#but I don't know how to tag that appropriately

[siriuslylantsov]

morning glory

pairing: spencer reid x reader

description: following the events of drunken confessions. the next morning after spencer tells you he loves you, albeit drunk and half asleep, you don't know if he means it.

tags: fluff, gn!reader, hangover but i dont dwell on it, whiny!spencer (lol), so so soft, r is so unsure but she just needs reassurance.

a/n: omg my first pt 2 as per popular demand (3 people asked), happy reading!

wc: 1.6k

i love you. 

three words that bounce from one end to the other in your head, like a pendulum, reverberating across the hard surface of your skull. it echoes through the small space of your ear canal, taking up entirely too much space. it repeats with the beat of your pulse, heart thudding in a steady rhythm. 

suffice it to say, you barely slept. running the words over and over for some kind of clarity. instead you preoccupied yourself with watching spencer sleep, like you are now.

with the sunrise, came light. light that filtered through the curtains just enough that you could see his face. his lips are slightly parted, soft puffs of air that don’t quite reach you. they’re pulled down minutely, in a little frown, seemingly how his face falls when he's unconscious. it's sweet. his eyebrows twitch, creasing momentarily, you wonder if he’s dreaming, or if it's a nightmare. 

your fingers itch to reach out and touch him, soothe the line. but he's so peaceful, you don't know if you want to wake him up. you never get to see him like this, without the weight of the world on his shoulders, unthinking. so you stall a bit, let the wave of serenity pass before it comes crashing down in the form of a violent hangover. 

you probably stay like that for an hour, an hour spent admiring his features. it's easier than confronting what he said. he’d stayed in the same position all night, curled up on his side, facing you. you’re leaning on your elbow now, looking down at him from above. his face moves, nuzzling into the pillow beneath his head. it causes that same stubborn strand of hair to fall loose. 

you give in and touch him this time, tucking the piece behind his ear. you trace a finger over his brow bone and then down the slope of his perfect nose. this causes him to stir, eyes fluttering open as he takes in his surroundings before they land on you. they instantly soften.

“morning,” you whisper, wary of your volume.

“hey,” he croaks, voice riddled in sleep. all his features pull up, twisted in a grimace as his head throbs. he rolls onto his back, bringing his fingers up to his temple, rubbing the pads of them in between his eyebrows. 

“where's your aspirin?” 

he hums in thought, or in pain, it's uncertain. “the um- drawer,” he points beside him aimlessly, eyes still closed. he's about to move to get it but you stop him, leaning over his body to reach the bedside table next to him. you reach over him, hovering awkwardly over his body. you shiver imperceptibly when his hand settles on your waist for support, an unconscious action, you suppose. when you find it, you give him a pill and he swallows, his hand falls back to his side.

“what time is it?” he grumbles.

“quarter to twelve,” you respond, barring a quick look at the analog clock that sat on his dresser. 

he harrumphs, something of acknowledgement. you didn’t think he’d be this grumpy waking up but you don't mind, it's awfully cute.

“it’s so bright,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut further, if possible. 

“your eyes are closed.”

“my retinas are burning,” he whines, throwing his arm over his eyes to shield him from the sunlight in a thespian flourish. 

“so dramatic,” you huff as you get up to close the curtains, the smile in your voice irrefutably evident. you peek out the window first, your car is still parked outside, you stayed the night!

when you sit back down on the bed, his head seeks you out, laying gently on your lap. you card a hand through his hair, the action seemingly appropriate. he lets out a hum, satisfied.

“do you remember much from last night?” you ask, trying to come off casual, the question is loaded to say the least. plus, you don't know if alcohol affects an eidetic memory the same way. maybe he remembers everything, like always.

“no,” he says with a little shrug. “well, i remember going to the bar and morgan spilling a shot on his shirt but that's it.”

oh. so not that differently.

“well, i'm sure he’ll appreciate you remembering that,” you chuckle, ruffling his hair. with a long sigh, you decide to not bring it up. it’ll come back to him, surely. you’ll wait for him to come to you about it. 

you lift his head off your lap and let him sink back into the pillows. “how about you freshen up and i’ll make you some toast?”

his eyes peek open, barely. “yes please,” he replies meekly, a small smile in tow.

-

you put slices of bread into the toaster on his counter, leaning against it as you wait. what happens if he doesn't remember? will you tell him? how do you even bring that up?

hey spencer! last night you told me you love me. do you?

the loud spring of the toaster startles you back to the moment. behind his bedroom door, you can hear the faint sound of his shower running and you remember you’re still in his clothes. god, you're gonna have to wear yesterday's clothes back home. you mindlessly take the hot toast out and set it on a plate, wincing when you hold them for too long. you put 2 more slices of bread in, for you of course. 

you decide to make some eggs too, pulling the carton out of the fridge and getting a pan from beside his sink. you move with surprising ease through his kitchen, like you’d been there before. you haven't, but again, it's so easy with spencer, it apparently extends to his home too. you hum absentmindedly, cracking an egg into a bowl and beating it with a fork. you don’t know it yet but spencer's watching you, having finished his shower.

-

it all comes back to him slowly, as he puts on a new change of clothes, skin still a little damp.

asking penelope for a drink, drinking it, thinking, thinking about you, you showing up? maybe he was magic. you sitting with him, talking to him, taking him home. he remembers stumbling up the stairs, his arm thrown haphazardly over your shoulders and yours hooked around his waist.

“you're so nice, y’know?” 

“yeah? you won't think so tomorrow morning.”

you tucked him in, stayed when he asked you to. you told him about your breakup and he told you, oh, he told you he loved you.

shit. 

he has to make this right. he's quick to feed his arm into the last sleeve and walk out of his room. however, he stops when he sees you. swaying lightly, humming a tune he recognises from last night, standing there in his clothes. he thinks he might die. clearly, he wasn’t paying much at all when he woke up earlier. damn headache. 

-

“i told you i loved you.”

your head snaps in his direction, unaware of his presence. you jump a little before calming. “yeah... you did,” you confirm, trying to keep your tone light. it wasn't a question but you still answer. he remembers.

“and you told me to tell you again when i wake up,” he recalls.

you chuckle quietly, “i didn't realise you heard that.”

“i did.”

you nod, slowly, expectantly, for him to say something else, anything else. 

“i love you.” there it is.

“you mean that?” your voice comes out way smaller than you intended. he still hasn't moved.

“of course i do,” he says with a sigh, inching his way closer. you look like you're going to spook.

“okay,” you breathe, looking down at your fingers, you begin to ramble. “it's just, last night- you were drunk and sleepy and well, tired and i didnt know if you were being honest or just saying it on whim.” 

he's suddenly in front of you and you can't look at him. he's fine with that, it makes it slightly easier.

“hey, i mean it. i love you. i’m sorry i said it how i did, it wasn't fair. and you don't have to say anything back, i just- want you to know.”

you look up at him now, eyes searching, and when you find sincerity in his eyes, you soften, muttering out a quiet “okay.” your lips twist to the side, trying not to smile, but glee fills out every nook and cranny of your body. he takes this as a good sign and lets out the breath he didn't realise he was holding, smiling back at you.

“so,” you start, seemingly casual. “how do you take your eggs?”

spencer laughs, amused by your change in topic. he nods toward the bowl of already beaten eggs, “scrambled.”

you nod, firmly. you pick up the bowl and move to the stovetop, but not before grabbing his fingers with your free hand and pulling him with you. 

your thumb glides along the curve of his forefinger as you hold it between your bodies, waiting for the pan to heat up. you’re biting your lip so much, you think you might draw blood. you’re unbearably happy. and you think you’re doing a good job of hiding it but you’re not. spencer can see the way you giddily twitch by his side, opting on not saying anything about it as he smiles softly.

“you love me,” you tease, singsong, dragging out the ‘love’. your head leans against his shoulder. 

“mhm,” he confirms. ”you’re never gonna let me live this down, huh?”

“nope,” you chirp, pressing a chaste kiss to his shirt.

reblogs and replies are appreciated | m.list

[tiredfoxtf]

Well, I think it's been enough time to tell you about ANOTHER my long time Life series headcanon.

The winners have nightmares about their wins.

Grian is in the bloodied sand, under the hot desert sun. And it blinds his eyes and burns his skin, it makes him thirsty and sweaty, sand mixed with tears, blood and sweat sticks to his skin and red red red sweater. And it's disgusting, it makes him want to puke and cry, tear that stupid sweater into pieces, but he can't do anything, can't move a finger, only uselessly cry and curse everything, asking for forgiveness into nothing.

Scott is covered in thorns, even breathing hurts, like that very thorny bush grew inside him too, pricking his throat and lungs from the inside and the smell of thunder and red red red flowers is heavy and makes breathing even harder. He tries to move - thorns move with him, he masters the strength to tear them away - many more appear, and the flowers taste bitter despite their prettiness. They are poisonous. And Scott thinks of nothing when his stomach twists inside out.

Pearl is so cold. Cold is all she knows. Blue sky, white snow, red red red blood, so pretty. The cold freezes her joints, sips into her cell structure, in her DNA. Her eyes feel like there's nothing but two ice spheres. And the sharp sharp sharp pain as if her body twists and tears over and over and over again. And she is hungry, her blood is still warm. She might savour it a bit. If her blood worth something, than she might be worth something too. But her blood isn't sweet. Her blood is salty and bitter with despair, hate and resentment and what's worse with regret.

Martyn cannot swim up, he tries, he tries, he tries so hard. He gets to see the dark sky only for a moment until a new wave will kick him down below and the dark of the sea doesn't differ too much from the sky full of stars. Martyn breaths mostly salty water and he sees red red red. Anything but red. His lungs are heavy, but he doesn't sink, he fights, he fights so hard, against the sea, against the current, he is a fighter. But the sea knows nothing of him when it swallows him once again. The water is cold and the air is cold, he bites his tongue and curses and curses and curses, for no one to hear. For no one to be angry at him.

Scar is by himself, he always was by himself. But he hears laughter and happiness outside his home, but he doesn't come out - they will disappear the second he does. Sometimes he sees shadows of people that used to be, but he doesn't know them. And they don't know him. They are not real, he assures himself, it's just him and his sunflowers, but their soil is red red red. It's nothing, he says, but he feels how the pit in the stomach gets infinitely bigger. He needs to come out, he needs to see someone, can they be happy with him? Can he make them laugh? There's no one out there.

Joel feels like tearing himself apart with every second, it's pain, it's frustration, it's embarrassment, it's shame, it's anger, it's a thrill, it's the wild hunger. He couldn't stop it, he needs to see the red red red, so much of it, so he would forget what other colours look like. He tears apart someone's body, his teeth sink into the flesh, his eyes cannot stop making fluid, why can't he stop? Why can't he just stop and die already? He proved himself, it's done, why he is not in control of himself? More more more, until he could bath in red red red. It's never enough, it cannot satisfy him ever.

No Cleo, because I haven't watched Real Life, sorry even watching VR makes me dizzy as fuck.

[umblrspectrum]

happy solvermas

[shalom-iamcominghome]

My jewish community, friends, rabbi, and educators: We are very invested in helping you be jewish. Do you want to help read the haftarah? Here's a chanukiah! You can have it!! Borrow these books! Here's some books! You need more books... Come to pesach! Come to the chanukah party! When are your classes done? We need a minyan for once!

Me and my 50000 IQ: What if I am Secretly Appropriating judaism? What if I am doing a Cultural Appropriation........

[orphiclovers]

this happened in canon. to me. if you get it you get it, if you don't you don't

bonus:

[wkekawkeka]

Daily routine

[a2zillustration]

The final day

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[pekoeboo]

randomly felt inspired to try and sketch @masterfuldoodler's OC Val! she's just super cute and her hair looked really fun to draw idk haha

hope u don't mind the surprise art, August! <33

Val belongs to @masterfuldoodler please do not repost.

[bayetea]

seeing non-black people critique rick's portrayal of black characters is interesting sometimes. only like 30% of the critiques I see make any sense to me to be honest

[another-goblin]

[chiropteracupola]

what if they were an ultimate frisbee team

[leliwardens]

putting this as its own post on my blog bc it's purely my opinion but the cullen lyrium choice is the same to me as killing a dalish clan where having objectively "bad" choices is good for an rpg because it lets you, well, roleplay. you can just be doing an evil run or trying to reason in-character or otherwise taking these options. i wouldn't want them removed just because some people want to believe what you do in a fictional story is who you are and what your morals are (<- this is wrong btw). so encouraging cullen to go back on lyrium permanently or temporary or cut it off entirely is good to leave in the players hands to you know, roleplay.

but i do genuinely believe the cullen lyrium choice and the result if he's on it permanently is less the above and just the writers not putting enough consideration and care into a recovering drug addict story lmfao

[violent138]

"Gordon, you should get to the corner of first and Montgomery, we got a crime scene your buddy might be interested in."

Gordon glanced meaningfully at Batman, who slowly got up from his kneeling position on the ground, attention torn between the newspaper clippings the murderer had pinned to the wall and the detective. "I'll make my way there when I can, what's happened?"

"It's a fucking slaughterhouse man, Bats were pursuing the suspect and the killer took out a few of the hostages--"

"Slow down, what are you talking about? Batman's not--"

"One of them kids, Gordon." The deputy stressed. "It's a fucking disaster, Forensics almost called CPS."

"Oh hell." Gordon breathed out, pinching the bridge of his nose. Batman turned fully to stare at him, concern flaring even behind the mask. "Which one?"

"Hell if I know, kid's just standing here all drenched in blood, hasn't said a single word the entire time." The deputy exhaled raggedly. "I gotta tell you, it's starting to get a little--"

"You need to go, Montgomery and First," Gordon mumbled to Batman, pressing the phone to his vest. "One of the kids got to his latest crime scene, and..."

Batman didn't hesitate for a second, sweeping down the hall and out, the fastest and loudest disappearance Gordon had seen yet from the man.

"Evans, shut up and hand over the phone to the kid," Gordon ordered, pressing the phone back up to his ear, hoping he could offer any kind of comfort before Batman got there.

[bigolbadblog]

sometimes i'm like "it's silly to act like people's kinks tell you about their psychological damage, some of us are just having funnnn" and then sometimes i'm like. um.

it's sooooo sexy to think of a feeder taking care of a feedee to the point where the ingrained "rules" the feedee has learned around eating don't even get a chance to come up. like that old "trick" about always putting the fork down in between each bite, because god forbid we get carried away by simple sensory enjoyment without creating constant imperceptible obstacles to our own eating? well you don't need to worry about that if someone else is holding the fork, do you

[fundeadasylum]

there's a fic i haven't finished writing where Zone attacks the Triumvirate to try and protect the Grand Festival Stage

the Triumvirate absolutely wreck him and he washes up near Bermuda's Salmonid Sanctuary she tends to his wounds because she's just like that, and doesn't put up with his crap either, which earns his respect

he fought the Triumvirate in the first place because he knew the Grand Festival was important to Peachy and she was really, really excited about it, so he wanted to protect it it didn't cross his mind even once that putting himself in danger was worse to Peachy than something happening to the Stage

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

i found this lore entry recently and have not stopped thinking about it since. it is HYSTERICALLY funny to me that fandaniel's villain origin story was just being a fuckin boomer

One of few great minds in a land that had seen the slow, yet steady numbing of its people's intelligence, Amon long lamented the sorry state of Allag , concentrating his early scientific efforts on developing medicines to increase mental capacity . He soon realized that it was not knowledge that the Allagans lacked. If anything, they had too much. What his people lacked was a leader. With a renewed sense of focus, Amon shifted his studies to the field of vivimancy, and soon was conducting experiments on his own flesh in order to attain his final goal - the resurrection of Xande the First.

— Encylopaedia Eorzea Volume I, p. 25