#his hair is so difficult to draw and for what

[vatelixx]

In the crooks of your body (I find religion),

mid-seasons Spencer Reid x afab!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, lots of fluff. no angst this time, mostly for damage control) ─── soft love & early mornings. idk it’s just domestic bliss for a change.

Warnings: light d/s dynamic (sub spencer, im predictable), low-key praise for both parties, pre-established relationship, they’re soooo in love, they’re also domesticated, morning sex (but there’s no penetration, just oral), they’re both nerds, their pillow talk is science, autistic spencer always (it’s canon to me) greek mythology references, probably the nicest thing i’ll ever write.

w.c: 3k

a/n: post-prison (as requested by many) is still being worked on. it makes me sick. i wrote this to improve my mental health. i’d apologise for being inactive recently but it was necessary, ohmygodihavesomuchcoursework.

──────────────

Saturdays are for this. Waking up to no obligations, work tossed aside, Spencer’s state of impending doom reduces to something distant, untouchable. Barely dawn, there’s a level of domesticity to the art of sleeping together.

Sure, he could go on tangents, disbelieving that he’s allowed to attain this. But it’s futile, he’s long grown tired of exhausting the how to your dynamic, the statistic improbabilities, he always thought you would be reserved to his fantasies. Pandora’s box, a hypothetical kept under lock and key.

But no— he’s willing to accept that, on this one off occasion, he’s made an error in his calculations. An illogical anomaly.

Draped in the mantle of sleep, he feels the soft push of cotton sheets first, then the warm-blooded body curved around him. There isn’t traces of a case lingering at the forefront of his mind when he shifts, drawing himself closer, almost subconsciously, by guided instinct.

Touch. Touch, a natural, biological need. Something Spencer has always shied away from, finding nothing but hurt at the double-edged sword of intimacy. It’s not like he has much experience to base this on. And yet, right now, he’s not thinking factually, from a logical standpoint. Because, okay, there’s comfort in knowing the person that touches you is in fact supposed to touch you.

His hands find your body, his movements still slow and weary, thumb brushing the edge of your vertebrae, the divot just below your shoulder blade.

Spencer is many things. He’s obsessive, incessant, obstinate on occasion. Difficult, to put it bluntly. But despite all that, despite his complications, he’s here, touching, trusting, because for the first time in his life, it feels good.

“Moonless earth theory,” he says, moving to accommodate when you decide to lie on your side. Face to face, in hazy, dimmed light. He stares. “Okay, Abian, Alexander Abian, claimed that blowing up the moon would solve every problem in existence.”

Selfishly, unabashed, he slips his hand beneath your top to trace halos across your skin. “It’s so dumb. If that happened, tides would decrease. And, and, the moon's presence has a partial correcting effect on any instabilaties that arise in a non-homogenous, non-symmetrical—“ he sighs, presses his lips together for a moment, “Basically, the earth would wobble. Which… uh, isn’t very good?”

You’re still half-asleep, dreary to his random information. It takes a moment for your brain to settle, to comprehend what he’s saying, and then another, longer moment, to respond.

“Mhm. Days would be shorter,” you respond before laughing. “This is what you think about when you’ve just woken up? I’m basically a walking lobotomy until at least 10AM. And that’s providing I have a shower, feed my caffeine dependency, et cetera et cetera.”

You look at him, observe the sight: tousled hair, swollen lips half-parted, dilated, heavy-lidded eyes that stare back back back.

“I think about a lot of things in the morning,” he mutters, “A lot of things in general.”

When he leans in to kiss you, it’s languid, slow, he’s still in stasis, a state of suspended animation. Tenderly, as if the contact could break, he parts your lips with his own, his breath warm against your mouth, slow, like he wants your touch burnt into him.

Inevitably, your tongue slides against his, and he moans. Hot. It’s so slow, slow enough that time feels warped, nonexistent, like the universe has just stopped without warning.

He feels you shifting, the movement subtle, legs intertwining, hips flush. Good. So good. His lips break away, only to find their way across a cheek, along the column of your throat, further, over the curve of your collarbone.

He’s pressing kisses anywhere his body allows, touch lingering against your skin, tracing invisible imprints. “Sometimes, well.. um, most of the time, I think about you.”

He laughs, shifting to press his forehead against yours. “It’s a huge interference on my routine. And yeah, there’s also the facts, and the statistics. But then my mind will betray me, and i’ll just think about how you might respond, if I told you them.”

This information isn’t exactly new; you’ve woken up to random, impromptu messages regarding space, earth, philosophy, facts that you can never quite place at such an early hour. Then, there’s the phone calls, the dumb, domestic phone calls, ringing you just to over-explain some new hypothesis he’s studying.

Starry-eyed ambition. Sometimes it hurts to think that the job, the BAU, the nature of the cases, will inevitably warp his softness.

You cup his face, palm pressed against cheek, watching as he melts, molten gold, into the contact. “Yknow, I’d really like to study you in a lab.”

“Mm,” he hums, a sound that translates to please don’t put me in a lab.

His hand wraps around your wrist, preserving the contact, holding onto it like there’s a possibility, an actual chance, fact and figure, that he could lose it.

“I’d just be your lab rat? And they say romance is dead,” he scoffs, “You would commit so much medical malpractice.”

“Pft, medical malpractice. That’s made up,” you silence his protests before they can leave his lips. “I think it would be fun to preform experiments on you. Though, i’m not sure I should be trusted with a scalpel. A law probably needs to be put in place. Yknow, for the safety of the people.”

“Ah, ha.” he’s quick to respond, “It’s the scalpel you’re worried about? You’re forgetting the needle, the drugs, the restraints? You cannot be trusted, you’re a danger to society,”

Spencer pouts, features creased. “And your idea of a fun Saturday morning is committing violent acts against your oh so innocent boyfriend. I see, I see where your priorities lie.”

You grin, press a light kiss to his cheek. It’s soft, tentative contact, and yet he still shivers. No dignity. “Sorry, sorry. What was that last part of your sentence? I zoned out after you said restraints.”

“Right. That’s uh, well. That wasn’t the point I was… trying… to make?”

“Yeah, yeah. Medical malpractice. Evil girlfriend. I get it. You’ve made your point. I am very very ashamed of my hypothetical actions.” you say, hooking your leg around his waist, drawing him onto his back. Spine meeting mattress, your body on top now, straddling him.

You hike up his sweater, running your hand across his torso. There’s something obscene to the way he blushes, draping an arm over his face, as if your movements physically pain him.

“Stop acting coy. I’ve seen you in this position before. Worse ones, if we’re going to be honest here—“

“Hey, hey, hey— I’m not acting coy!" he protests, unconvincingly. He’s breathless, attempting to hide the way his body reacts. As if the slight friction warranted from the movement doesn’t grant him fleeting bliss.

The contact is intense, fervent, your body flush with his. “We really really don’t need to talk about the other occasions.” his eyes shut, head falling back against sheets, lips parted, hands gripping the skin of your hips.

“You’re uh, you’re really unfair,” he mumbles, “And beautiful. I should tell you that more often.”

“You tell me every day.”

Moving off his lap, he’s accommodating as you help to untangle clothes from his body, raising his hips when needed, lifting his arms when necessary. Your touch has him compliant, obedient, eager to fall pliant, beneath you. The sight, god: slender, pale skin, faint blemishes staining his thighs from previous nights, matching with the few that adorn his neck.

“I don’t say it enough, then.”

You laugh, “Oh, you’re such a sap.”

It’s a process: getting Spencer to sit up. Because he doesn’t seem to comprehend your intentions, to realise what you’re trying to imply here. Still, when he’s finally perched on the edge of the bed, you rise, shifting to stand between his legs, to look down at the picture of him, bare, undone, so pretty just for you.

He stares up, eyes wide like marbles. “Hi.”

You card your hand through his hair, strands falling between crevices in your fingers. It’s soft, the movement, the gesture, you’re not sinking down to the root yet. “Hi.”

Your name falls from his lips. And yeah, there’s something reverent to the way he says it, the pained whisper. Something that dissolves into a messy, unrefined whimper when you sink to your knees.

“Oh, god. I—,” he swallows, his voice rough. “I, I love you so much.”

There’s this repeated question on your mind, the same one that loops into existence every time you’re in a compromising position: how loud is Spencer going to be today? Because, objectively, he’s loud. It demeans, ruins the chances of abrupt, clandestine touches in semi-public places. In sneaking around. Even when you’ve got your palm against his mouth, he somehow manages to combat, to prevail the suffocation.

Your lips press soft kisses along his thigh, touching those marks now, the ones you must’ve left last night. No? Maybe yesterday afternoon? It’s hard to keep track. “I love you.”

He melts.

“Such a pretty cock. All for me, hm?” jesus christ. You’ve always been so blunt, outward, inherently shameless. Spencer thinks he might die, divine madness. Theia mania.

When you drag your tongue along the length of his cock, there’s a current, sharp, sending his hips bucking. They arch forward, into you, into the contact. Sight shuttered by swollen eyes, he thinks about regulating his breathing, inhale, exhale, the concept falls on deaf ears.

“All yours,” he whimpers, “Yes. Only,.. only you. Always.”

It feels like devotion. The way he confirms vocally, the way you sink down, take him deep into your mouth. His head spills backwards, baring his neck, indiscernible noises bleeding through the open air, sunlight touching his skin, highlighting his intemperate demeanour in diluted canary.

He’ll apologise to the neighbours later.

Shaky, fumbling hands reach out to brush loose strands of hair from your face, to grip, the pads of his fingers meeting your scalp. He would never push, he just needs something firm, solid, tangible to hold onto.

And when you hum around him, just to mess with him, just to hear those sounds, to draw those pleasure-soaked, beautiful noises out of his mouth—

“Oh, oh oh— that’s, yeah. Mhm, yeah. Just… ruin me.” he’d probably thankyou after. Because he’s polite.

You draw back from the contact to catch your breath. Lips stained, now bruising, emitting soft little gasps. There’s tears gathering in the corner of your eyes, reducing your vision to a distorted haze. Blurry traces of reality that all seem so inconsequential now, now that you’re here.

“I love the way you sound for me, Spence. So pretty.”

“Well,” he huffs out a breath, “I’m uh, being taken care of… very well.”

You lean forward to press a kiss against his tip, as if that’s the most innocent, innocuous gesture imaginable. “You deserve it.” your nails run across his thigh, leaving faint white lines in their path. “Exploding that genius brain of yours yet?”

“That shattered the moment you got down on your knees. Maybe, um… okay, possibly earlier.”

“Earlier?”

“Way earlier..”

He whimpers when you drag your tongue across his tip. There’s a plethora of please please please he shamelessly emits, only somewhat satiated when your lips are wrapped around his cock, when you’re demolishing his sanity, and everything else in the process.

He doesn’t even realise how lewd he is, most of the time. It’s not like he’s making a deliberate effort, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to attain that skill anyway. It’s just… him, raw and unbridled, so delirious from pleasure.

His eyes, dilated, gone, are half-lidded, watching you through thick curls of messy hair, damp with sweat and morning light.

“I’m trying, I’m trying so hard,” he moans, and then words are destroyed, obliterated, as you gag, taking him down to the hilt. “Oh,” he says, “Oh.”

It never lasts long. Not where he’s concerned. Features creased, pleading, you have to restrain him from bucking, nails burning crescent marks into his skin. “Please— please, ‘m gonna…”

He looks done. You hum, oh, silent confirmation, the vibrations stimulate his cock, and then he’s shapeshifting, morphing, transcending into something blissfully gone, releasing deep into your throat.

The orgasm has him ruined, undone. Barely conscious, just floating like something inviolable.

Afterward, he’s urging you to drink water, soft kisses pressed down the curve of your neck as you both readjust. When his phone, his outdated, underused phone lights up, artificial haze, he curses Prometheus for giving humans fire, for hiding it in a stalk of funnel and allowing them to inevitably create technology.

The phone gets locked away in his drawer. He’s half-scared of it anyway.

Spencer has never quite understood the appeal of mornings, but he’s starting to see the merit in them, with you. He’ll tell you that sometime, maybe. One day. Soon.

Right now, however, he descends down your body, lips dragging a path from collarbone to the space between your thighs, where he actively groans.

“Best Saturday morning ever,” you remark, helping him to remove your shorts, then the offending panties that prevent his mouth from working you to ruin.

It’s almost domestic, the way you mirror his actions, feeding your hands through his hair, supporting him as he slips a pillow beneath your hips. Sprawled out across tangled sheets, flushed and restless, you let out an appreciative sigh at the reciprocation.

“Definitely,” he agrees, blowing cold air against your core, just to watch the way you curve, contort. “Though, uh… every morning with you is the best morning ever.” It’s dumb, and god he’s blushing between your thighs.

But, Spencer likes to thank you. Because all in all, he considers himself a well-mannered person. So this, he parts your thighs further, applies slight pressure to your clit, is completely necessary. Mandatory, he’d argue. Something that needs to be embedded into daily routine.

Usually, it’s a slow, methodical process. He can be a perfectionist, a completionist, but he doesn’t mind. He trails his tongue across the inner sections of your thighs, to catch the wetness that stains your skin there.

“You are so perfect,” he regards, pressing a kiss to your clit, mirroring your actions. “So pretty. The prettiest— i’m going to, yeah..”

His tongue moves in languid circles, in soft, calculated motions, before finally delving inside of you, tasting you, drawing a moan, a plea, a muffled prayer from your lips. Okay, alright, maybe his lips too.

“I could do this all day, I want to, I—“ And he doesn’t really have to finish the sentence, because you know him too well, and it’s implied. Implied that he’d spend ceaseless hours here without complaint, oh far from complaint.

He likes to have something to focus on. A task to preform. It distracts his mind, and this one? Yeah, it reduces his thoughts to only you.

If he had it his way, his current mental state would be permanent.

“On your back, pretty boy..” you watch with soft eyes as he mindlessly obeys. Legs bent, pressed against the mattress, you sink down onto his face, getting off from a new angle. Your back instinctively curves, arches, a series of warped moans ripped straight from your throat.

“Just like that— mhm..” you mutter, gripping his hair tighter now, mostly for stability. It’s hard to look down, to see the obscene sight he’s been demeaned to.

His thoughts are always haywire, spitballing off one another. It’s a constant cycle of overthinking, over-analyzing, brain fried beyond reason. But you? You make him feel grounded, tethered, to the very world itself. You’re the one constant that he can predict, and yet, oxymoronically, still so unpredictable in the same breath.

So human..

When you begin to rock against his face, to take the initiative, using him, he simply reaches down, hands trailing across his overstimulated body to stroke himself because of course he’s hard again. How could he not be? He’s at the altar of your body, and god he knows how to serve.

Spencer’s pretty certain he’s forgotten how to breathe, and it’s a hard, harsh gasp when he has the chance to drag air into his lungs — before diving back down to you, because yeah he needs it, he needs you.

It’s messy, muffled whimpers, and desperate sounds emitted from both of your mouths. A constant onslaught of him, his tongue working halos against your clit. When he comes, he’s got his face buried into your heat, obstructing all of his senses. Delirious. Pussy-drunk.

There. There. There. He makes sure to prolong the pleasure, to work you through the bleeding mess of stars, and cosmos, and heavenly bliss, until you’re squirming away from overstimulation.

There’s a set routine when it comes to aftercare. One that both of you fail to adhere to, every. single. time. You’re both firm, assertive, in the belief that you should be the one to look after the other, so it ends up being a lazy, mutual act. Showering, the way he buries his face into your shoulder, naked body pressed against naked body. Hydration, soft touches, muttered words that help you return from the astral plane.

“I can’t believe we’re getting back into bed,” you say after you’ve changed the sheets, traded your ruined clothes for fresh pyjamas. You’re wearing Spencer’s shirt, fumbling buttons, half sealed, exposing your collarbone, draping over your shoulder when you preform any sort of physical movement that requires arms.

“No complaints though.” by nature, your body finds his beneath blankets. “I’d happily rot here. They could make a shitty reality show, it would be good entertainment.”

“I think I’d get fired from the BAU,” he protests, “You know, the first reality TV show aired in 1948. Candid Camera, on ABC, the premise was uh… hidden-cameras? So, yeah, the usual invasion of privacy, sounds entertaining.”

“Mhm. Sounds like something you’d hate.”

You’re lying face to face, arms draped over each other. The Lovers of Valadro position, he calls it. You’re not sure if that’s romantic, or slightly morbid.

“Here’s the plan,” you press your forehead to his, staring at those doe-wide eyes, “We’re going back to sleep. Then, I guess you can be a rule-abiding FBI agent, or whatever, and finish up your reports. As long as you’re done by 4. Because I want to see a movie,” he laughs, in that knowing way. “Yes, yes, i’m aware it’s your turn. Which means we’re gonna end up watching some documentary. Just uh? Make it space themed, yeah? Or, dinosaurs. I can settle for dinosaurs.”

His lips meet yours, abruptly, and he’s grinning into the contact. “I love you so much. I, we, still need to watch MoonWalk One. The Mars Underground, um.. The Valley of the T-Rex? There’s another that I read about yesterday. The Universe at the Edge of Knowledge. Oh, or Dark Universe. You’ll really like Dark Universe, and Edge of Knowledge has this, this cool segment on —“

“Okay, nerd.” you laugh, “Whatever one you want, we’ll watch. I’m still halfway through Paleoworld right now, 30 episodes in.” he knows that, because you’ll message him through the duration, make use out of that untouched (borderline) dusty phone he neglects.

He intertwines your fingers, presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand. “Yup. Yup. Whatever. Can we nap now?”

[frenchonionsoop]

the man the myth the legend the babygirl

[aris-has-a-paracosm]

And we are so proud of him for that!

[skunkes]

really really love drawing cute kitty nyalon doodles and remembering what he actually looks like

[welcometogrouchland]

[ID in ALT] Steph and Damian doodle! This taps a bit into their pre-52 dynamic so that's what I was thinking design wise at first but I wanted to draw it w their more recent designs as well to stay hashtag current and topical, so you get both/a fusion, lol

[sparxyv]

sebaldstian

i don't like drawing their hair.. especially sebastian's

forgive me,,, i was feeling bored and uninspired 😛

[thechaotichorselord]

WIP that i hope to finish

i just wanna post what i got so far because i’m proud of it :3

song is QUEEN- english cover by trickle

Black belongs to @blackkatdraws

[sysig]

Growing closer than expected (Patreon)

[carefulfears]

we've both talked about how scully isn't jealous fire. what differences do you see between protective scully vs jealous scully?

yeah to me the main difference is that one is more external and the other internal. she gets very emotional when she’s jealous. in episodes like alpha (literally sitting that woman down and going “i’m watching you.” cracks me tf up. Dana nobody is taking your man.) and war of the coprophages, it’s kind of angry. it’s louder, but still something very vulnerable and true to her (hater-ism). in episodes like the end, it’s heartbreak. that’s one of the very few episodes where i think she was purely jealous, and sad. she usually understands what’s going on and i think she knew as soon as she heard him call diana by her first name that something was going to change. i think it hurt her feelings, that specific display of connection, usually reserved for her.

when she’s jealous she retreats. she watches quietly. she cries alone in her car. she needs a moment to herself.

it’s when she’s protective that you can’t shake her for anything. one of my favorite images in fire is her standing in the doorway while mulder and phoebe meet with the arson specialist. i didn’t even notice she was there the first time i saw it. she wasn’t invited. she’s just keeping watch. later, she’s standing in the hallway. after that, she’s in his hotel room, and doesn’t leave when phoebe comes in. says “are you okay?” the moment they’re alone.

people write off her behavior in this one as being “jealous” because she has a lil crush and there’s another woman there, but i honestly find that dismissive. sometimes people discuss scully through such a wide lens, not taking into account who she is. she’s really surprised throughout the time that phoebe was there. it’s that soft edge that still shocks to cruelty, that she never really loses. it’s what shocks in the pilot when the doctor hits mulder twice. what shocks in the following episode when the government agents punch him on the side of the road. (look at you you’ve radicalized scully). it’s what makes her wary of jerry lamana, even before he stole mulder’s work.

but phoebe is so cruel, and so personal, and has so much history. it’s not jealousy that makes scully linger in doorways. it’s not jealousy that spawns that folie a deux. no one else understands. no one else can be trusted. (which i do kind of think started in fire, i’ve said before). she isn’t jealous that he startles when he hears this woman’s voice.

and i know that’s a lot on phoebe as an example, but it doesn’t stop. she doesn’t stop keeping watch. she doesn’t stop shocking to cruelty. she’ll get loud. she’ll make plans. she’ll surprise herself. and it doesn’t come with jealousy’s mortifying intimacy.

(don’t have much else to say but i found this from an old post of mine and wanted to share: “scully has that kind of protectiveness towards him that you have towards a child that hasn't been touched by the world yet. it's very 'the world is at least half terrible, though i keep this from my children.’ 'good bones' by maggie smith. scully in the beginning is like......there is something here that should have broken by now. and she wants to watch him be able to walk into every room with the most hopeful answer and a hand out to every stranger.”)

she shares him with the world only reluctantly, Etc etc

[tonariofjananda]

Based on a this ask

[graceful-not]

Experimenting with an Echo design ..

[karnaca78]

Hi @synthwayve I butchered your guys

Art based on their Bloodborne fanfic Haemolacria. Thank you for the soup friend, it cheered me up in these trying times.

[antony-art]

He was all eyes.

[possiblyfunny]

Hey, look guys, more art-

HOPE.

I’ve been wanting to draw him like this ever since I first saw him smile, but my will to draw eluded me until now! This started off as a doodle, so, please excuse the messiness. I drew this to de-stress.

“Fire” Red belongs to @creatively-cosmic. They have a blog called @themissingnumbers, which is really good! Go check it out if you want to see more.

[Sketch + Colored Version below the cut!]

[watersdeep]

drawing alistair's hair, specifically with his held tilted down slightly and eyes looking up, is so fucking difficult. i have rage quit my drawing until i can calm down and figure this shit out.

[skitskatdacat63]

It you liked my Napoleonic au, here is some Fernando from it :)

Under the cut: process

him face:

(I absolutely had to draw his Theee Musketeers look, that's honestly why I did a Ferrari alt)

I mentioned earlier how every time I opened the drawing, I'd just completely change it. Here's what I meant:

The Renault suit really lends itself to the Hussar uniform! Also the Ferrari one is kinda stunted a bit comparatively bcs I accidently drew over the Renault one so I had to recover the backlog and was afraid to touch it any further LOL