

You weren’t sure she’d get it, to start with. Leila was… Leila. Sunshine and smiles and laughter, all the time. Even when you weren’t dealing with depression, Leila’s social battery could long outlast yours. She’d go out and do something social with friends every day if she could. You’d never been that way, needing time to recharge between work and… work the next day. 

Before Leila, you didn’t do things on weeknights. But Leila brought you out of your shell, and you found yourself craving more time with others, as long as she was there too. 

So as much as you were beyond sure that your girlfriend would work tirelessly to understand where your head was at, you didn’t think she could. You didn’t think she’d be able to listen to you explain what was going on and not try to fix it. It wasn’t that you didn’t want Leila’s help; it was that you knew she’d give you a million suggestions that you wouldn’t physically be able to bring yourself to do. And she wouldn’t get that, you were sure. 

Leila couldn’t fix this, so there was no reason to burden her with it at all. As much as you wanted her comfort, you couldn’t push your problems on her when she wouldn’t have the answer. 

So, you cleaned the whole house in two hours flat. Changed the sheets, vacuumed behind the couch, and made dinner. By the time Leila arrived home, the house was perfect. Nothing out of order, nothing to suggest you’d spent the whole weekend on the sofa crying or sleeping or just staring at the wall. 

Of course, Leila could see it on your face the moment she saw you. The bags under your eyes, the way you seemed to drown in her clothes. 

She swept you into a hug, tucking her face into your neck and felt you sag against her. 

Your hair was damp and smelled like her coconut shampoo, and you were mumbling something about dinner and watching a movie, but all Leila could think about was the way you melted into her hug, and the look in your eyes as she’d come through the door. Relief, and exhaustion. Deep, all encompassing exhaustion. 

Gently, she nudged you back a little, her eyes locking on yours as she studied you. 

“Are you okay, my love?” Leila asked softly, her expression warm and inviting. 

For a second, Leila thought you might tell her what was going on. Your expression wavered a bit, but you blinked hard and forced a smile, leaning in to peck her lips. 

“I’m fine! Excited to have you back.” 

It was a lie Leila could see right through, but if she knew anything about you, it was that you were too stubborn for your own good. Leila could push and push, ask and ask, but you wouldn’t tell her what was going on until you felt ready. There wasn’t anything she could do about that, so she just nodded, pulling you back in by your wrist and kissing you much more fervently. 

By the time you broke apart, there was a dazed look in your eyes, but a different kind from before. Satisfied, your girlfriend tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“Did you say something about dinner?” 

It took a minute for the question to process, your mind suddenly overcome with the softness of Leila’s lips, the little sliver of abdomen peeking out from her crop top, her slightly tousled hair. She was so pretty. You never got used to it. 

“Uh… yes. Yes, dinner. I made dinner.” 

With a grin, Leila grabbed your hand in hers and pulled you towards the kitchen. 

“It smells so good, amor. Like the best thing I have ever smelled!” 

You rolled your eyes at her enthusiasm, heading towards the stove to take the pot off the burner. As you rounded the kitchen island, though, you stumbled, foot catching on the trash bag sitting on the floor. Leila was across the room like she had super speed, steadying you before you could really come close to falling. 

The trash. You hadn’t taken it out earlier like you’d meant to. The house wasn’t perfectly in order. And god, neither were you. The façade you were putting on crumbled within a second, all the time you’d spent making sure you seemed fine meaningless.  

It wasn’t really a big deal, that you’d forgotten to take the trash out. It was just the last straw of an horrible, overwhelmingly emotional weekend. 

“I’ll take this out, if you want to pick a movie?” Leila said easily, oblivious to the way you were about to fall apart next to her. 

Leila grabbed the bag, her back to you, pausing when you didn’t reply to her. Then, she heard a small sniffle. She knew that sniffle, knew it from when something bad happened to an animal in a movie and you tried not to openly weep. She dropped the trash bag, turning around with a furrowed brow. 

“Cari?” Leila prompted softly, moving closer as she saw your lip begin to tremble. “Baby, what’s wrong?” 

It was as if the question had unlocked a floodgate inside of you, and before you could even think to stop yourself, you were stumbling forward into Leila’s open arms, burying your face in her shirt. 

“Hey,” she murmured, wrapping one arm tight around your midsection, and resting the other on the back of your head. “Hey, it’s okay, baby. Everything’s okay.” 

Wordlessly, you shook your head against her, clinging on tighter because you honestly weren’t sure what would happen if she let go. 

Leila wasn’t letting go, though. She tugged you in even closer, squeezing as she rocked the two of you back and forth gently. “I love you. I love you so much.” Her voice was barely a whisper in your ear, but it was exactly what you needed to hear from her. Because, god, you didn’t love yourself in that moment. 

The tears began to stop much sooner than you were expecting, and Leila was turning off the stove and leading you into the living room within a few minutes. You moved away from her to sit on the sofa, but she shook her head, sliding onto the couch and pulling you to lay directly on top of her. 

One of her hands slipped up the back of your shirt, fingers tracing mindless patterns into your skin. She cradled your head with her other hand, making sure you stayed as pressed close to her as you could be. Leila held you like she could make everything better just by doing so. 

For a few minutes it was quiet. That was one of your favorite things about Leila; she was talkative and loud when she wanted to be, but she was also content to just… be with you. Just sit and let you gather your thoughts, no matter how long it took. Leila waited, more patiently than you thought you deserved. 

Finally, you found your voice. “I’m sorry.” 

Leila scoffed, and you were sure she’d have flicked you if you hadn’t just been crying. 

“I do not accept, because you have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“You just got home and–”

“And nothing, baby,” 

“ –and I fall apart because I’m a disaster,”

“ You aren’t a disaster!” 

“ –and you have to deal with me and you shouldn't have to,” you finished despite Leila’s interruptions. You pulled away from her embrace, sliding off her body onto the soft next to her. 

Her lips were pressed into a thin line when you looked at her, frustration radiating off her. It was such a departure from her normal temperament that you forgot entirely if you had anything else to apologize for. Instead, you just stared into her deep brown eyes, waiting for her to say something. 

“I… I don’t deal with you. You are not a problem I have to solve. I love you, it isn’t a burden for me to be there when something is wrong, when you are upset.” Leila’s voice was practically trembling with conviction, so you reached out and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze. It was obvious that it hurt her for you to feel this way, for someone she loved and cherished to put such little value in themselves. 

“I know that, Lei. I know, I’m sorry. I’m just not myself.” 

Your girlfriend softened, then, her spare hand tugging at the ends of her ponytail like she always did when she was nervous. “Why aren’t you yourself, hmm? What’s going on?” 

And though you’d spent the whole weekend thinking about it, the whole month practically wallowing in it, there weren’t any words in your head that would convey the weight that you felt resting on your chest. 

“I… I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say it.” 

“Is… do you want to break up?” Leila asked quietly, the tremble of her voice matching that of her chin when you snapped your head to look up at her. This was always what she defaulted to, and you should have known better than to speak so ambiguously. Leila loved so hard, so deeply, she often worried it was too much. She worried it would drive you away from her, as if you’d ever grow tired of her adoration. 

“Leila, no. Never. It’s not that, you’ve not done anything wrong.” You reassured her the best you could, brushing a soft strand of pin straight hair away from her forehead. Leila released a deep breath, concern returning to replace fear in her eyes. 

“Then what is it? You’ve been off for weeks.” 

You shifted uncomfortably, hating that you hadn’t been as good at hiding it as you thought. “I think I’m depressed.” You admitted finally, staring down at your hands as you began to pick at your cuticles. Leila’s hand covered yours almost immediately, her other gently tilting your chin until you had no choice but to make eye contact. 

“You think?” Leila pressed. “Or you are?” 

It was just like Leila to make you be as vulnerable as you could be, but you couldn’t deny it was one of the things you loved about her. The way she always saw through your futile attempts to write off your emotions as only partially valid. 

“I am.” Voice no more than a whisper, you shrugged helplessly, tears stinging your eyes once again. “I don’t really know what happened. I haven’t felt like this in years, but suddenly I’m here and it’s– I don’t know.” 

Leila’s eyebrows furrowed. “Here? Do you think being here has something to do with it?” 

At this, you averted your eyes entirely, pulling your hand out of her and staring at a spot on the rug, where the design swirled into several different colors. 

“Amor, you can tell me.” Leila implored. “Please. Is it England? Being away from your family? Your friends? Your new job? Do you not like the apartment?” 

Finally, you raised your eyes back to your girlfriends, finding a desperate need to fix looking back at you. Exactly what you hadn't wanted. 

“No. I mean, I miss my family and my friends but I’m so happy to be here with you. I like my job, I love our apartment. It’s…”

“What, baby?” 

It suddenly felt so ridiculous. So stupid. What were you supposed to say? The clouds are making me sad, Leila. The rain makes me want to curl into a ball in our bed and never get up again. The weather in this country is draining all the happiness from my body. 

“It’s the weather. The clouds and the rain. And the cold. I just… I never want to leave the apartment. I never want to go anywhere because it’s terrible out, so I don’t go anywhere and then I feel terrible about myself. I miss the sun, Leila. It’s so stupid, that it’s having this much of an affect on me, but I don’t know what to do anymore. I feel like I’m losing myself.” 

“Oh, baby.” Leila sighed, uncrossing her legs so she could pull you in close to her chest. “That’s not stupid, not at all. That’s a real thing, a completely real thing that you are dealing with.”

And though you’d known that, it felt like a weight off your chest to hear Leila say it. You allowed yourself to relax into her, allowed yourself to feel the weight of your emotion in her presence in a way you hadn’t in a long time. 

“There are so many things we can try to help you. We can find you a psychologist, and get you back to Spain for some sun more often. We’ll fix this, amor, I promise. We’ll get you back to yourself.” 

Leila’s words were mumbled into the top of your head, and you found them more comforting than you were expecting. Even if you’d known she’d try to fix it… even if you hadn’t wanted that. Leila was going to help you, and that was a massive comfort. You nodded into her chest, gripping tight to her shirt in a way you hoped would convey how grateful you were to her. 

The two of you sat there in silence for several minutes, wrapped up together so tightly you weren’t sure where you ended and where Leila began. It all felt less heavy just then, more manageable. You knew, though, that telling Leila what was going on was only the start of the process. 

—

The next day was a good one; the sun had emerged from its cloud prison for the first time in weeks, and you’d gone for a run. As much as you hated to admit it, the exercise helped, as did the sunlight. Leila had been gone before you’d woken, though you thought you remembered waking just barely to a soft kiss pressed to your head and sweet words whispered into your ear. 

It was a recovery day for Leila, and she was meant to be getting treatment down on her calf anyway, which had been giving her some trouble. She should have been home just before noon, just as you’d arrived home from your run. As it was, you’d had time to shower and make the two of you lunch before Leila walked in the door, a full hour after she was supposed to get home. 

You weren’t suspicious or anything, mostly just curious where she’d been. The question didn’t even have time to leave your mouth before it was answered, though, Leila practically bounding into the kitchen holding a bulky box in her arms. 

“Hi my love!” She grinned, putting the box down on the counter and sweeping you into a hug. Leila spun the two of you around, pressing kisses all over your face as you laughed, the flutter of her lips tickling your skin. 

“Hi, Lei,” you replied, Leila finally halting her attack on your face so she could kiss you once on the lips. 

“Hi.” She murmured against your mouth. “I missed you.” 

“You were gone for like… 4 hours.” You chuckled, winding your arms around the back of her neck and pressing yourself closer to her even as you teased her. 

“Still missed you.” Leila smiled, her face overwhelmingly earnest and adoring. “I got you a present!” 

“No, did you?” You teased, nodding at the large box sitting just inches away from you.

Leila just rolled her eyes, shoving you lightly as she reached for the box and tore it open. 

“It’s a light therapy box! You sit in front of it, and it shines on your face, and it’s supposed to feel like the sun!” 

Leila was so excited, yanking the rectangular light out of the box and presenting it to you with a flourish. Your heart melted, knowing then that Leila had stayed up long after you’d gone to sleep, doing research to try to figure out how to make you feel better. 

It was funny, that you’d been worried about her trying to fix you before. Leila wasn’t trying to fix you, and you weren’t sure how you’d thought she'd do so. Your girlfriend just wanted to help. Help wasn’t fixing. It was just what a good partner did. 

“Thank you, Lei. Really.” 

Leila blushed adorably, pushing hair out of her face as she smiled at you. “Do you want to try it?” 

Lunch sat on the counter behind you, but it wasn’t getting cold, and the hopefulness radiating off your girlfriend was enough to have you nodding enthusiastically. The next second, Leila had to light in one hand, and your hand in the other, yanking you towards the living room. 

For just a second, you thought that if her love could cure you, you’d never have gotten to this point. But you had. Love couldn’t cure you, but it could help. And Leila was determined to help. 

—

The light therapy box wasn’t the only thing Leila got you, but her other gift wouldn’t be ready for a few more weeks, until the two of you were home from spending Christmas with your families in Spain, before returning to England for New Year’s Eve. 

The time you spent in Spain was perfect. More than perfect. You got to see your family, got to enjoy the warmth. Well, it wasn’t warm by some standards, but it definitely was now that you’d spent time away from Barcelona. More than anything, you got to spend pretty much every second with Leila. No football to interrupt, no media commitment, no national team. Just you and Leila, spending every day together however you wanted to. 

As such, your mood had improved. It wasn’t perfect; you could still feel the echo of the deep exhaustion lingering in the peripheral of your brain. You were deeply dreading going back to Manchester and falling back into the pit of depression you’d found yourself in not too long ago. It terrified you, that things could get bad again and you wouldn’t be able to fix it. That this was just how you were now, how you would be for the rest of your time spent in Manchester. 

You could go to therapy and let Leila sit you directly in front of the light box as much as you wanted. There were certain aspects of your life in Manchester, though, that just meant loneliness. And that was what got you more than anything else. 

Unbeknownst to you, though, Leila had been considering this exact point. The two of you had talked it over, talked it to death why you were feeling the way you were. You maintained that it was just the weather, but Leila could tell you were lying. Could tell that her unavoidable absences at times were really taking their toll on you. 

And, ever the helper, Leila had come up with an idea.

—

“Shh.” Leila whispered. “Stop meowing, you’re going to spoil the surprise.” 

While you slept in, Leila allowed herself to be impulsive, something she often fought in the name of being a responsible adult. It was mid morning, the day after you’d arrived back in Manchester from Spain, and Leila had snuck out to retrieve her idea. 

A small, white and black kitten, with ears too big for his body and the biggest eyes Leila had ever seen on a kitten. She’d almost cried when she saw him for the first time, the sheer level of adorableness emanating from the little kitten. Leila had known in an instant he was perfect for you, a little buddy to be here when she couldn’t. 

She’d gone to get him while you were still asleep, picking him up from the shelter and stopping to buy about half the pet store on her way back. The kitten would have no shortage of toys or treats, that was for sure. But now, as she crept into the house with the kitten curled up in her arms against her chest, she began to get nervous. 

What if you didn’t want a cat? You loved your friends' cats, had talked about getting a pet before, but… maybe you’d changed your mind? She should have asked you first. 

It was too late now. Mostly because she’d already adopted the kitten, and partially because she was attached, too. This was her kitten, even if they’d only really known each other for an hour or so. All she could do was pray you thought this was a good idea, or she’d be stuck with a kitten she adored and a girlfriend who was furious. 

The small kitten mewed again, and Leila froze, just a few feet from the partially shut bedroom door. 

“Shh, pequeño. We have to make sure she likes you before she finds out how noisy you are.” Leila whispered, peppering kisses onto the top of the little guy’s head. He pawed at her face in response and she giggled, before slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Lei? Are you… laughing to yourself?” You called, having woken just a few minutes prior and heard your girlfriend mumbling to herself. “And did you meow?” 

“Um… I have a surprise.” Leila called back, still not moving any closer to the bedroom. She was using the voice she used when she spilled an entire mug of coffee on the white carpet in the living room, and you were suspicious instantly. 

You sat up, eyes wide with surprise. A surprise… that meows. It didn’t take a genius. 

“Come in here and show me.” 

It was silent for a moment, before Leila took a deep breath and moved closer, gently pushing the door open. 

“Oh… oh my god.” You breathed, scrambling out from under the covers and moving closer to your girlfriend. “Is that a cat?!” 

Leila nodded nervously, holding the kitten out to you with both hands. “Surprise?” 

It was clear to you that Leila had not entirely thought this through, the anxiety on her face speaking for itself. Expression still unreadable, you took the kitten into your arms, almost cooing at how he snuggled into you, apparently sleepy from giving Leila a hard time earlier. 

“I… I know I should have asked you first. But I also know you hate being alone here, and I’m gone so often right now, and I just thought not being here by yourself might help. I should have asked first.” Leila spoke rapidly, hands gesturing wildly as she spoke. 

You weren’t really sure what to say. Leila was known to do impulsive things, absolutely more of a ‘don’t ask permission, ask forgiveness’ kind of person, but you’d never expected her to do this. On the other hand, though, Leila was right. Absolutely right, and you’d been thinking about how to bring the idea of getting a pet up to her. Apparently, you hadn’t needed to worry about it. 

In your arms sat the sweetest, most adorable kitten you’d ever seen in your life, purring softly as you gently rubbed his head. And standing just across from you was the sweetest, most thoughtful person you’d ever met in your life; how could you be mad at her? 

“You should have talked to me first.” You began, softening as Leila cringed and nodded, quiet apologies spilling out from her. “But this… this is kind of perfect, Lei. I was thinking about asking you how you felt about getting a pet. And this guy… he’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Leila exhaled, relieved as if she’d been told the world had narrowly avoided a nuclear crisis. 

“Oh thank god. I don't know what I was thinking. one second, I just wanted to help you feel better, and the next… I was buying a cat.” 

Your girlfriend seemed genuinely baffled at her own actions and you couldn’t help but laugh, tucking the kitten under one arm and lifting the other, gesturing Leila closer. She scooched in, slouching herself down so she could tuck her face into your neck. 

“I love you.” She murmured. “I just want you to feel good, to be happy.” 

You tilted your head so you could kiss her temple, overcome with how very loved Leila made you feel. 

“You make me very happy, Lei. Thank you.” 

Leila just held you tighter, thinking she’d buy every cat in the world if this was your reaction. She’d buy anything, do anything, to see such a happy smile on your face. 

—