#splurged tonight

[pirunika]

watching the game lol

[cosmogyros]

.

[tododeku-or-bust]

I finally start feeling better from being sick and then I get cramps. It's like my body wants to shame me for daring to seek happiness and no pain

[exercise-of-trust]

.

[seaquestions]

having a bit of rum & coke mmm yummiee 😋

[outofthiisworld]

💜 ECTOPLASM— again!

Hinted before, Ophelia’s ectoplasmic core is both symbiotic and sentient! To an extent.

Its sentience isn’t what humans would find familiar, it’s only truly driven by its own instincts (ie. keep host alive, consume, exist)

It also works in a psuedo-hivemind of sorts, as the necrotic cosmic energy has a natural pull towards the cosmos itself (especially of its own kind). This is the reason why Ophelia will feel strong calls for the stars (the core wants to go home).

Home. What is that for Ectoplasm?

— why the unknowns of space, baby!

The energy is strikingly similar to how jellyfish exist, it floats through clouds of nebulae, unbothered by most outside forces as it devours plasma in it path to sustain itself. It mimics the appearance of both stars and nebulae in order to camouflage itself in the depths of space.

SYMBIOTIC?

The symbiotic nature of ectoplasm teeters between symbiosis and parasitic.

The initial symbiotic connection is… destructive and extremely volatile. Typically, the ectoplasm’s intense energy destroys a potential host from the inside out immediately (an overflow of energy)— in this stage, it will consume and absorb the host completely.

If the ectoplasm successfully accepts and connects with the host upon death, it will begin an osmosis stage where it will slowly assimilate itself with the host until they become ONE.

[philomelas-tongue-says]

is there a better feeling on this earth than absolutely cleaning up at the secondhand store

[matchamiko]

Per my last rb, I’m no long available as I am currently thinkin bout it lookin like this

[ofsavior]

[zwampy]

What a week. Death in the family. Funeral on Thursday 3 hours from home and now I'm in Dublin to see Carly Rae Jepsen. Another pretty major family thing happening I'll be dealing with when I get home on Monday.

Have not had a second to think or process anything, and now that I'm in Dublin by myself I'm trying to just keep it locked up in the back so I can enjoy this Carly show as much as I've been dreaming about it.

Loud music, singing and dancing does tend to heal me.

[hesgomorrah]

i spent all evening trying to find the faceless ones animation and of the two torrents i was able to find and waited for them to finish downloading one was dubbed in russian and the other was a janky fan animation 😭 guess i'm going back to the recon

[herleaf]

.

[moonlightbf]

my asics are so beat up and im so sad because they dont sell the pair i bought anymore…

[myhyperfixationisiforgot]

Nothing will fuck up your perception of your parents quite like being an adult, I think.

[david-watts]

feeing very ‘I saw a thing for a price and I bought it’

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

"cold feet (literally)" - spencer reid x fem!reader

you wake up in the middle of the night to get a pair of socks

wc: 1k

cw: reader is described as wearing a bra, sickeningly sweet fluff, two idiots in love

Spencer keeps his apartment climate-controlled at a brisk sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. He likes to be cold, he says, and you generally don’t mind. You run hot anyway, so if, on the off chance you do get cold when you’re lounging around on his couch or perusing his bookshelves, you grab one of the throw blankets Garcia’s knitted for him and wrap it around your shoulders. 

Tonight is different, in that you were not planning on sleeping over. Your relationship with Spencer works so well, in your opinion, because you both like to be independent, so rather than be with each other every moment of every day that he’s home, you orbit around each other like planets. You spend many evenings over at his place, and he spends just as many as yours, but eventually, the other person goes home. 

Not that you didn’t like sleeping in the same bed as Spencer, of course, but the relationship was still fresh, and you both liked that you were taking things slow. Tonight, however, you started a movie with him rather late, and by the time it was over, you were bleary-eyed and your bones felt laden. Spencer was more than willing to offer you the empty side of his bed for the night. 

You arrived in sweatpants and a t-shirt, so you just took your bra off and laid down. Spencer splurged on a fancy orthopedic mattress, so you somehow both sunk into it and rested on top of it like a glass on a table. It was insanely comfortable, and both you and Spencer really were wiped out, so you went right to sleep. 

When your eyes flutter open a few hours, you’re laying on your side. The first thing you notice is that the room is not completely dark. No, in fact, there’s a stream of moonlight, or maybe a street lamp outside, creeping in through the curtains, casting a soft, gray-filtered glow over the room. 

You feel Spencer’s hand loosely on your hip, and his knee resting lightly against the back of your thigh. Your immediate reaction is not to move for fear of waking him, but your feet are icicles. The air around you is cold, too, but the blankets remedy that. You just need socks. 

I am molasses, you coach yourself, moving languidly and carefully to rise into a sitting position. However, you lack the FBI stealth training needed to rise out of bed without waking your boyfriend, because when you look over your shoulder, his eyes are very clearly open. 

There’s a tired yet playful little smirk as he sits up, leaning against the headboard. “Sneaking out already?” he asks, his voice still rich and thick with sleep, and you suddenly wish you’re able to see him like this more often. Maybe this whole going home to go to sleep thing is simply for the birds. 

“No, of course not,” you laugh softly. The mattress creaks as you finally stand up, your bare toes spreading against the soft carpet. As you pad over to his dresser, you shoot him a performative smile over your shoulder. “My feet are just freezing.” 

“Do you want me to adjust the thermostat?” Spencer asks immediately, shifting the blankets off of him so he can, presumably, get out of the bed. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” you insist, holding up your hand. He stops in his place. “It’s just my feet, Spence,” you assure him. The cherry wood creaks when you tug the top drawer open, plucking the first pair of socks you see out off the top. 

Spencer’s mismatched socks are meticulously organized in their correct pairs, as it turns out. You smile to yourself when you realize this means he takes the time each day to couple up an incorrect pair of socks before putting them on his feet. 

You select a pair of purple ones with little kiwi fruits printed on them, affection for the ridiculous man in bed behind you bubbling up in your chest, making it feel as if it’s filled with helium. Like you could float up to the ceiling at any moment. 

You’re still smiling stupidly as you perch yourself on the edge of the bed. You slide his socks over your bare feet, wiggling your toes around for a moment. “Why are you smiling, angel?” Spencer’s asking curiously, and you feel his foot nudge your back. 

You lie back down in the bed, shaking your head softly as you lay on your side and place your head against Spencer’s chest. He takes a second to adjust, slinking down so he’s lying flat on his back, then he tugs you a little closer. 

Your cheek rubs against the soft, worn fabric of his t-shirt. You place your palm down against his flat tummy, and consequently feel his chin press into the top of your head. “What is it?” he asks again. 

“I just think you’re the bee’s knees, that’s all,” you say softly, earning a small chirp of a laugh from your boyfriend. 

“The bee’s knees, huh?” he rakes his fingers through your hair slowly. The action is lulling you like straight melatonin, making you even more tired. “Did you know that phrase actually used to mean something small and insignificant? Over time it developed to refer to something or someone that is greatly admired.” 

You close your eyes, your body relaxing against him as he speaks. “Do bees even have knees?” you ask through a yawn. 

“Technically speaking, no,” Spencer brushes his thumb along your temple, then across the top of your ear, as if he is charting all the smooth parts of you. “But they do have a ball-and-socket joint between their leg segments, which allows them the flexibility to move their little legs around. So when they dance to show their hive mates where the good honey is, they move their legs around.” He laughs softly at this notion, and you feel your weight sink into the mattress. 

“You make me want to dance,” you whisper, smiling with closed eyes against his chest. “So, you’re the bee’s knees.” 

Spencer hums fondly in response to this, then kisses your forehead. “That’s kind of a reach, angel,” he says. “But I think you’re the cat’s pajamas, so who am I to judge?”