so im working on a painting of Scarland atm based on one of Scar's screenshots, and there was something bothering me about this bench
i was struggling to draw it because it wasn't aligning with the minecraft logic within my brain!! and i suddenly realized what was wrong- why was a TRAPDOOR, which can only be at the top or bottom of a block, IN THE MIDDLE??
(reference vs my 4th attempt, oh my god it wasnt going well i even gave up and made them full blocks)
and then it hit me. the entire sidewalk is raised one slab, and the sides of the bench are not upside down stairs but rather a NORMAL stair with a SLAB ON TOP!!
which allows scar to place the trapdoors at a PERFECT height, not on the ground, not an entire meter up, but a perfect 3/4 of a meter up where it ACTUALLY LOOKS COMFORTABLE TO SIT ON???? and also making the sides of the bench stick up without sticking OUT from its height??????
Goodtimeswithscar is an absolute master of his craft i swear to god this is just ONE DETAIL that he somehow made work SO PERFECTLY GOOD AAAAAAAAAARGH
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do you have anymore pregnant bombshell!reader🥹🩷😭 ilysm, please stay hydrated
—Spencer comforts you when you feel like you aren’t yourself. pregnant!reader, 1k
It’s neither hot nor cold in Maryland that day. The work isn’t particularly strenuous, just threadbare, and the team are in good spirits. You’re fed, watered, and well-rested. Spencer spent an hour before work massaging your legs while you both watched TV on the hotel couch. You should be in great spirits.
But for some reason, you aren’t.
You don’t know what it is. Your chest hurts, maybe. The sun is bright above you, your feet ache in your heels. You’re thinking you might have to switch to converse and match Spencer if this continues. The sidewalk clicks below you with every footstep, a little rush of confidence in the sound, but it isn’t working the same.
You’re really not feeling well.
You stop walking. You like to believe it takes Spencer a shorter amount of time to notice you’re stopped than he would anyone else, but his chattering fades out of hearing range for a second before he comes running back. “Hey, what?” he asks, quickly panicked.
“What?” you ask back.
“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he says. “Hey, come and sit down. Let’s sit down. Here, we passed a bench.”
Spencer leads you to a wrought iron bench, encouraging you down with two kind hands to the shoulders. The metal is cold. You try to save face, worried that he’s worried, but there’s a dull aching behind your eyes that needs a lowered head. You drop your face into your hands.
“Hey,” Spencer whispers, crouching in front of your knees.
“Sorry.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, rubbing your thigh. “Huh? What’s wrong, baby?”
Spencer doesn’t use very many pet names, not half as many as you do, but when he does they pack a punch. He says it with all the tenderness of a confession, and it rolls off of his tongue as though he’s been calling you baby all your life.
Tears well in your eyes.
“Do you know what’s wrong?” he asks.
You shake your head tightly.
“Is it a pain? Does something hurt?”
You shake your head again.
Spencer meets your eyes with patience. “Okay,” he says, darting up to kiss your jaw as he stands. His foot slides between yours, his one leg between yours, the other outside as he wraps an arm around you. “Tell me if I’m making it worse.”
Your head races with tearful thoughts. You’re tired and weird and you’d needed to sit down, but Spencer being nice to you is making you wanna cry.
“I don’t feel very well,” you say, a hot tear breaking through the hedging of your bottom lashes.
He can hear the uncertainty in your voice, his hands swift to placate you, his cheek pressed to your hair. “It’s okay, I promise.”
“We have to get back to the station.”
“No, we have to stay here until we know what’s wrong.”
“I was thinking about how my feet hurt, and everything does, and– and–” You squeeze him by the waist so he can’t leave. “Being pregnant is so hard,” you cry.
Spencer sighs into your hair. “Oh, angel.”
He rubs your back and administers some soft shushing as you shudder through tears. You didn’t realise it until you said it, that this awful feeling was inside, all the hormones and the fatigue.
“I know it’s hard,” he says, “but please don’t cry.”
“I don't like not being any good at it,” you splutter.
“What?”
“I want this,” you say quickly, “I do, I want you and the baby and I’m so happy but I miss feeling like–”
“Wait, nobody said anything about that.” He ducks his head down to smile at you. “I’m not stupid, I know what you want. You never do anything you don’t wanna do.”
“I miss feeling put together. I’m not good at being me and being pregnant at the same time.”
He takes your cheek into his hand. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but it’s not true,” he says, stroking his thumb along the line of your under-eye.
You press your face to his chest. He keeps his hand there wedged between you, the other behind your back still. He murmurs to you softly, it’s okay, it’s alright, you don’t have to be upset, until your tears slow and your head is pounding but clearer for his touch. You hold your breath as he tips your head back, knowing you look even worse than when you’d begun.
“I know it’s hard feeling out of control for you,” he says, voice dulcet, tone measured, “but you’re still just as perfect as the day we met. You don’t feel that way, but it’s true. And you’re so beautiful.” He couldn’t sound more in awe of you, then, his lips curled into a smile he can’t bite back. “Don’t think you aren’t. You’ve always had this aura around you and it hasn’t gone away. You walk into a room, and people just know it.”
“Know what?” you ask, sniffling.
“That you’re amazing.”
You can tell from his slight squint that he's aware of how saccharine a sentiment it is. You struggle to care, letting out a tired sigh as the warmth of his lips sinks into your cheek.
“What should we do? Do you need to go back to the hotel?”
“My feet hurt,” you mumble.
You arrive at the precinct a terrible, inexcusable thirty minutes later than you’d said you’d get there, with a sweet baked good in a bag and Spencer’s converse on your aching feet. You’re smiling, to Spencer’s obvious relief. You feel better.
“Sorry,” he apologises to Hotch. “My fault.”
Hotch nods agreeably. “Yes, it is.”
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