#I'm kind of just saying words recreationally by this point

[recklessracoon]

I think that both Kokomi and Kusuo would be miserable in the traditional gender roles for a married couple (Kokomi would be horribly understimulated in the role of a homemaker and is notably bad with children and I don't think that Kusuo would enjoy being around the amount of unhappy people found in your average corporate environment) but feel obligated to uphold them because Kusuo wants to be normal and Kokomi feels obligated to live up to some feminine ideal. Ultimately though this is not that hard to overcome with some introspection and a honest conversation since they'd both be a lot happier if they just swapped so Kokomi could pursue a career that lets her put her high charisma and interpersonal canniness to good use and Kusuo supporting her as a househusband and covertly helping to dispose of any obstacles she faces as a career oriented woman.

Honestly the much harder to overcome obstacle for them as a married couple is their diametrically opposed relationships with attention where Kokomi really likes it and seeks it out and Kusuo, despite his repressed show off tendencies, avoids it to a pathological degree because he's learned to fear it from his past bad experiences. They can't both have it their way and because Kokomi might as well have a giant neon sign saying "pay attention to me!" pointing at her at all times, it would be very difficult to work out a comprise. Kokomi shouldn't have to give up the limelight that makes her happy (and probably wouldn't even really ever be fully able to) but Kusuo shouldn't have to be dragged into it more than he's ready to be either (especially since his fear of attention isn't entirely irrational).

#sorry that this post is sort of all over the place #I'm kind of just saying words recreationally by this point #my saiki k posts #saiki kusuo no ψ nan

[yanderu-deredere]

Can I get a uhhhhhhh..... Ryouta and his darling having sex under influence? In his profile you mentioned that it's one of his kinks. Maybe a scenario where they share a joint, darling is a giggly and relaxed mess and Ryouta can't help feeling frisky.

a/n: I WAS HOPING SOMEONE WOULD ASK FOR THIS hehehe of course you can! i was literally kicking my feet and giggling when i saw this ask come in!

warning: recreational marijuana use written by someone who does not recreationally use marijuana LOL, dub-con? kind of, gender neutral reader but there is mention of an entrance

ryouta watanabe ★ profile

Honestly, you didn't know how you got roped into this.

One moment, it felt like you were just curiously asking Ryouta why he smelled weird sometimes. The next moment, you were on Ryouta's couch, the two of you pressed a bit too closely against each other.

You watched curiously as he pulled out a weird device. He stuffed what you assumed was marijuana and then spun a little thing on the side before putting a piece of thin paper into it and rolling the thing on the side again.

Suddenly, out popped a joint.

"I'm shit at rolling by myself so I have that." He answered easily enough, something between a smile and a smirk playing across his lips.

You nodded eagerly, eyeing the joint he know held in his hands both curiously and cautiously. It was glaringly obvious that you'd never smoked before, even if you hadn't told him.

"Here, why don't you light it for me, darling?" Ryouta glanced at the rather fancy dragon themed golden lighter that was way closer to you than him.

You nodded again and grabbed it. Unlike most lighters, it was easy to press down and, when you did, the fancy dragon head at the top let out a little flame.

Ryouta held the joint between his lips and leaned over, holding the tip of it over the fire. You couldn't help but flush a little when you noticed how close it made him.

When the thing was sufficiently lit, he leaned back but not before wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you impossibly closer.

At this point, you were half in his lap! And that thought just made you feel even more flustered.

"You want to try?" He offered as he pulled the joint away with two fingers and you watched as a trail of smoke followed after it.

You were a little mesmerised by the whole thing (and surprised by how handsome it made Ryouta) but you still felt a bit hesitant.

Ryouta seemed to immediately notice this because he just smiled at you easily "Bit intimidating?"

You felt a little like a bobble head with the way you kept nodding at him, the words you wanted to say not exactly forming right in your mind.

"This is pretty strong." He flicked the join a little before taking a quick hit "Why don't I show you a fun way to smoke it? Something that won't be as bad."

You fidgeted a little with the lighter in your hand, not exactly lighting it but just turning it over and over in your head. Hesitantly, you decided to acquiesce "How?"

"Just inhale."

You opened your mouth to ask for clarification just as he took what seemed like a longer hit. Before the words could leave your mouth, however, he leaned close, his lips ghosting over yours, and he blew the air straight into your mouth.

Your brain seemed to short-circuit but, almost automatically, you inhaled just like he said.

"Good darling."

It might've been his words or, maybe, it might've been from how you'd quickly sucked the smoke in but you coughed, head reeling and your mind feeling a little light.

In your coughing fit, you didn't notice how Ryouta's fingers started sneaking up your top or how he started rubbing circles into your skin.

All you could focus on was the rather dizzying feeling taking over you and the way Ryouta chuckled, all deep and smooth.

Oddly enough, you couldn't help but join him, your giggles chirpy and bubbly.

"Take it slowly." He advised you and, before you could say anything to that, he was taking another large toke.

This time, you were ready. You looked eager to please as your lips parted for him. You breathed in slow but deep. That lightheaded feeling returned two-fold but you couldn't find it in yourself to hate it.

Just looking at you, so pliant and obedient, made Ryouta hard in his jeans.

You leaned into him this time, your shoulders bumping against each other's and your cheek practically pressed against his "This feels good."

Then, you giggled at your words as if they were the funniest thing you'd ever heard in your life.

Ryouta nodded, an idea slowly forming in his head as his hand travelled from your hip forward to your bare stomach, his fingers ghosting over you in a way that both felt soothing and ticklish.

"I could make you feel even better, you know." He mentioned off-handedly.

His words made you perk up a little "Uhh-huh, how?"

"You want me to make you feel good, darling?" He asked before taking another long toke of the joint.

Your lips easily parted for him like the two of you had been shotgunning for years and the eager way you kept taking it from him only strengthened Ryouta's resolve.

He pulled you flush against him and you giggled as you shifted, your entire body now sideways in his lap. It surprised him how much he loved the feel of you like that, how you fit almost like a puzzle piece in his arms.

His head swam a little, though he didn't know if that was you or the weed. Sometimes, being with you felt like a high and it was the kind he thought he'd never get enough of.

Your soft fingers pressed against his cheek, pulling him out of his thoughts. You giggled again and, like a sixth sense, he knew what you wanted. Ryouta took another large inhale, breathing it out right into your parted lips.

Unlike before, though, he didn't immediately pull away. Instead, he put the joint down on an ashtray and pressed his lips firmly against yours in a rather messy kiss.

You returned it easily, your grip on him loose like you couldn't exactly control your body. In fact, your arm just laid across your shoulder, the other arm limply wrapping around his neck.

Ryouta's hand at your stomach dipped under the band of your bottoms and underneath your underwear, fingers easily finding your entrance.

Without hesitance, he started to work you open, fingers pressing slowly deeper and deeper into you. It made you gasp into the kiss and, almost immediately, he used it as an opportunity to slip his tongue in.

Before, your felt lightheaded. Now, though, this was an entirely different thing all together. Ryouta's every touch felt like it tingled and his kiss felt like it was making your mind swim. You couldn't focus on a single thought. All you could do was revel in his touch.

That was just amplified two fold as he fed finger after finger into you, two of them scissoring inside you, pressing against the parts of you that made you keen.

"That's it, darling. Good, good." He pulled away from the kiss far enough to mutter against your lips, watching as your eyes, pupils blown and gaze uncertain, seemed to roll into your head.

Ryouta rut his hips against your thigh, lips moving from yours to your neck, leaving searing biting kisses there.

Before long, your pliant soft body curved, stiffening as the most earth-shattering orgasm wracked over you.

You seemed to twitch from it's after-effects and all Ryouta could do was watch you, cock hard in his jeans and eager to see you do that again and again.

Without taking his fingers out of you, he used his free hand to pick up the joint again. I mean, a few more of those wouldn't hurt, right?

#yandere oc x reader #yandere x reader #oc x reader #yandere #male yandere #male oc #drabbles #lemony content #ryouta

[max1461]

Broadly agree with your response to WN anon but not really sure "influential and respected academics don't actually want to genocide you, they are just embedded in social structures where their peers (presumably other, slightly less-influential academics) think talking like you want genocide is 'cool' and a source of 'clout'" is going to be terribly reassuring to many people. You seem to be damning your own position with faint praise.

Well I'm saying what I think is true; I don't think it's damning to my position, but if the truth were damning to my position then my position would be no good, so saying what I think is true would be correct anyway.

In any case, what I think is that academics in certain fields (not all fields, not most, but certain fields) gain clout by sounding "radical" or "revolutionary". This has its roots in, like, the bourgeois appropriation of Marxism or whatever, but it manifests in whatever they are talking about. That's just a thing that they do.

But it's frankly really obvious that it's just words, at least to me. Like half of these academics are white men anyway, they don't actually believe all white men are evil and blah blah blah in a way that matters, because they clearly don't behave as someone would if they thought their very existence was bad. It's self-serving, self-flagellating shit. And it isn't even new! Christians have been doing the "all humans are evil, oooh we must repent" shit for two millennia. That didn't stop them from making more Christians!

Slavoj Žižek, who is often full of shit but is occasionally insightful, has a good point about why people do this. By self-flagellating in this way, you actually gain a kind of rhetorical ground. You get to posture as caring so much about the needs of others that you would advance them even against your own self-interest. If someone is really fucking credulous, this makes you sound very ethically serious. People doing this is not new, the fact that it happens along race and gender lines these days is a quirk of America's present neuroses.

But anyway it's all a big self-serving game, it's plainly evident these people don't believe it; as I said I've talked to these people and they don't believe it (or, more accurately, they believe it but have redefined all their terms so that the thing they believe demands no sacrifice on their part, basically making it meaningless. Which is also what most Christians have done!).

The sooner one realizes that much of human society is just people saying words recreationally, the better one's understanding of the world will be.

#anon #society

[bardofavon]

⏳ and 🧠(for whichever character you prefer) for the writer/fanfic ask game please

⌛ How long does it take you to write a fic, or a chapter?

Okay this answer is going to make me sound insane but it actually only takes me about 2 hours on average to write a 1.7-3k word chapter. The main problem I have though is getting the inspiration to actually sit down for 2 hours and write it. I spend all week thinking over in my head what I want to happen and then I just sit down and it pops out fully formed, but the struggle is if I sit down and nothing pops out I have to wait around until it does. I think the longest it's taken me to write a chapter took me like...6 hours in one sitting??? but the longest time stretch it took me to MOTIVATE myself to write a chapter was that long period last year where I went a couple of months without updating, but I also wasn't actively thinking about it and engaging with it as much. I'm at the point now where because I think about it, talk about it, engage with it, add songs to the playlist, read comments to hype myself up, etc. it's easier to sit down and crank something out because I've already sort of got what's going down floating around in here.

It's ALSO a lot quicker for me to write if I have SOMETHING from the next chapter written, even if it's just a few sentences or part of a scene, because then I have at least some idea of where to go from there so if I write 2k words in one sitting it's usually 1.5k words from the chapter i'm about to post and 500+ words for the next chapter. and then next time i sit down to write i'm finishing that week's chapter and starting the next one. and any time in the meantime that i wake up in the middle of the night and jot down stuff or put things in the notes app in my phone it's just a bonus.

🧠 Pick a character, and I'll tell you my favorite headcanon for them.

I'm actually pretty bad at talking about headcanons for some reason??? When someone asks me my brain freezes up but I definitely have them because I supplement my stories with them, it's just kind of an "it comes up when it comes up" kind of thing but I also don't really engage with the fandom or fanworks so I don't really get the osmosis finding and collecting cool headcanons from other people kind of thing either (also i'm a bitch and most of the time when i read a headcanon my brain goes 'yeah we read different books because MY kaz would NEVER' like a total asshole). because i write mostly in an AU things that i pull out of my ass that aren't explicitly mentioned in canon aren't headcanons in my mind, they're just canon to the universe i've created.

i think if i had to say one i would say that the darkling just doesn't listen to music. he has never once considered like...listening to music recreationally. if he is throwing a party and there is music there it is only because socially that is what is expected of him. even if they were in the modern day i can't ever imagine him pulling up spotify and listening to some tunes.

fanfic writer emoji ask

#writing asks #ask meme

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

It's Delicate: Part III

Summary: Spencer Reid finds himself at a gas station at 2:00 am, thinking he’s only leaving with a cup of crappy coffee. But something taped to the door catches his eye. Spencer leaves the gas station with more than he intended: the chance at a friend, and maybe something more along the way.

Word Count: 3.9

Author’s Note: Here's Part 3!! This was super difficult for me to get out, but I think I'm happy with it. I rewrote it like 3 or 4 times

It's Delicate: Part III

Spencer notices everything. He’s been trained to notice the slightest change in his environment. He supposes that his profiler training has helped him be more comfortable in social situations. But still, Spencer feels like a fish out of water as he pushes the door to the bookstore open. He knows he should feel at home when he’s in a bookstore, but his heart seems to be racing. Spencer tries to quiet his nerves before he can feel himself running away.

Thinking that it might be a good idea to distract himself, Spencer walks over to the bookshelf filled with books from the floor to the ceiling. He runs his fingers along the spine of the books. Some are old and used, and others are well cared for with their enabled and embossed writing on the spines. He recognizes some titles, but others aren’t too familiar. There’s a whole world of books out there that Spencer has yet to explore. There’s a couple other patrons in the store, an older woman who sits on the soft rocking chair in the back corner and a young woman who already has a pile of books tucked under her arms.

Looking around, Spencer walks towards the back of the store where a glowing sign directs him to the restroom. He goes into the Men’s Room and locks the door behind him. Spencer looks at his reflection in the mirror. He wouldn’t consider himself a vain man, nor would he consider himself aloof about his appearance. He’s very much aware of the deep lines that collect around his eyes and the dark bags underneath. Spencer runs his fingers through his hair, wondering if he should have gotten a haircut. He likes the way his longer hair looks. It took so long after getting released from prison to get his curls back. His hair is the one part of his physical appearance that Spencer can say he likes; the rest he’s a little less than indifferent about on a good day.

Spencer shuts the light off in the bathroom and heads back to the front of the store. He approaches the store clerk, who sits behind the counter. She’s talking with the young woman who had the pile of books tucked under her arms. Spencer looks around the store, trying to find a sign for where the book club meets. He realizes that he doesn’t even know what Y/N looks like. He decides to take out his phone to text Y/N that he’s here. Spencer walks to the short stories section of the store and looks for the “P”s. Once he finds the book he’s looking for he takes a photo and attaches it to the message.

Spencer: How have I not discovered this place sooner??

He doesn’t expect for Y/N to text him back right away, so he tucks his phone back into his pocket. Spencer walks to the front of the store. The display highlights the books of the month with different authors, genres, and themes. It’s a quaint little store and Spencer wonders why he put off visiting so long. The young woman finishes with the clerk and brushes past Spencer, her face buried in her phone. Spencer walks towards the shelves of True Crime books. He sees Rossi’s latest release about the Golden State Killer. Before Spencer can pick up the book, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

Y/N: Ooooh a man after my own heart :) I’m guessing you’re here too

Spencer: Yes...I just realized I don’t know what you look like?

Y/N: Well, I guess that means you have to find me

Spencer looks around at the patrons in the store. The older woman and the younger woman seem like the only logical candidates. The young woman doesn’t look up when Spencer brushes past, her attention is intently focused on the book across her lap, while the older woman swipes on her e-reader.

Spencer: You know I could just call you and your phone would ring

Y/N: That’s like cheating

Y/N: Turn around

Spencer turns around and is greeted by the young woman who brushed past him before. She smiles up at him and Spencer can’t help but grin back at her. He didn’t really give much thought to what Y/N looks like, and he can only hope that she didn’t think too much about him in that way. Spencer has to stop himself from that spiral, and remind himself that it’s not a date.

“You’re Y/N?” Spencer asks, hoping that he doesn’t sound too nervous.

“Yes, and I really hope you’re Spencer,” she says, “you’re nothing like I pictured,”

Spencer’s face must have shown his shock because Y/N’s hand comes up to gently touch his upper arm in an attempt to quell his worry.

“No, nothing bad, Spencer. You just text like a grandpa so I figured you were a lonely old man. I’m just surprised that you’re pretty...young is all,” Y/N finishes her voice climbing up a couple of scales making her nerves evident.

Spencer nods in agreement, used to people thinking he’s older than he actually is his entire life. He supposes that’s because of his intelligence coupled with his social ineptitude.

“Well, judging by your texting, I predicted that you would be around my age, or younger,” Spencer says he’s always had difficulties keeping conversations going, yet right now his mind is swimming of different things he can tell Y/N.

“So you ready for your first Book Buddy meeting?” Y/N asks. The corners of her mouth turn upwards in a playful smile. Spencer likes her smile and grows disappointed that the only time he’ll be able to see it is when they meet together. As much as he is technology adverse, he wouldn’t mind being able to see her smile through her emojis and snarky messages.

“I’m still not too sure what we’re supposed to do, but at least I’ve got you to show me,”

“Come on Book Buddy virgin,” Y/N says winking at Spencer as she walks past him to the staircase that leads to the store’s basement.

Spencer tries to ignore her comment, but even with his brain power he can’t stop his ears from turning pink. He’s always blushing around people who listen to him, especially when those people are so enthralling to watch.

In the basement, there’s shelves and shelves of books lining the walls. A couple of couches and sofas are tucked in the corner with a table and lamp. The soft light is warm and inviting. Spencer’s eyes can’t help but to scan the various titles in the collection. Y/N flops down on the couch and taps the seat, signalling for Spencer to sit next to her.

Sitting down next to her, Spencer wonders how much space he should put between them. He doesn’t want to sit so close and have her think he’s only here to make a pass at her. Nor does he want to sit so far away, because the scent of her peppermint and eucalyptus perfume threatens to mesmerize him.

Y/N brushes her hair from her face with her right hand, that’s adorned with a ring and a couple gold bracelets. She looks over at Spencer apprehensively and he tries to give her a comforting smile back, but he’s afraid that he just looks awkward. He suddenly is very aware that his breath tastes like stale coffee and his hair is wild, pointing out in several directions.

“So Spencer,” Y/N says, “usually we meet in a big group to do these Book Clubs, but this year the store decided to do this Book Buddy thing. Reading and picking out books for someone can be a very personal thing, so I’d like to get to know you a little bit better if that’s alright?”

Spencer’s eyes steady the woman before him. She looks over at him, her eyes never breaking from his. Psychology shows that holding eye contact is a sign of confidence, for a litany of reasons, Spencer has always had difficulties maintaining eye contact. He sighs loudly. It’s almost a mix between exasperation and confusion. Even though Spencer has spent a good portion of his adult life surrounded by very forward people, he still feels slightly nervous when he comes across those types recreationally. Especially when those types seem to have smiles so contagious that they throw every scientific study on germs out the window.

“You want to know about me?” Spencer repeats. He can feel his ears flush, and is thoroughly reminded that he hardly knows who he is.

“Yes, I want to know all your salacious stories Spencer,” Y/N says with a sly smile.

Spencer chokes out a strained laugh before he tries to think of an answer. He can’t remember the last time someone wanted to get to know him. Or maybe he does, and just wants to pretend that those memories died with her. But he can’t, because they are painful and real.

“I’m an FBI Agent, uh the Behavioral Analysis Unit specifically. We track down serial killers and other time sensitive cases,” Spencer says, used to giving the speech about his job on the rare occasion he does talk to another lonely soul at a random bar in a city.

He looks over at Y/N, ready for the reaction he usually gets. Sometimes it’s pity, other times it’s awe. But it all tastes the same with a shot of whiskey.

“That must be an incredibly exhausting job, Spencer. It takes a special kind of person to do that,”

That’s strange, Spencer thinks. Her words aren’t full of pity or awe, but almost understanding. It’s strange, but Spencer likes strange things, after all.

“It is,” Spencer says. He doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with useless words that he knows are stale and meaningless. Somehow the silence doesn’t feel awkward.

“How long have you been in the FBI?” Y/N asks. She’s curious, but cautious to proceed and Spencer appreciates that.

“Since I was 22. I’m 34. I’ll be 35 soon,” Spencer says, still not fully believing that he’s spent nearly 13 years at the BAU.

“22, that’s a baby. I didn’t think that the FBI would recruit that young,”

Spencer grimaces, realizing that sooner or later this conversation would arise. He figured it would have come up when he got through the books in an hour or two. Spencer hates having to tell people about his intelligence. He never wants to make someone feel inferior about themselves because of his brain chemistry and genetic lottery.

“I’m kinda smart. Technically I’m a genius but I really hate that term. The idea behind intelligence testing has a very sexist and racist background. Besides, I don’t think true intelligence is accurately quantifiable,” Spencer tells her, repeating his speech usually reserved for arrogant detectives.

“That sounds like something a genius would say. You’re a humble genius. That’s a rare breed, Spencer” Y/N says, that contagious smile turning up the corners of her mouth and threatening to take over Spencer’s.

“I think that’s a compliment,” Spencer says “what about you? Tell me about yourself?” Spencer says, trying to remember the points of the conversation books he used to read as a kid in hopes of making a friend.

“Let’s see, you already know the boys. I don’t have any siblings and my mom lives in Florida, so we don’t see each other too often. I’m a Funeral Director in Alexandria, took it over after my dad passed a couple years,” Y/N says.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Spencer responds. Y/N smiles again, clearly a little tense to be talking about a sensitive topic.

“So Second Cat, I take it you’re a Poe fan,” Spencer says, holding to help ease into a more pleasant conversation.

“I like his short stories the best, but Emily Dickinson poetry will always have my heart. There’s something so ordinarily beautiful about the way she writes. She was so brilliant. And her and Susan, that’s a tragic love story,” Y/N finishes. She plays with the hem of her jacket absentmindedly almost like she wants to say something more.

“I first read “The Tell Tale Heart” when I was around 5,” Spencer starts, he rests his elbows on his knees to tell a story and he can’t help but feel a little excited when Y/N leans in a little closer to listen in, “I checked it out from the library and brought it home to read. Now it just so happened that I got a chemistry set. I will not incriminate myself but I may or may not have used the set as the directions intended,” Spencer says, holding up his hands in innocence.

Y/N scams him with a calculated stare, it’s not mean or judgmental, but cautious and careful. It’s like she’s deciding if she can trust him or not. He supposes she does when she winks back and says, “I’m sure that’s true Agent Reid,”

“It’s actually Dr Reid, but I’ll get there another day,” Spencer says quickly, eager to get back to his story, “so the chemistry set had some chemicals, the kind that won’t hurt kids. But I stole some sodium chlorate from the local gardening store and a pack of gummy worms from the Mini-Mart. Then I got back home and took out the chemistry set. I drop some of the sodium chlorate and gummy bears into the test tube and it starts to glow!” Spencer says, his voice gets excited when he remembers the experiment. There’s very few happy moments of his childhood, and this is one.

Y/N, listening to him eagerly, wears an excited expression as Spencer continues with the story. He’s forgotten what it’s like to have someone so interested in what you have to say.

“How does Poe fit in?” Y/N asks. Spencer’s fingers make a “1” as if to tell her to be patient.

“So I do the experiment and there’s pieces of molten gummy worms in my hair and on my clothes, but then I hear my mother walking up the stairs so I panic,” Spencer says, he’s an animated storyteller and Y/N is a captivated audience. He tries to not pay close attention to how her eyes hardly leave his or how they seem to be looking at him with wonder. But it’s hard to ignore that when you’ve never been looked at like that before.

“I scramble into my bed and shove the experiment under the bed, and it’s still smelling like burnt chemicals and gummy worms, mind you. And I pretend to read, but I’m reading The Tell Tale Heart, which you know is about a man who’s trying to cover up a terrible deed but literally shoving it under the floor. You know I think my 5 year old mind exploded that day,” Spencer says, he leans back so his head rests against the wall.

“It must have made quite an impression on you at what 5? How on Earth did you read Edgar Allen Poe at 5 years old? I didn’t read that until like Freshman year of high school,”

“I told you I was kind of smart,” Spencer replies, hoping that it would suffice.

“Yeah, but like a child prodigy that must have been very lonely,” Y/N says in a voice that tells Spencer she knows a thing or two about being intensely lonely.

“No one ever says that,” Spencer says in a hushed tone, “no one ever gets that it’s a lonely thing being a genius,” he finishes, putting air quotes around genius to show his discomfort with the term.

Y/N nods, “I’m not a genius by any means, Spencer, but I was an only kid. Part of me thinks it’s my fate to lonely,”

“I’m an only kid too,” Spencer says, “when I asked my mom why they didn’t have anymore kids she just told me why mess with perfection. I know it was meant to make me feel better, but part of me wonders what it would have been like to have a built in friend,”

“Tell me if I’m overstepping, I tend to do that, but do you want kids?” Y/N asks, she twists a ring that’s wrapped around her finger over and over like it’s a bad habit. She looks at him, expecting an answer, from the corner of her eye.

“I did,” Spencer says in a quiet voice, terrified that he’ll reveal too much to this enticing woman with eyes that never seem to want to look anywhere, but his.

“So did I,” Y/N tells him. Her voice mirrors his in it’s guarded, yet scared to reveal too much tone. Spencer is too busy hiding his own worry to recognize Y/N’s.

“I was thinking,” Spencer starts, determined to end the stale silence that settled between them, “of what book I thought you’d like. It’s actually a personal copy of mine. I had know clue how these things work, but I thought we could write notes in the margins. You know our thoughts and ideas about the book,”

Y/N gazes over at Spencer intently, as if she’s trying to think of how she’ll respond. Spencer notices the way Y/N pauses to think before she speaks, he tries to subdue the profiler training that ebbs to the surface, but he can’t control what his instincts tell him. He knows that Y/N is holding something back, but then again, so is he and who is he to judge.

“You’re okay with writing in a book?” Y/N asks, “I know that could be touchy for some,”

“Most of my books have little writings in the margins. I always thought that a book is a love letter from the author to the reader. You get to see inside their mind and to me that’s incredibly personal,” Spencer says, rubbing his palms that grew sweaty on his pants. It’s useless, because they just slide off.

“Well, you’ve convinced me, I brought a book too, but it doesn’t have notes,” Y/N says, “but if this works out, I’ll do it next time?” Y/N asks him, the hope in her voice apparent.

“I’d love nothing more than that, Y/N,” Spencer says, wanting nothing more than to reach out and brush his fingertips against Y/N’s. Her hand keeps on creeping closer to Spencer’s, he thinks that she’s trying to send him a signal, but Spencer feels too wounded, too raw to take that first big leap.

“So,” Spencer starts, he decides to clasp his hands together to avoid this new predicament, “what book did you decide on?”

“Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro, it’s one of the few books that is perfect,” Y/N says, putting emphasis on the “perfect,”. Spencer thinks that he can grow to be eager to wait each week for the hour or so he’s able to watch Y/N speak with such passion and love.

“I’ve heard about, but I generally read technically books and other that it’s mainly just books that aren’t in English,” Spencer tells her, he rummages through his bag, looking for his book for Y/N.

“Close your eyes please,” Spencer says, he hides the book behind his back, he smiles as Y/N’s absurdly contagious smile grows.

“Come on Spencer, I don’t like being teased,” Y/N whines, faux pout and all.

Spencer grabs her hand and guides it to the cover of the book, The Goldfinch. He lets go of her hand; his practically stinging from the way her fingertips pressed up against the back of his hand, even though it was only for a couple of seconds.

“The Goldfinch” Y/N says, “ooh how on Earth did you know I love Donna Tartt?”

“Lucky guess, I suppose,” Spencer says, a surge of confidence bolstering him enough to wink at Y/N.

Spencer watches as Y/N flips through the pages of her book. Spencer read it a couple of weeks ago and loved the way the author intertwined the mystery to create a riveting story. Spencer checks his watch, realizing that nearly two hours have passed since he and Y/N sat on the couch.

Just as Y/N goes to say something, Spencer’s phone rings, ripping him from his modest paradise. He gives Y/N an apologetic look and mouths “work” as he steps away from Y/N.

“Reid,” he says, he forgot to check the caller ID, a little too excited to finish this call and get back to Y/N.

“Is that seriously how you greet your favorite person in the world?” the voice, presumably Garcia asks.

“Garcia,” Spencer says, unable to hold back his slight annoyance.

“I know it’s time off, but I guess like male serial killers don’t respect women, they don’t respect our time off either,” Garcia quips.

“I’ll be there in 20, I’m out and I’ll need to get my go bag,” Spencer tells her, preparing for the inevitable.

“I know exactly where you are, Spencer. A little birdie told me you’d called him in panic. I really hope your lady friend appreciated your lavender shirt,” Garcia says. Spencer can hear the click of keys as she talks.

He rolls his eyes, but knew that this was to be expected, “Later, Garcia,” he says, hanging up the phone call. Spencer walks back over to Y/N, whose face is buried in the book. She twirls a pen in her right hand, like she’s thinking about what she’ll write in the margins.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N, but I have to cut this short, work emergency,” he explains to an Y/N understanding Y/N, who nods her head.

“Don’t worry, text me that you got home safe, please,” Y/N tells him, looking up at him with genuine worry in her eyes.

“I promise, Y/N. I’ll see you soon,” Spencer says, grabbing his book and making his way up the stairs. He reaches the top flight when his phone buzzes.

Y/N: I mean it :)

Y/N: It was nice meeting you officially….

Spencer reads over the messages as he walks, replaying the interaction in his head. It’s strange to have someone care if you make it home say. The only people on Earth, besides Spencer’s mother, that care if Spencer makes it home are the people that risk their lives with him as well.

Spencer shoots a quick message back.

Spencer: I promise and I hope you like the book, it’s very special to me.

Y/N: I’m sure I’ll love it! Now go save the world :) :)

Spencer smiles to himself as he reads the message, amazed that her contagious smile can make its way through the string of code from his smartphone. As he drives off, Spencer thinks about the way Y/N actually listens to him or the way her hair sees fall perfectly into place. He thinks about her laugh and the way she almost makes him feel safe in the short time he’s known her.

But all those good thoughts amount to nothing, when the biggest thought on Spencer’s mind revolves around the shiny ring that sits on her left hand on the finger between her pinky and pointer finger.

A wedding ring.

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Thank You For Reading

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fluff #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid comfort #spencer reid x reader series #criminal minds fanfic #it's delicate #spencer reid it's deicate

[greaseonmymouth]

For the commentary thing: "You just say things, and it feels a little like I'm standing under a waterfall except the water is your feelings." Emil stroked his thumb alongside Mickey's bottom lip. "And the water just keeps coming." [When in Naples]!!

okay! in bullet points because otherwise this will be all over the place!

(link to fic on ao3)

First of all: standing under a waterfall is dangerous as hell. Don’t do it. You can easily slip and be dragged under and drown so just, don’t. That said, some smaller waterfalls are used recreationally and some water parks will have artificial waterfalls for the same reason. Massage and all that, and the steady pressure can have the same effect as a weighted blanket, etc. It’s great.

Second: Emil is the danger baby of YOI. He likes extreme sports! He has probably tried to stand under a real waterfall and lived to tell the tale.

When I wrote this, it was kind of meant to be the culmination of Emil’s hangups with the relationship - in Come to Naples he’s the one who takes the initiative to start it, but at the same time he doesn’t really know what he’s doing (neither of them do), but he wants. Then in the interlude I put in the first seeds that maybe Emil wasn’t 100% comfortable and then in this fic, we see that Emil, while obviously being in love and wanting the relationship, also showcases all the signs of wanting to back out a little. He wasn’t entirely prepared for the intensity of the relationship or Mickey’s feelings (he likely was envisioning a more casual thing, esp since they’d have to do long distance) and it’s all very overwhelming and dangerous like…standing under a waterfall. He doesn’t feel like he’s drowning, but he feels like if he makes a small misstep then everything might go wrong.

Sorry Emil, I’ve made you low key panic for like 30k. I’m so sorry.

(Also, they were literally about to try out a new way to have sex, something a lot more invasive and fussy than what they’ve done before, and Emil was super nervous about it because what if he did something wrong.)

(Sorry Emil.)

The other thing is his choice of words, which…is maybe a bit too poetic for his personality :“D other than Seunggil Lee I think Emil is possibly the least poetic of the skaters? Sorry dude, but the one skate we see is not only ugly as hell, but the theme is literally "I’m a superhuman robot”. I did debate with myself whether to edit the analogy out and have Emil be more straightforward, like he usually is, but in the end I kept it because:

It’s an analogy that draws on personal experience

When having difficult conversations analogies can make it easier to put in words what one is feeling/thinking/trying to say, both in a way to visualise it, but also in a way to “coat” the words in something else and soften them a bit. It’s easier to say “your feelings are a waterfall” than “I don’t know how to deal with the intensity of your emotions and this relationship is progressing much faster than I expected or am ready for and maybe I’m also having a lot of intense feelings that I’m not ready to face just yet so I’m just going to project all that onto you”, right?

He is a figure skater, and part of that is reinterpreting music or choreography or themes or whatever and make it something else, or your own. It’s what he does for a (a not very well paid) living, and maybe occasionally that way of thinking transfers into how he expresses himself with words.

I mean, he literally said to Mickey earlier in the fic that he’d like to be proposed to with a full on choreographed skate all special-like, so like, he’s really not a man of words. Actions, though. That’s his jam.

To finish: when Emil said that, that was supposed to be his climax and cathartic moment that would let him relax and enable him to progress. It’s after they’ve had this chat that they proceed with their actual plans for the evening (buttsex!) and Emil actually manages to laugh about their missteps instead of panicking about them (also a clear counterpoint to the only other smutty scene in the fic: Emil freaking out about Mickey choking on his dick :“’’D), and by the time he has to leave a few days later he’s okay with making grand gestures of commitment (e.g. asking for Mickey’s shirt).

#eatingfireflies #meme #emimike

[alantixa]

I'm just venting honestly don't even read this

Yo guess who got insulted the most they've ever been in their life today? Me! I met this psychiatrist today and whenever I tried to tell her about anything that I had experienced/that had happened, she would interrupt me and/or tell me that whatever experiences/feelings I had weren't real and that I didn't actually have the problems that do and basically treated me like I had never even met myself before. I wasn't telling her my deepest and most true feelings, and while completely ignoring the fact that this was the first time I had ever met her and also that my father was in the room, which makes me uncomfortable, which we told her, she goes on to tell me that there was no reason to even come if I wasn't going to tell her things. She further goes on to tell me that symptoms that I had (that I was not even seeking treatment for because I no longer have them and therefore didn't want to talk about) that I KNOW are not related to my anxiety are. After ten minutes, we convince her that the symptoms were not related to anxiety and then she tells me that I'm autistic (not that there's anything wrong with being autistic, but I am definitely not), not saying that I even MAY BE autistic, but that I AM autistic (remember, this is within the first half an hour of meeting her). She then insists that I'm autistic and just starts talking to my father, telling him symptoms of autism, which he is very much aware of since it runs on his side of my family and my brother has it, and he continues to tell her that those are not symptoms I have. He then tells her that I am self aware and that she should trust how I describe things and she says that she doesn't like to trust the patient to tell the truth because she thought I was avoiding a diagnosis (which I wasn't? Why would I go to her if I didn't want a diagnosis?). I tell her that and she basically tells me that I AM hiding from getting a diagnosis by not telling her about my true feelings (again first 45 mins of meeting her at this point) and then she talks for maybe 10 minutes about this test that is "rather unreliable" that she would use heavily to diagnose me, that basically tests things for autism (which I have, according to her). Finally she moves on to talk about my depression/dysthymia. She asks me about it and I tell her I have dysthymia, which she asks me to explain. While me and my past therapist kind of worked on figuring the whole thing out together, I used my own words and feelings to describe it and I did a kind of graph type thing. After she tells me how weird it was for a kid to use a graph and how it was the "weirdest" description method she has ever gotten from any of her clients, she continues to tell me that I don't have dysthymia and that I was fed those lines from my therapist. And then she talks about how I "definitely feel emotion physically" and how I need to learn what emotions are and face them actually and figure them out as if I am not a human with emotions, despite the reason for bouncing my foot was because my shoe was broken and it hurt to step down on it, she starts talking about how I need to try meditation. I tell her I've tried X Y Z and so on of breathing exercises/meditation things, she looks upset, and says that I couldn't have done meditation the RIGHT way then. And I start to tell her that I know there are many forms of meditations and how I use music as that sort of thing, she interrupts me and asks me if I have anything I'm particularly interested in in school and I say that it's more about the environment than the class, and that I do sing and play guitar outside of school as well. She again looks very confused and angry and says that I meant that I have a special interest in music and I respond and say not particularly, it's just something that helps me destress because i get in the zone and it helps me clear my head, and she says that that can't be right, it must be a special interest of mine if I do it recreationally and ughhhhhhh I really don't wanna tell the rest but fuck doctor fish she was so nasty to me

#ignore this #sorry #rant #tw for dysthymia mention I guess? #also for rude psychiatrists