#this post is just for laughs don't take it seriously

[peanutalergy]

currently missing my ex situationship who had a stardew valley save with me. that's it that's the whole post.

spencer never really played video games. of course he had in the past, and it's not something he actively avoids, either. but it's not a habit. it's not like he has a console and an expensive headset and a side of the couch solely dedicated to playing time like his girlfriend does.

he's partially scared of invading and interrupting your you time by asking to play with you.

he loves watching, though. the way you put your tongue out when you're focused on the screen, the awkward and uncomfortable positions you often find yourself in and he reminds you to get out of, the little yelps you let out whenever there's something remotely jumpy or scary happening.

he'll come home and see you on the couch, tell you not to worry about turning it off (even though wanting to spend time only with him is always your first thought after a long day away from each other) and he'll curl up next to you, talk about his day while he watches you mine. or he'll grab a book and sit beside you in sweet silence that's only interrupted by small complaints muttered under your breath.

but recently, since you told him you'd read his favorite book just for him, he's been more than he already was – which was a lot – invested in your own interests.

“can i play with you?” he feels like a kid in the playground during recess, unreasonably and unusually shy standing in front of you.

studying his face for a second, your own contorts into a confused smile before you laugh and hand him a remote. you scoot to give him space and he instantly settles beside you with a relieved breath. he's not even sure what he'd been so anxious for.

it's not surprising how good he is at your favorite game. (it's basically impossible to be bad at a cozy farm simulator, but) he does have an advantage when he can remember all of the important details of it. the phone you needed to have by your side to check the wiki is replaced by your boyfriend now – and he's prettier, too. a lovely substitute.

he doesn't mention the few inaccuracies, but it's like you can hear the thoughts swirling in his mind, “well, that's not really how refining quartz works.”; “technically, that's a male duck, but okay.”; “tilapia are freshwater fish” & “lingcod are saltwater fish.”

for some reason, he fills up three and a half cabins with conserve jars and barrels. he names his barn animals after intellectuals whose names you had never heard (or, frankly, cared about) before. he is not jealous of the town doctor. he sits at the library and does nothing pretends to read. calls it proper role playing. you think you might cry reading on screen the fact that he wrote your name on his “favorite thing” part of the character creation.

being too focused on the grind (he always laughs when you call it that), you forgot to let him know about the marriage mechanics in the game. when he reached eight hearts with leah, the villager he befriended the quickest – due to how easily pleased she is –, the letter he got about bouquets surprised him.

“i don't want to marry another woman,” there's a hint of hurt in his voice. he's almost mad at pierre, or maybe just at the game, for even assuming he'd ever do such a thing.

“she's not real, spencer.” you giggle, “but you don't have to marry anyone, you know.”

“can i marry you?”

“well, yeah, but only later on in the game.”

and from that moment on, everything he did was with the goal of getting a crafting recipe for the wedding ring. when you do get married, you both pretend you don't take it as seriously as you do.

maybe it's best if he doesn't know about the save where you married dr. harvey. it only matters that you're married to dr. spencer reid.

[jetblack4realz]

protector - haymitch abernathy

lost

masterlist

your paranoia was correct.

warnings: sexualizing, allusions to sa and gross people, spoilers to sotr, age gap of like 3 years

word count: 2.3k

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

you were lost.

like, seriously, completely, officially lost.

in the streets of the capitol.

"are you kidding me?" you muttered as you slipped into a store, hand covering your face to avoid the flashing cameras of onlookers. the tiny slip of paper in your hand was crumpled and the ink was beginning to run from the sweat of your palms.

you heard your name echo down the street, interested fans and sponsors alike turning with their heads on a swivel trying to get a look at you.

you couldn't even imagine what the papers were going to look like in the morning.

it was embarrassing.

you desperately wished that your grandmother was here, but of course she chose to stay home with your oldest cousin and her terror of a four year old- mags' first great grandchild nonetheless.

and how was it possible that a woman in her early sixties could have a great grandchild already?

three generations of post-reaping teenage pregnancies, that's how.

"damn you, gigi," you muttered to yourself as you glanced around the store for a way out.

there were only two doors in the whole store, the front door and one that said 'employees only' in big red letters, and surprisingly no dressing rooms. the place was luckily sparse, only a few men of varying ages wandering around and shooting you sideways glances.

you heard your name outside again and your head fell in your hands, groaning dramatically.

"can someone help me?" you asked finally, looking around at the men around the store all staring confusedly at you. your heart was pounding and your hands were shaking and that little slip of paper in your hand felt so heavy. "i've lost my boyfriend and i don't know how to get back to my hotel and i just really need some-"

"miss flanagan?"

you shrieked and turned, breathing out a light laugh when plutarch heavensbee steadied you with a hand on your arm.

he smiled warmly. "are you alright?"

"yes, just lost," you admitted.

"yes, i could see that," he chuckled. "you're in the men's store, by the way."

"the men's store?"

he laughed again, though it was a bit more awkward than before. he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "yes, well, just as there are stores specifically for womenly things, there are stores just for men as well, miss."

and that's when you noticed the shelves and shelves of boxers covering the walls, the robes lining the racks, and little purple boxes that you had no interest in staring at much longer.

"oh. right..." you turned your attention back to the novice film director. "can you help me please?"

his kind smile returned and he nodded. "of course. you said you were here with haymitch?"

"yes, i lost him somewhere down main street."

"oh, you would. my guess is he slipped into a little pub expecting you'd follow and you just didn't."

"it's ten in the morning, plutarch."

he sighed, taking you arm and pulling you gently towards the back of the store. "yes. and you'll find the longer you're with him that no time is too early for booze."

he smiled at the man behind the register before pulling you through the employees' door, the little white sign bouncing against the frame as you let the door slam behind you.

it led to a little brick alleyway that you never would've guessed existed.

"huh," you mumbled.

"neat, huh?" he chuckled. he patted your hand on his arm with his free hand. "now come along, i'm sure he'll just be this way."

you walked steadily down the alleyway next to plutarch until you reached a large oak door. he held an arm out as he reached for the handle, an ironic smile on his face.

"welcome to the panem et pubscum."

the room was dark, and loud with the deep voices of grumbling regulars, and smelled of stale and fresh beer alike.

and it was the most comfortable place you'd stepped into since you got to the capitol.

"he'll be sitting right over there," plutarch told you, pointing over your shoulder to the end of the bar where, indeed, the blond victor sat with a glass of amber bourbon in his hands.

"thank you," you told him with a smile, offering him a quick kiss on the cheek. "you've been very helpful."

"hey, anything for you, my dear," the man said before waving to haymitch. "go on, i'm sure he's been wondering where you ran off to."

you didn't hesitate, breaking for the opposite end of the pub and weaving in between various customers all with the same honey-colored beers in their hands - and it was refreshing to see they weren't some fluorescent blue or purple, and just the regular color of beer.

you wrapped your arms around haymitch when you reached him, your face pressing into his back. "you're not allowed to ditch me in the street anymore, abernathy."

a chuckle rumbled through his ribcage and straight through you before he turned around on his stool and pulled your arms off of him, resolving instead to hold your waist as you stood between his legs.

"oh, you survived, didn't you honey?" he said with a laugh.

"i ended up in a men's underwear store," you deadpanned with a roll of your eyes. "i was being chased down like a rabbit in a field. i was lucky to find plutarch before i died of embarrassment."

"more likely you'll die from dramatics," he told you, shaking his head as a smile pulled at his lips. he squeezed your waist. "do you want a drink, honey?"

"i want to go back to the hotel."

"the drinks here are better than the hotel."

"that wasn't in the question."

"well, it should be."

"it's not."

"come on, let's just stay for a few rounds."

"i want to go back to the room, haymitch, can we please go back to the room?" you asked.

he furrowed his brows and looked you over, pausing when they reached your balled up fist. he mumbled your name, his hands slipping from your waist to grasp your own. "open your hand."

"haymitch, please," you said again, a bit quieter as you noticed the narrow-eyed bartender beginning to take notice of you both.

"open your damn hand," he said again, looking up at you with a deep furrow in his brows.

you relented, sighing, and somehow stepping closer to him as you opened your hand, revealing the small white piece of paper that had once been neatly folded and now laid in a crumpled ball in your palm.

haymitch snatched it quickly, unfolding it and dropping his hands to his knees for the slightest bit of privacy as he read it through. "who gave this to you?"

"a peacekeeper," you answered. "when i told him i lost you he gave me that instead. said he was looking for me. didn't help me find you, just walked off."

"of course he did," haymitch grumbled out, looking up at you again and shoving the slip in his pocket. "stop going to the peacekeepers for help. they're not here to help you, honey, they won't help you. you find me. or plutarch, apparently."

"yeah except you left me in the streets," you told him with a glare.

"i thought you were following me!"

"you turned the other way and let go of my hand!"

"i-" he cut himself off, eyes flickering around the room. his voice fell to a hush. "i'm sorry. look, you're right, we should go."

you furrowed your brows. "huh? that's it?"

"yes, that's it," he said, sliding off the stool and taking your hand again. he pressed his lips to the top of your head before mumbling to you: "people are watching. remember the play."

"it's not a play anymore," you whispered.

"no, darlin', but it's always a game, and we have to keep playing." he kissed your cheek and plastered a grin to his lips. "come on, let's get back to our room."

he was quick paying his tab and then pulling you out of the bar, his grip tight as he laced his fingers through yours.

"shouldn't we get a car?" you asked him, skipping once to catch up to his quickening pace.

"no, we're not too far," he muttered back, eyes on the streets. "and i'm not particularly keen on capitol drivers anyways. they don't always take you where you want to go."

you thought on his words for a few moments before letting out a breath through your nose. "do you think-?"

"honey," he said, tugging your hand so you were even closer to him as he glanced at you with his best attempt at a smile. "not here."

you nodded. "sorry."

"don't be sorry," he sighed. "just be cautious. come on."

he was right that the hotel wasn't too far, just a block over actually, and soon you were back in your room. as soon as the door shut you pulled your shirt over your head, leaving you in a thin tanktop.

"what are you doing?" he asked with wide eyes, looking quickly at the softly blinking red light that was sitting in the wall light.

"being cautious," you whispered back, tossing the sweater onto the light over your shoulder and pulling him towards the bathroom. you raised your voice to normal level. "come on, babe, i need you alone for a minute."

he played along quickly. "we have been alone, sweet thing. what, you need a shower or-?"

"a woman has her needs," you told him with a light giggle as you shut the door behind you. he flicked on the shower and pulled the paper from his pocket, both of your eyes falling to it with dread.

grazzidei. 2239 w opaline row, concorde crest, capitol city, 99325. 4pm.

"that's the name of the man from the ninth party," you whispered. "the one dressed like a stock of wheat."

"the one i almost socked in the mouth because he made a comment about your chest?"

"that's the one."

"shit," he muttered. and then he yelled, startling you as he threw the paper at the sink and spun around to swiped at the shower curtain. "shit!"

the microphones definitely picked that up.

"haymitch," you said, grabbing his arm and sobering him almost immediately.

he just looked at you with an apologetic look in his eyes. "this wasn't supposed to happen. we were avoiding this, this was why we were doing this."

"it's not your fault," you told him as you resisted the burning of oncoming tears at the back of your eyes. you took a breath and shook your head. "it's not. he's trying to best us - he has bested us. snow gets what he wants. our appeal has lessened and people want what they want."

"well, they don't get to want you," he answered, shaking his head.

"haymitch-"

"you're not going," he said. "you're not. he doesn't win this time."

"haymitch-"

"you're not going!"

even he was surprised that he yelled, his hand coming up to drag over his mouth as he stepped back.

"i'll go."

"what do you mean? you can't-"

"not to grazzidei, to snow. he, uh, he wanted to speak with me earlier and i haven't gone. i need to speak with him."

"haymitch, i can't let you do that for me."

"well, you have to," he said, dropping his hands. "like you said, snow gets what he wants - most of the time. he wants to speak with me so he will. but you... he doesn't get you. not while i have a say in it."

"he'll hurt you, and the people you love, haymitch, gigi has told me-"

"he's taken everything from me already, honey, don't you see?" he breathed out an ironic sort of laugh, one that made your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach and crack from the pain threaded through the words. "you're all i got. and i don't exactly know how i got you, this whole thing has escalated real quickly, but i ain't losing you. i can't."

"you're not..." you stumbled on your words, trying to think of what to say that would comfort him, but falling short. "you wouldn't - you wouldn't be losing me. i'd still be here. i'd still be here with you."

"i'd lose you to snow," he said shortly. "and to grazzidei, and to every other capitol fucker who pays enough to spend a night with you."

"haymitch..."

"it's not happening. i agreed to protect you, this is me protecting you."

"by putting your life on the line?"

"he can't kill me."

his tone and his expression were dead serious as he stared at you.

and then he laughed.

"i'm too beloved. everybody loves me - if i died the public would be a wreck that he'd have to clean up. he wouldn't kill me."

"i don't like tempting fate," you told him, shaking your head. "it's alright, haymitch. i'm not upset with you. we tried and we failed and that's that-"

"you're not leaving this hotel room until i get back and tell you that you can," he said definitively. "promise me that you won't leave. give me a chance to fix this."

you hesitated.

do you let haymitch risk his life for you or just accept that this is your reality now and that this grazzidei man was going to deflower you?

"promise me," he pleaded, grabbing your hands tightly as he tried to get you to meet his eyes.

"promise me you'll come back," you said back, eyes on your hands as he squeezed yours tighter.

"i promise," he said quietly, pulling you gently towards him. "i'll come back, honey. always."

he released your hands to wrap his arms over your shoulders, hugging you into his chest as you returned the embrace tightly.

"okay," you mumbled into his shirt. "i won't leave the damn hotel room."

he breathed a sigh of relief, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "thank you, honey. i promise i'll fix this. this isn't allowed to happen. not to you."

[epickiya722]

"Gojo doesn't have panty shots"

I seen posts where people lose their minds over his FINGERS. If that man had panty shots...

[cienie-isengardu]

Bi-Han's animality & Ice Age

MK1 Bi-Han turns now into mammoth (seen for example here):

I assume, the reason behind such animality is due to its connection to Ice Age.

Shame then Kuai Liang and Tomas weren't made into saber-toothed tiger/Smilodon and sloth, because then we could joke about Lin Kuei bros being like Manny, Sid and Diego.

[yarnrocks]

s/o to that time I referred to the valkyries serving mead to the slain warriors in Valhöll as "the Hooters of the slain"

[skinnypaleangryperson]

Busting a lung because the whole Joker Arthur thing was cringe as piss all, despite being one of the most beautiful healing times in my life. Still embarrassing cringe as possible can be.

[uwuthomasuwu]

Anyone else see The Spider at the ass crack of dawn every morning but only when opening your right eye or is that just me?

[rustedleopard]

Considering how -- after running into Ogerpon at the festival -- the player and Carmine spent so much time with each other alone together while blatantly leaving Kieran out of their business of returning the teal mask, half of the drama about lying to Kieran in the Teal Mask DLC could've been avoided if the lie Carmine decided to go with was that the player asked her out on a date.

[shirajellyfish]

Kill your darlings? Wrong. Darling necromancy.

[autistickaitovocaloid]

Why in all those young adult romcom-esque books do they always make references to harry potter or some stupid shit when they could be talking about professor layton or half life instead

[trio-of-chaos]

//as a blog made purely for comedy, Amy will appear in any kind of - stakes just to make fun of everything, cause why not smile a bit while everyone suffers :D

[bietrofastimoff23]

*john walker liked it*

[orangeocelotmartyn]

Impulse's adventures in Tumblr

Scar: You get too deep in Twitter it gets scary. Impulse: I got too deep in Tumblr, I had to back off. Scar: (surprised) Ooh. Impulse: I started going down a-a little—Gem saw! Gem saw it happen. Gem was helping me with Tumblr and—and I started going down and she's like, "nope, stop. you gotta do a filter for that one." (he laughs) Scar: Uh oh. Impulse: I got a little too deep— Gem: Yeah, but seriously. You guys, y-y-you want to be on the Tumblr, but you don't want to be on the Tumblr, because—you don't have the right…attitude about the Tumblr! If you're gonna be on the Tumblr, you're gonna see the fandom stuff. And if—then you gotta be okay with seeing the fandom stuff. If you're not okay with seeing the fandom stuff, then you gotta let me set up your Tumblr! (beat) I'm personally okay with it all, I don't really care. Scar: (sounding like he's far away) What's the fandom stuff? Impulse: Like the shipping, and…stuff. Scar: Do they get into like, the rates on shipping these days? It's crazy.

Impulse: A-U? What do they call it, A-U? What's A-U stand for? Gem: Just, Alternate Universe Impulse: Alternate Universe, okay. Some of the alternate universe, I read some of those things, they're actually pretty cool. Gem: You shouldn't say that out loud. (Impulse begins laughing) Impulse: Oh, my bad. I'm not supposed to be there, sorry, safe place for you guys, I'm back out—I'm out. I-I didn't— Scar: I never venture to Tumblr. Impulse: Reddit was-Reddit was slow! Okay? If—listen. If Reddit's gonna be slow, I need an outlet for—(laughs) for my—(getting quieter) reading. Stuff. About myself. Gem: I'd be-I think Tumblr's fine, you just have to have the correct mindset. And you also shouldn't be talking about it on stream— Impulse: Yeah, my bad— Gem: —because it freaks them out, and then they start being weird. Tumblr's much better when they're just-they're just normal. Impulse: There was-there was plenty of normal stuff. I just-you can't go down the rabbit holes, I learned. (pause) And then people-people take—they take screenshots of me when I'm standing weird. (He holds up a picture to the camera) Scar: (starts laughing) What, wait what? Wait, hold on— Gem: Oh, wait, we can-we can tell about this. There-there was a Tumblr post that was, that was-that was pointing out all of the times that Impulse stood (Scar exhales a laugh) and-and-and yeah. Yeah, they-they were pretty pretty princess Impulse? Impulse: (talking over her) I stand so macho, what are you talking about (he laughs) Scar: I'm so confused, I-can I get a— Impulse: I literally had to work on my—stance, before Sunday because I saw something Saturday night and I was like, oh— Gem: It's very cute, it's very cute. (Impulse laughs) Scar: Can I see a photo? Impulse: I was pretty princess. Here, I'll bring it up again. Do you have my stream open? Scar: I wanna see it. Impulse: I'll find it again. Scar: Can I just say, can I just say real quick while he's doing that? Impulse—really swoled out. He looks like he could pick-pick up an ox. (Impulse laughs, clearly pleased) I really noticed it, like, Impulse-I see those guns, I was like, "this man could pick up an ox. If I fell on the ground, Impulse, one hand, could pick me up." Impulse: Thanks. Scar: O-oh my god, I just pulled up your stream, except there's an ad, so I just see it up in the little tiny box at the top— Impulse: Oh shoot—c'mon ads! Scar: —so it's even funnier. Oh, there it is. (he laughs delightedly) Little princess. Gem: Tumblr's so good, though, cause you just get to see funny stuff like that, and don't have to scroll through all the politics and crap that's on, like, X. Impulse: Mm. Scar: It's so bad, Gem. Gem: And Reddit. And is dead. It's just nice, I like seeing the fandom at it's purest form, please don't ruin it by telling them that you're on there. Impulse: Okay. Nah, I-I was just on there 'cause I, y'know, I was excited about the event. There was so many things being posted and stuff, I wanted to see—everything that was being said, about w-how people thought about the weekend, and favorite clips, and all that kind of stuff, I wanted to see it all, so I dipped into Tumblr. Just a little bit, just-just to dip my toes in, just a lil bit. I'm back out, I'm fine. I'll be alright.

Scar: But was it nice? Impulse: It was alright. Scar: Because it feels like Reddit, they just nitpick the smallest things, like— Gem: I don't find the Tumblr to be nitpicky at all. Th-they're more like a celebration of the fandom. Whereas the Reddit is like…hates the fan—hates-hates us, a lil bit. Lowkey. Scar: A little, there's a little there, there's a little there, it's—there's an enjoyment of nitpicking. They find the nitpicking more fun, and then Twitter, they're just confused over there. They don't know what's going on. (Impulse laughs) Gem: Tumblr definitely doesn't nitpick half of the—every now and then I'll come across a person who's like. A bit…odd. But you could just block that one person and it normally goes away. Impulse: I didn't understand Tumblr about—cause you can't see when something was posted. At least not on just the scrolling through, it seemed like. I didn't see anything that was like, "this was posted x amount of hours ago." And I'm used to that. So that felt weird to me. And then I didn't quite understand how, like, replies and stuff work. There's something about notes? And then I click on that and it got weird, and, I dunno. Gem: Oh, I can teach you, I can teach you that. Impulse: I just didn't get it. Gem: I didn't think you were going to be getting into like, actually posting. Impulse: I'm a boomer when it comes to—Tumblr. So I think—I'm okay. N-next time we hang out you can help me with my—filters. Gem: I think you should just pretend that you don't use it. Cause— Impulse: Yeah, just, I'm not gonna get on there ever again. (Windows error noise) Say what you want. Uh oh.

[mountain-lion-gremlin]

so i have a sideblog

as some of you may know

and i get the weirdest asks that aren't even related to what im asking people to please ask.

Always going off about their opinions LIKE

i literally saw that you didn't begin with the requested thing DELETE

Saw you going on about how much you hate DELETE

You just simply stating your absolute garbage opinion for no reason DELETE

I don't read them 😂😂😂

I literally skim them I don't care 💀💀

If I see that you are actually asking something important YES i will reply, but in the end I just don't care about what you have to say unless it's specific to what im asking

like my inbox isn't just a bulletin board Tumblr the content going out is going to be curated 👁👁

[pencil-n-pen]

I’M STILL TRYING EVERYTHING

⋆° 𐙚 ₊🧦☕🧸₊°⋆ ೀ₊°⋆

previous | kofi | masterlist

post prison!spencer reid x fem!reader

₊ ⊹

I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me.

-mirrorball, taylor swift

₊ ⊹

summary: you’ve never had a date or a relationship that either didn’t work out or end in disaster. now that you have spencer, you’re determined not to let it happen again

cw: referenced bad past relationships, very very vaguely referenced past domestic abuse that honestly could be taken a different way, referenced child abuse (readers parents are STILL not it) again this is a criminal minds fic so references to graphic violence

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort (do i even need to say this? you all know who i am) insecurity, like one line of misogyny and it’s in the past and not brought up again, spencer being soft n worried, HEALTHY COMMUNICATION, spencer is just as gone for reader as she is for him honestly he's just a sap

a/n: back by popular demand !! seriously guys, you have no idea how much the support and comments and reblogs and asks means to me 🥹 the overwhelming amount of love for the first fic made me so happy when people started asking about a sequel i knew i had to !!

read the crossword on the collage for a surprise :)

this one goes out to all my girlies who’ve ever felt like they needed to be less in order to get a boyfriend or keep one. we’ll have our soft love just the way it was meant to be

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Spencer is a really good boyfriend.

Like… a really good boyfriend. You’re not sure if this is how having a real boyfriend is or if Spencer is just like this.

He’s so good to you. He’s just so- so him. You can’t explain it. Can’t put it into words.

He’s very patient with you. You’ve never explicitly stated it, but he’s picked up on your previous relationship experience- or more accurately, your lack thereof. The morning after you’d gone home with him, night consisting of nothing but easy sleep and warmth, he’d asked you out for real. Asked you if you’d go on a date with him, and you’d agreed, a giddy smile fixed firmly on your face.

But you still worry.

All it takes it one conversation with your parents to push things over the edge.

“Yes, dad. He’s very good to me.”

A laugh crackles over the line. “I tell you, your mother and I never thought we’d see the day.”

The words twinge uncomfortably in your chest. “Hey, I’m not that bad. I’ve just been focused.”

“More like uptight.”

“Dad—“

“You know, you still haven’t come out to visit your poor old parents since getting this so-called cushy job. And now you’ve got this boyfriend. You’re too young to settle down. Don’t you think we should meet him?”

Sometimes conversations turn so quickly they leave you stranded— scrambling to pick up pieces of what you thought was going to happen and piece them together to make something new. Something for the new route the conversation has taken.

You couldn’t hold back your sigh if you tried. “We haven’t been dating for that long dad, I don’t want to spring this on him—“

“Sweetie, if we don’t meet him now, why might never meet him. Who knows how long he’s gonna stick around?”

(Sometimes, in moments like these, for just a split second, you wonder how a father could say something like that, to his daughter. You wonder why, wonder what you did wrong. And then, you imagine Hotch saying those same things, and you can’t, and it almost makes you feel a little better.)

Your blood runs cold. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“Well, you know how things have ended in the past. I’m just saying I’d like to meet him before he’s gone."

You don't dignify his words with a response.

"Come on, honey. I'm just joking with you."

"It's not funny."

"Don't be like that--"

"Goodbye."

You hang up, snapping the phone shut with a sigh.

The older you've gotten, the more conversations with your parents end up like this. You suppose it's the way you 'wasted your potential' or 'never made something of yourself.' They've always held resentment ever since you decided to become an agent. So you know not to take what they say to heart, because their words only come from a place of disappointment and displeasure. It's not a reflection of who you really are or what you've really accomplished.

Or at least, that's what Hotch told you when he'd overheard one of your phone calls. It meant more than you'd let on.

But your Dad's words linger in your head. They're irritating and sharp where they claw around in your head because they're true.

You can count on one hand the amount of romantic endeavors you've had. And from those, they all ended horribly. Your parents lost sympathy towards the end of your attempts, muttered words of needing to try harder to keep them, that you should be satisfied that somebody wanted you at all, that you should try to be less... you.

Try to be less... you, dear. The books and the facts- nobody wants those. Put some more effort into your appearance. Otherwise you'll end up all alone.

You'd tried to take their advice, of course. But the relationships that were fathered your parents direction were not loving. There was nothing soft or gentle or warm about them. You'd never felt more unlovable.

So when the incident with the shooter happened and you were lying on the lecture hall floor, blood coloring the carpet deep scarlet, you'd vowed to never let it happen again. That you were going to use your intellect and wit and passion for what you wanted to do- you'd promised yourself that if you survived, you would try to make your life your own, one step at a time.

This, of course, is easier said than done.

It's easy enough to refuse to let yourself get involved with men who are clearly only interested in your for your badge or your body --though the latter happens so rarely you really don't have to worry about it-- because you don't care about them. They're blips on your radar.

But Spencer? Sweet, sweet Spencer who makes you hot-cocoa and binge watches Doctor Who with you, even the later seasons, which you know he doesn't like as much but you love. Spencer who always has a grounding touch to offer, or a quiet command when you need him. Spencer who puts you first.

But there's a limit to these things, right? As far as you've seen, romantic relationship's are transactional, or conditional. Sometimes both. He can't just... keep doing this forever. It's too kind. Too sweet. It'll come to an end soon. Like, like the honeymoon era in early relationships. That's all it is. Plus, he's older than you, and you have no illusions about your unavoidable impulsiveness and naivety.

You've been told that your standards are too high before. "Struck by the hopeless romantic's arrow," your brother had said once, back when you were still in school, crying over a boy who'd told you that he didn't want to date you because you were too smart for a girl.

"That's not being hopeless romantic. There's no such thing as being too smart for a girl."

"There isn't," He'd amended, "But you're not going to have an easy time finding a guy. You of all people can't really afford to be picky."

He'd been right, in the end. So you're just... having a hard time figuring out how genuine Spencer's actions are. Guy's don't really act all romantic in the context of you. You've been told your whole life to be happy with what you get, and what you've had in the past is decidedly not lining up with how Spencer treats you.

It's a nasty little thing in your ear. Is it real? Does it matter as much to him?

When is it all going to end?

--

Rossi make's an offhand comment during a mission that you talk a lot when you're excited about the subject at hand.

JJ agrees. "It's a little unnerving when the subject is the bruising patterns of strangulation."

That little voice comes back.

Too much too much too much too much too much--

"It's useful," You protest, mouth dry.

JJ snorts, "I'm not sure about that. We need to know that the victim was strangled, not what happens to the body during blunt-force asphyxiation."

You'd grown quiet then, let the chatter and musings of the rest of the team wash over you.

Is that something Spencer finds annoying? You have always found things other's view morbid and disturbing fascinating. But JJ is right. No one wants to hear about that.

You brush the comment off, square your shoulders, get back on with the case.

Be better. Try harder.

You don't seen the furrow of Spencer's brows from where he's been watching you, or the quick look he shares with Hotch.

--

You'd never really thought about how clingy you can be before Emily makes an offhand comment about it while the two of you wait in line at a coffee shop. There's a couple in front of you, the girl all over her partner, kissing and giggling and hugging them close.

"Ugh," Emily groans once the two get their coffee and move on. "I could never understand the appeal of all that. I mean doesn't it feel stifling?"

A little stab of ice in your stomach.

"I don't know. I think it's nice."

"No, thank you. If I were her partner, I'd feel smothered."

You think about that conversation every time you take Spencer's hand or lean into his simple touches. They're invasive little things, the thoughts. It's not hard to pull back on all the touching. You never really ask for them in the first place- always too nervous to come off clingy. But you suppose just taking, taking, taking is just the same.

A quick shake of your head, not leaning in, a quiet "I'm fine." and that little nagging fear of smothering begins to quiet. It doesn't leave, but it does get quieter. For a little while, at least.

--

The hard part is trying to be less without noticeably being less. Spencer's smart- and he's a profiler. If you pull back too much too quickly, he'll notice, and you don't want to talk about this yet. You just need to make sure he'll stay. That things won't—

That you won't find out too late that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you.

That's the kind of thing that can't happen again. But ascertaining his true feelings and desires is difficult, because this is all kind's of new territory for you. You want to believe it's real. You really, really want to believe it's real.

But it's never been real before, so why would it be real now?

--

You've asked around (subtly and carefully, of course) about the type of girl Spencer's dated or drifted towards in the past. You know he said he wanted something soft and sweet, but you can't help but think that you're not really either, nor are you in line with his type. All things considered, you're a mess. Something tired-eyed and hollow is how you feel most days. Some sort of creature perhaps? You're honestly not sure what you are. You've spent your entire life being singled out or otherwise othered- always too smart or too different or too weird or too much or too loud or too quiet or too shy or too, too, too. Always too something. You have never been called soft or sweet. In a demeaning way, sure, but never with the quiet reverence that Spencer said it with that night.

It feels like a balancing act, a bit. Holding all those too much parts so close to your chest with one hand and shoving the ones you think Spencer wants with the other hand.

You could probably drop the one hand. The one holding the bad parts. But you're just not convinced he'll stay. You're not sure that he won't look at them with some form of disgust or pity or something else terrible.

You know the balancing act isn't sustainable— you'll fall eventually, and everything will come crashing down, but until then, you just keep trying. Trying to see if he'll stay, trying to see what to do if he won't. How to ensure he will, if that's something that's possible.

--

The act does not hold up for as long as you hoped it would. It comes crashing down with a glass. Literally.

You and Spencer are in the kitchen on a rare weekend off, cooking and drinking wine and swaying to some little old love song.

It should be perfect, except you're worrying that you look ugly while you're dancing, and you're probably singing off-key, and he maybe wants you to shut up so he can hear the song or dance in peace.

He reaches towards you and you just— your brain shrieks for a moment, all senses going into overdrive and you jerk backward, and your elbow knocks into your wine glass, and it falls, shattering behind you with a deafening crash.

Your entire body tenses, waiting for yelling or sighing or something, because you broke the glass, there's crystalline shards everywhere, the wine red and it looks like blood, maybe it is, maybe you're bleeding because the glass was really close to your foot when it fell but you're not sure because you can't really feel your feet or your fingers or—

"Don't move," Spencer says, voice serious, and tears well in your eyes, because this is when it all ends isn't it? "I don't want you to— honey?"

"Yes?" You croak.

His eyes are swimming with concern as he takes in your hunched shoulders, shallow breaths, and scared expression.

Understanding flickers in his features, and you resist the urge to hold your breath.

"Nothing is going to happen to you because of the glass, okay? Everything is fine. We're fine. I'm not mad. See? I'm not mad. I just don't want you to cut your feet on the glass. I'm going to clean this up and get your slippers, okay?"

"Okay." You breathe, voice hoarse. You wring your hands nervously as he leaves to retrieve the necessary supplies to clean the mess, heart beating so fast and so hard you're shocked you can't see it through your shirt.

He's not mad. He's not mad. You're not in trouble. Your parents aren't here. You're not grounded. You're not in trouble. He's not mad.

You're silent while he cleans, focused on getting your breathing under control while he babbles quietly about the history of glass making and the significance of types of wine glasses. The facts and history wash over you in steady waves, easing the tension in your shoulders bit by bit.

"I didn't think you were going to hit me, Spencer."

He continues cleaning. "It's okay if you did. I would never blame you for that."

"But I don't," You say, suddenly desperate, "I know you wouldn't, I've never been hit, not like that."

He's quiet for a few minutes. "Does this have something to do with how you've been acting recently?"

You freeze. "What do you mean?"

He looks up, leaning back on his knees. Making himself smaller, you realize. He's trying not to scare you again.

"You're dating a profiler. Also, I speak fluent you, and you've been chewing all your hangnails again. You only do that when you're stressed and pretending like you're not."

Your finger's twitch at your sides.

His hands come up slowly, and he rubs the length of your waist and hips. "We don't have to talk about it right now, but I think we should soon. I don't want you hurting all by yourself. You've had enough of that. That's what I'm here for."

He finishes cleaning up the glass, and finishes cooking dinner- he'd assured you he'd turned off all burners when the glass hit the floor, so nothing's burnt.

Once you've both eaten, he steers you towards the couch and wordlessly puts on Doctor Who.

The Pandorica is just about to open when you finally decide that if you don't start talking, you never will.

"My parents think you're going to leave me."

Spencer makes a wounded noise in his throat. "Why do they think that?"

"Because it's happened before. I'm, um. I'm not very good at getting into relationships. Or keeping them."

"But that's not your fault."

You sniff hard, rubbing your face with your sleeve. "It is though, isn't it? At least a little. I know I can be a lot. I know I'm not easy to—"

You cut yourself off, but the words hang in the air anyway; unsaid.

I'm not easy to love.

"Anyway," You say, pushing through the lump in your throat. "I just thought. I don't know. I was worried that you'd get fed up with me."

"No," He whispers, voice raw and full of something a lot heavier than fond. "No, no baby. I like that you're clingy and you ramble when you get excited, because it means that we get to talk about something together."

He shifts on the couch, sitting criss-crossed, ducking his head down to catch your gaze. "You know what else I like?"

You scoot over, mirroring his position. "What?"

"I like that you always know when I need you. Even when I don't think I do, you're there. Because I do need you. This isn't a one-way street."

His words hit you straight in your chest. "Oh."

He smiles, brows a little scrunched, brown eyes a deep pool of fondness and a splash of concern. "Yeah. And I'm thinking you need me a little more than you want to let on."

The seam of your pajama pants suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. Amazing, the wonders of a sewing machine.

"Maybe."

"Mmm," He hums, "So if I need you, don't you think that you're allowed to need me?"

Your fingers pick and twirl a loose thread around. "...Yes?"

A large, firm hand covers your thigh, giving it a quick squeeze. "Yes. Not only are you allowed to need me, I want you to need me. Cause you know how you're always worried about being the best girlfriend? Well, I'm always worried about being the best boyfriend."

That makes you look up. "Really?"

He chuckles again, a little puff of air fanning your face. "Yes, really. I assure you, contrary to your past experiences, this is one of those bare minimum things in a relationship."

"That does not," He continues, immediately catching the brief flicker of doubt and shame on your face, "Mean that it is your fault at all for how you were treated in the past. You wouldn't expect me to suddenly become an expert in veterinary medicine just because I've been to the vet's office a few times, right?"

"When did you go to the vet's—"

"Shh, I'm being a good boyfriend," He holds up a hand, lips quirking up when you can't suppress a tiny giggle, "But seriously. You had no frame of reference, right? And you were being told it was your fault. But it wasn't. You didn't deserve that."

He lets his words hang in the air for a little while and allows you time to process this new information.

"What do I do now?"

"Well," He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, curls tickling your forehead, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here. Just three things. You have to keep letting me need you, let yourself need me, and one last little thing."

"What?"

You're so close your breaths are mingling.

"Let me show you what this is supposed to look like. How a man is supposed to treat a pretty girl. His pretty girl."

"Oh, well," Heat rushes to your cheeks, your stomach doing flip-flops, "That sounds pretty hard. I don't know how I'll hold up."

His hand comes up to hold the side of your face, his thumb sweeping strokes under your eye.

"You say that now, but I know what happens to you when I get romantic. You swoon."

You laugh. "I do not swoon."

"You will."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It isn't a kiss-kiss. He's kissing you just to kiss you; just to let you know that he's here, that you have him.

It's sweet and perfect and exactly what you need.

--

Letting yourself need Spencer is marginally easier now that you know he needs you. Now that you know you're not going all in for someone who isn't.

He also starts needing you a bit... louder.

It's late evening, and most people have gone home except you and a couple other members of the team, all still working on paperwork.

Except Spencer, who's decided to drape himself over your shoulders like a cat, his chin resting on your head.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Either finished it or it can be done later."

You shift your shoulders, smiling at how his grumbles vibrate against your back.

He moves his head, pressing his cheek to your head instead of his chin, heaving a deep sigh.

"Your hair smells good."

"Like what?"

"You're shampoo. Yours always smell better than mine."

You continue to work through your paperwork, Spencer a continuous and solid weight against your back.

"Is this even comfortable for your back at all?"

"Doesn't matter. Need girlfriend time."

He can't see it, but you're sure he knows how hard you blush.

--

Spencer's cooking the two of you a late breakfast in the kitchen of his apartment, hair still all mussed from sleep. He's quite the sight. You can't stop staring.

You're sitting on the counter, still dressed in your pajamas, legs swinging.

"You wanna know something cool?"

"You know it,"

"Butterflies and moths can drink blood and tears. There's nutrients in them. Purple Emperor butterflies are especially known for this. It's called mud-puddling."

"So you're telling me I should make sure I bandage any open wounds before I go to a butterfly house?"

"I guess. I can't imagine they'd be able to drink enough blood to actually cause any damage."

"Maybe we'll have to go to a butterfly house. For research."

"Should we get dinner afterwards?"

"We'll deserve it, you know, for all the hard research we'll have done."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose so."

--

Spencer's bed is infinitely more comfortable than your bed. You're pretty sure it's a combination of the fact that it's the only thing in the entire world that smells so much like him and the fact that he spent part of his large FBI paycheck on a fancy mattress. Back support is very important to him.

You're doing a little reading before bed, shamelessly sprawled all over him while he does his own reading. You've got a leg hooked over his hips, the other tangled with his legs, and your arms and head pillowed on his chest. You move a little every time he takes a breath, and more than once you've paused in your reading, mesmerized by the feeling.

He shifts under you, setting his book down on his night stand and making himself more comfortable.

"Should I move?"

"No," he says, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to him, face pressed to the crook of your neck. He breathes deep, scruffy stubble scratching against your skin. "Like you close. Good for sleep."

Even with the lamp on, and your book in your hand, you fall asleep soon after him.

--

It's an ordinary evening for the two of you. Discarded dishes sit on the coffee table in front of the t.v, neither of you paying them any attention, wrapped up in each other and eyes glued to the screen.

You look up at Spencer who's watching Doctor Who with the focus of a man who's never seen it, even though you know for a fact he's seen it before, several times in fact.

"I want to know the things you like," He'd said simply, the one time you'd asked why he takes your nightly Doctor Who watching so seriously.

And tonight's no different. Tonight, he looks... well, he looks like Spencer. His face illuminated by the TV screen, his hair all mussed from you running your hands through it earlier.

And it just kind of all hits you at once. You know.

"I love you."

He looks down at you, his expression soft and surprised. When your words register, his expression is so sickeningly fond and happy you can't help but lean in, burying your face in his chest. He rubs your back consolingly, then presses a little kiss to the crown of your head.

"I love you too."

⋆⭒˚.⋆

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[hanasnx]

x gon' give it to ya.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: @fuckmyskywalker introduced me to the concept of talking to a pussy i think via an anakin smut post and it changed my life so i'd like to dedicate credit to the idea. WARNINGS: fem reader | sex in the suit | deadpool calls himself daddy ironically and talks to your pussy.

A deep groan reverberates from low in DEADPOOL's throat. "Baby, I can't believe how good you look right now, seriously never looked better." he praises, commending the space between your legs as she's stuffed full of every inch of his dick. Another inexplicable thing about his mutation—he grew.

"'Talking to my pussy again, Wade?" you scoff, amused and breathless as you rock back on him, tossing a glance at him over your shoulder. Your spine is in a deep arch over the bed, and the nine inch heels you're wearing are the only reason you're able to compete with his height bent over like this.

"She needs to know what a good job she's doing otherwise she'll get discouraged. Poor thing needs a lot of love." he refutes your judgement, however playful, lovingly stroking the flesh of your ass with his glove. "Give us some privacy, please. Jesus." he tsks, shaking his head at you while you bury your face in the mattress. If his dick wasn't yanking your brains out along with it, you might have more to say. He turns his attention back where your bodies conjoin. "Thank God I put zipper on this thing. Who knew a onesie would be such a hassle to take a piss in?" The sounds of the room are filled with him running his mouth and your cunt's wet responses when he pulls out and shoves back in. "Now look at us." A particularly moistured sound squirts out, and he laughs knowingly, like your hole's said something entertaining at a tea party. "Zipper makes it too easy, you know? We've gotta stop meeting like this, maybe next time we can just sit and talk—"

"Wade!" you giggle, banging your fist onto the mattress. "Just fuck me, already!"

"Don't worry about her, she's just jealous." he tells your cunt, "You and I have something special, don't we? 'Specially when Daddypool says to christen the suit." A wave of wetness wells up from his comment, and he gasps in pleasant surprise. "Oh, you like that, you dirty thing. Next time I crotch-shot a bad guy he'll smell you all over, is that what you want, you freak? C'mere, I'll give you something real to leak about." Big rough hands grip on your hips, slamming into you so hard your ass ripples from the effect, and your happy pussy gargles around the dick it chokes on.