#it has only been a week but I'VE MISSED YOU

[parfaitblogs]

fresh out the slammer ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer reid comes home from prison, and needs to fulfil everything he has missed about you. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut & comfort (18+ mdni) tags: post prison!reid. soft dom!spencer. teeth might rot i was cringing during some of this. established relationship. the briefest of breast play because what do i hate? the word nipple! fingering. p in v. no protection is mentioned but imagine what you will. casual nudity afterwards. spencer's got bruises from prison. i lowkey forgot about his thigh wound until the very end.  word count: 5.7k a/n: there's a completely different version of me in a world where i didn't write this. i hope she's doing well. i feel like i've been reborn. this is stupidly long LOL my apologies. pleaseee tell me if you liked this! or if you didn't! i love feedback! here's my monthly smut fic see you all in october!

Three months wasn't a long time, in the grand scheme of things. A quarter of a year usually went by too quickly for anybody's liking, the year sprinting through seasons until all twelve months were complete, and you were repeating it all over again. Usually. Three months without Spencer Reid, however, went by achingly slowly. And you hadn't originally considered just how agonising they could be. 

Each day was another painful mirror of the last, waking up and going to bed with the same sense of dread in your stomach, oftentimes swallowing you whole and leaving you unable to do just about anything at all. 

Living life without Spencer Reid was hard.

You saw him — of course you did. Despite his original efforts to keep you off the approved visitors list, Penelope Garcia had seen one glimpse of your heart shattered expression upon being told, and marched her way to the prison to slap sense into him. You weren't sure if that was metaphoric or not. 

However, seeing him once every other week and living with him were two very different situations. You hadn't realised just how much you had depended on him always being there when you woke up in the morning until you were waking up to cold bed sheets and a pillow clutched petulantly to your chest in hopes of recreating the warmth only Spencer could provide. 

And then he was free. 

From prison, that is. You hadn't heard it all — information about his time in prison had been kept from you in an attempt to protect your own peace of mind. But you knew from at least the bruises he was always sporting no matter when you went to visit him, that something awful had happened to him in there, and his own brain would keep him imprisoned for as long as it wished. 

But he was free.

And he was here, and you were staring up at his face littered with unkempt facial hair and a head of untreated curls, and regardless of everything horrific he had endured brewing behind his eyes, he was staring at you with the same softness he had before any of this happened. 

Despite the beginning of a protest when you wrapped your arms around his torso, you hugged him, and he hugged you, and even the faintest smell of grime and blood couldn't stop you from gripping onto him with so much force you thought your knuckles would break. 

"You're real," you whispered into his chest, muffled by it, and it shook beneath your face as he laughed, quietly. Beautifully.

"I am," he answered, and you could feel him crushing his own facial features into the top of your head, no doubt inhaling your shampoo. "You're real."

"Yes," you confirmed with a nod.

Maybe hours passed, perhaps only minutes. Whichever it was, you were still reluctant to pull away from him until he did, your face stained with tear streaks you don't remember shedding, his own eyes glassy as your gazes met. 

"You don't want to talk about it, do you?" you asked him, walking backwards as you led him out of the doorway you two had been finding solace in, and further into the apartment space you were ecstatic to share together again. 

"Not particularly," he answered, strides catching up to you and encasing your waist between his hands, tugging your body closer to his own. "Is that okay?"

"As long as you promise not to keep it in," you replied, teeth chewing into your lower lip in a contemplative habit. 

"I have counselling at work," he said, and you nodded, your facial features softening only a little — you knew him well enough to know he wouldn't enjoy said counselling sessions. Breath tickled your lips as he leaned in a little closer, inciting heat onto your cheeks. "Any other questions?"

"No," you replied, your own lips twitching in amusement. "That's it. Why?"

"Because I haven't kissed you in three months," he murmured, "and I want to."

"Maybe," you said with a hum, and he said your name chidingly, eliciting a laugh from you. "Yeah. Okay."

To be honest, you had spent a few too many nights allowing your thoughts to wander and end up dreaming about what it would be like to kiss him again. Whether or not either of you would have the patience to be gentle and kind to one another. In those nights, you had decided you would be. Your heart cracking every time you thought of Spencer alone in a concrete cell that it left you with a gaping hole in your chest. All you really wanted was to hold him and remind him how adored he was. 

Right now, you learned you wouldn't be. 

There was a tenderness in the way his hands found your cheeks to cup, and there was a softness in his fingertips against your skin. Yet, everything he kissed with was anything but. Feverish and quick, swallowing you whole and inspiring a spark in your chest that resulted in you kissing back just as hungry. 

Just when you thought there was nothing left to trigger within him, a squeak left your lips as the result of him tugging you impossibly closer, and he was beginning to walk you backwards, even further into the apartment, his kiss growing all consuming. 

"Spencer," you said, breathlessly, jerking your head back, staring at him, waiting for him to realise you weren't returning your lips to his, and his eyes opened. 

"What?" he asked, almost irritatedly. When he watched the slight flicker of hurt flash on your face at the tone, his own expression became gentler. "I'm sorry. Is something wrong?"

Immediately, you shook your head. "No. I just wanted to check how far you wanted to go," your hands travelled up to his hair, fingers scratching gently against his scalp. "I know there's a lot going on up here."

"Actually, right now it's just you," he said, tilting a head to the side to lean into one of your palms. "It's mostly you all the time. But right now you're consuming it."

"I make such an impact on your life," you quipped. 

"I know you're teasing, but you do," he replied, fingers tracing up and down either side of your jawline, eyes searching each small detail on your face he had no doubt already memorised. "I survived in there for you."

"Oh."

Probably not the most eloquent response for the things he had just confessed, but truly your brain had scrambled within an instant, and you weren't sure what to say.

"Sorry," he said, hands stilling on your face. "To answer your question, I don't know. I really missed you."

"I know," you said when a gaping silence followed his words. "We don't have to."

"I think I want to."

Your eyebrows furrowed. "You can't think, Spence. You've gotta know."

"I've definitely said that to you before," he chided, thinking for a moment, before, "yes. I did. First time we had sex."

"Sue me for repeating important sexual advice to you, Spencer Reid," you huffed. He laughed. 

"No, I mean, I do. Want to," he finally replied. "I'm really scared of hurting you."

"Do you want to hurt me?"

"No."

"Then you won't," you reassured him, despite knowing whatever doubt he had in himself would not be resolved just like that, and it'll probably eat at his mind for a long while. "And even if you do, I won't be upset with you." When his face scrunched and his expression mirrored judgement, you stammered to clarify. "Not in a kinky way. Don't look at me like that, Spencer. Stop it. I just meant I'll understand. And I won't be mad."

"Didn't take you to be into masochism," he mumbled, and you groaned at his selective hearing, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, that shook with his laughter. "Kidding, honey. I know what you mean."

"Not funny."

"It was a little," he countered, a hand reaching up to entangle within your hair to pull your head back, gently, so he could look at you again. 

"Hi," you said when your eyes locked once more. 

"Hello," he answered, his lips pulling into a smile. "I'd like to kiss you again."

"You've used up your kiss for the day, actually," you replied, sweetly beaming up at him. 

"Quiet," he shot back, leaning forwards and allowing his lips to brush hesitantly against yours, eyes searching your own with an added hint of desperation. "Please?"

You pretended to think for a moment too long, because he was already mumbling something that sounded a little like 'brat', and pressed his mouth to yours once more. 

You couldn't complain. 

It was the same intensity as earlier, and yet there was something in it that differentiated the homesickness of the kiss from then, and the desperation now. Large hands — that you would probably allow to encase you whole — pathetically held your face lightly, hips knocking with yours as he walked you backwards and up against the back of the couch. 

"Spence," you whimpered embarrassingly, hands clawing at the sleeves of his suit jacket, trialling and failing at tugging it off his body. 

"I got you, sweet girl," he mumbled against your lips, not breaking the kiss for even a second as he helped you, shrugging the jacket off and allowing it to fall to the floor — something he will certainly chastise himself for later. 

"Bedroom," you said, in between heavy breaths and feverish kisses. A request he was more than happy to comply to, for he had nodded, and you were instantaneously tugging on one of his hands in the direction of the room, his eyes fixated on your body as he trailed behind. 

"Missed you so much," he murmured as he tugged you back towards him the second he had kicked the door shut, lips finding the corner of your mouth, then your jawline, then your neck, as he kissed down you. 

"So you've said," you breathed out, tilting your head to the side as he gently nipped at the skin. 

"Do you get off on being mean to me?" he chided, lifting his head to look at you again, and your heart stuttered. 

"No. Just that dominance act that it brings out," you murmured, attempting to keep the mood light. Successfully so, for air huffed out of his nose as his lips twitched, fingers that had dropped to your waist squeezing it gently. In unresolved doubt, you added, "I missed you too. Don't worry."

"I'm not," he replied, and the weight lifted off your shoulders. "Lie down."

"So demanding," you teased, though his tone was anything but firm.

You were met with an unimpressed look, and you merely grinned back as you climbed onto the bed, sitting cross legged atop it, staring up at him expectingly.

Instead of moving over you like you had expected, he crouched at the foot of the bed, holding his hands out on the mattress in front of you. Needing no more than the simple gesture, you untangled your legs and stretched them out in front of you, and he tugged you down towards the end of the bed, breath hitting the skin of your thighs deliciously. 

"I'm supposed to be making you feel good," you argued when his fingers trailed up the sides of your legs, finding the waistband of your pyjama shorts.

"Why?" he questioned, halting his movements as he searched your face. 

"Because you're the one who just got out of prison," his face scrunched at the verbal reminder. "Sorry. But... yeah. I have thought about making you come the day you got home like daily."

"Oh have you?" his eyebrows shot up, and it was then that your brain caught up to your running mouth, and your cheeks heated up. 

"Nope. Forget I said anything."

"No," he pushed himself up from the floor, moving his body over yours on the bed, successfully forcing you to lie back. "Tell me those thoughts."

"Spencer," you moaned, shaking your head as you buried your face into your hands, that he was a little too quick to catch and pry away. 

"I'm not going to judge you," he said, amused. "In fact, I aspire to know every single thought there is up in that pretty head of yours. Especially the ones about me. Please tell me."

"I just thought about making you come. There's nothing more exciting to it."

"Yes, but how?" 

"My mouth, I guess," you mumbled, voice going impossibly quiet. "I don't know."

"You're acting like you have never given me oral," he said, catching your gaze within milliseconds of you averting it, thumb and forefinger straightening your head again. 

"Nobody says oral, Spencer. Say head," your own face now scrunched up. 

"Lots of people say oral," he defended. 

"Yeah, old people. We are not old people."

"Fine, you're acting like you have never given me head." 

Despite it being a jab at him to take the heat off of you, the phrase coming out from his lips sounded exceptionally vulgar for what it was, and it only resulted in your stomach flipping. 

Finally, you regained some control over your own thoughts, and you found it in you to reply. "That's what I want to do. Because I want to make you feel good."

"You underestimate how much I gain from making you feel good," he countered, fingers lazily caressing the skin of your jaw as his eyes studied your face with an intensity that had your stomach flipping. 

"It cannot be as good as an orgasm," you huffed, stubbornly so. 

He nipped at your nose. "It is."

"Can we compromise?" 

"So you don't want me to give you oral?" his eyebrows rose. 

In every other situation, you would not be fighting him on this. In fact, he would probably have already gotten his foreplay of teasing and teetering you on the edge out of the way by now, and you'd be well and truly content. However, the forefront of your mind was still plagued by how little time Spencer had to take care of himself, and the last thing you needed him to be was at your service. Despite his protests. 

"Head," you corrected. "And no."

He searched for remnants of a lie for a few beats longer, before he nodded his head, giving in. "What's your compromise, honey?"

"I don't think there's a sexy way to say to just put it in me," you said, and his lips curled up into an amused smile, followed by a huff of laughter. 

"No, I don't think there is," he agreed. "I do think anything you say can be sexy, though."

You pulled a face, and you shook your head. "No. Don't say that ever again either."

"I can't compliment you, I can't give you ora—head," he rattled off. "Is there anything good I get out of this?"

"You get to fuck me?" you batted your eyelashes up at him. 

"Such vulgar language," he chastised, ducking his head when a hand of yours rose to swat him. 

Despite himself, his head had dropped to the crook of your neck, and he had begun placing feather like kisses along the skin that distracted you just enough to drop your hand back to the mattress beneath you.

Any other day, and you'd probably still be bickering with him until the minute he made you come. However, three months without even the faintest of touches from him left you overwhelmed with everything he did to you, and so the gentle kisses trailing down to the collar of your shirt were enough to destroy any coherent thoughts you could have. 

Cautiously, and with a touch so delicate, Spencer lifted your — his — shirt up your abdomen, fingertips leaving behind the warmest of trails as they skimmed along your skin. One quiet whine from you was all it took for him to hurry his teasing along, and soon enough your shirt was discarded. 

A quiet, sharp inhale of air was the other sound aside from your quickened breathing, and you felt tears sting your vision as another kiss was placed just below your now exposed collarbone. 

The time without you seemed to weigh nothing in his mind as he took every inch of you in separately, lips mapping out your body like it was the first time all over again, though still knowing exactly when to pause and pay attention to for the sweetest of sounds to be ripped from your throat. 

He liked to hear you. 

Fingers found your waist as his lips kissed down your sternum, then back up and over until they reached your nipple. He spent time on each breast, ignoring your impatient whining as he neglected the rest of you for a few minutes too long (in your opinion).

"Spencer," you scolded, and it was all it took for him to accept you were not in the mood to wait, and for him to decide he wasn't either. 

"Sorry, honey," he replied, voice impossibly soft as he returned his lips to your face, a kiss pressed to the corner of your mouth as his fingers found your shorts again. "Can I take these off?"

"I think we're incredibly out of balance," you replied. And though there wasn't really anything wrong with the sentence — you had certainly said it before — he still pulled back, an unrecognisable grey clouding his eyes. "What?"

"I want to keep my shirt on," was his response, the words inciting confusion to your face. 

"What? Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

You wanted to scream that yes, he did. But did he? Wordlessly, you shook your head, but it didn't help the pang of worry in your chest. 

"Unless there's something like an embarrassing tattoo, I'm not going to judge you," you decided to say instead. "Did you get an embarrassing tattoo in prison?"

"No," he shook his head, and you were comforted by the amusement in his tone. "I didn't have the best time in prison."

"I know," you replied.

"And I wasn't very liked. By the men in there."

You knew that too, to an extent. You knew the bruises on his face weren't self inflicted. "You're liked by me."

"I know, sweet girl," a heart shatteringly sad smile stretched across his face as a hand lifted to your cheek. "It just isn't very pretty. And I don't want you to worry."

Well, now you were. Regardless, you nodded your head, turning your head to the side so you could kiss the palm of the hand on your face. "I won't worry, then."

"I want to keep my shirt on. Can that please be okay with you?" 

Silently, and after a debate inside your brain, you nodded your head. Gratefully, he pecked your lips once more, before his focus shifted back to you and your body. 

"Shorts. Can I take them off?" he asked, again.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

His fingers collected the fabric of your shorts' waistband, and gently pulled them down your legs, cool air washing over you despite the final leftover article of clothing on your body. You shivered, and you could hear him mumbling nearly incoherent apologies as he kissed your stomach.

"These too?" he then asked, eyes flickering between your face for confirmation, and the pair of underwear you still had residing on your body. You nodded your head, and he pulled them down too.

You do not remember a time ever fearing being naked beneath Spencer Reid's gaze, and that did not change even now, as an arguably different man drank in your entire body, the love he had for you not having wavered despite the passing of time. 

And you certainly did not fear the way one of his hands slid up your leg, seemingly soothingly, until it teetered on the edge of too far up the limb to be innocent, and he was intensely watching your face for every reaction you could possibly make. 

Achingly gently, his middle finger ran up the centre, collecting arousal you hadn't realised was there and knuckle gently bumping your clit, eliciting a quiet mewl from you. You watched him smile at the sound, dragging his finger back down, gathering more of your arousal until he was pushing the finger in.

Your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling oh so familiar, and yet seemingly foreign all at once. Too long, you decided then. Three months is too long.

Leaning back down, his lips brushed your jawline, the otherwise odd sensation of there being something — someone — inside of you balancing out with the pleasure that came from the comfort of it being him. And of course the delicate circles his thumb had begun to draw on your clit. 

"Did you do this while I was in prison?" he asked you, lips moving against your skin. 

"Touch myself?" 

"Mhm."

"Yeah," you said, voice breathless. "Was never good, though."

"No?" he asked, curling his finger inside of you and tugging a louder moan from your throat. "Why not?"

"Just never felt as nice. Not like you."

"Oh. I'm sorry, angel," he murmured, pulling his lips away so he could look at you again. Though, your eyes were still planted shut. "I'll make up for it then, yeah?"

You feverishly nodded your head, and he laughed. Fulfilling his promise, he sped up the motions of his finger and thumb, your hands grabbing ahold of fistfuls of the sheets, in hopes that it will provide some comfort from the overwhelming feeling of Spencer touching you again. 

"Can I add another finger?" he asked, and though slightly hesitant, you nodded your head. 

He waited a beat longer before fulfilling your request, and there was something obscene about how easily another finger entered you. Though, Spencer thought it was pretty, and your back arching was pretty, and yes, he had missed this and he had missed you and he was biting his tongue from telling you that all over again. 

"Spencer," a delicately breathy whine left your lips when the heel of his palm collided with your clit — thumb long forgotten once he had gotten distracted with thrusting fingers in and out of you. 

"Hm?"

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his, the kindest smile on his face reminding you just how much he adored you, and your heart sporadically beat in your chest. When you didn't say anything else, he quickened his ministrations, eliciting more whines and moans.

"Is two orgasms too much for tonight?" he asked you, the question seemingly innocent regardless of both it's undertones, and what he was currently doing to you. 

In hindsight you should've probably said yes. It most certainly would've hurried things along to something he would enjoy as much as you. However, if Spencer Reid fingering you was a religion, you were an eternally loyal follower, and you would do anything to keep him there for as long as you could. 

So you shook your head, murmuring a quiet, "No. I can do two," and allowing him to fasten his fingers once more. 

Fingers found and massaged that spot inside of you he had probably engrained into his brain, and he was leaning down to swallow the loud moan that followed from the feeling. Practiced motions tore the same sounds from your throat as he repeatedly brushed up against it, until your eyes were forced to squeeze shut once more, and hands that were once seeking solace in the sheets, found his wrist and wrapped around it. 

"I can't move if you're going to keep my arm locked up, angel," he said when your nails dug into his wrist, lips smiling against your skin. 

A few short jerks of his hand convinced you to let go of the death grip you had on him, instead returning them to the mattress.

Then he was doing that motion again, and again, and you were silently praying he would never stop. Although, if your moans were any indication to where you were at — and they were — Spencer wouldn't. 

Your hips bucking told him more than he needed to know, and the absence of his body above you when he lay down on the bed next to you was long forgotten when a splayed hand on your abdomen pushed you back down into the mattress, your heart stuttering at the feeling. 

Gentle whines of his name, and a repeated mantra of 'please, please, please' was the only thing your otherwise dismantled brain could come up with, and Spencer was relishing in the knowledge that he was doing this to you. And though it is something he knows he's done before, it had been far too long since and the reminder was always welcome. 

"I know, sweet girl," he said against you when your eyes came open and searched his desperately, walls fluttering around his fingers indicating just how close you were. 

"Please don't stop."

"I won't," he confirmed, punctuating the promise with his thumb returning to your clit. He had your best interest in mind — you knew that. He now wouldn't stop even if you begged him to. 

Overwhelming seemed too insignificant of a word to describe what you felt like when you came, nerve endings all over your body sparking, instead of just the ones he was stimulating. 

His thumb rubbing circles and his fingers thrusting in and out of you didn't falter until your shaking body had stilled and your strings of moans had diminished, slowly coming to a stop and leaving your body — seemingly — as fast as they had entered. 

The content smile on your face was interrupted with Spencer's hand lifting to your lips, and instinctively you parted them, already knowing exactly what he was after. 

His middle and ring fingers entered your mouth, and your face scrunched up despite yourself as you tasted yourself on them. He laughed at that — of course he did — and pulled them out soon after. 

"You do that every time," he murmured, hair tickling your skin as he placed open mouthed kisses over your shoulder, up towards your neck. 

"It tastes weird," you argued, and his teeth nipping your skin told you he disagreed. Though, he wasn't in the mood to argue, for he didn't say anything else on the matter. 

"Still got it in you for one more?" he asked you, pulling his head back so he could see you once again. 

"Yes."

"Good."

Your eyes watched him even as he rolled back to take his pants off, and the awkward smile he gave you provided the inkling of comfort that there was still the man from three months prior in there. 

"I really missed you, you know?" This time it was you saying it, piercing the air as his hand came down between your thighs to part them. The head of his cock nudged against you, brushing delicately through your folds and eliciting a quiet whimper from your lips. 

"I know," he answered, pressing kisses on your shoulder once more. "Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah. I'm fine," you confirmed with a nod, confusion crossing your features all up until you learned why he was asking. 

A broken moan, choked and caught in your throat, left you when he painstakingly slowly pushed inside of you. There's not a lot going on inside your mind when he stops, your entire body aflame and equally desperate for more, as you were for him to take a moment here. 

"I love you," he breathed out, the words hurried and encouraging your heart to speed up, and your mind to melt even more. 

"I love you too," you said back, voice just as quiet, gently nudging hips ushering for him to move. 

"Impatient girl," he muttered, but you smiled nonetheless because he did (move). 

His thrusts were slow, and gentle, but you never truly minded how much time he took with you once you two were here. Even more so now, for you were on the same page as him, and you wanted to savour every single moment of this down to the second. 

A whimper left your lips, followed closely by the desperate whisper of his name, and lips that were still resting against your shoulder smiled. 

"I thought about this a lot," he said to you, his hand that was holding your thighs slightly open sliding up to find your clit. "I definitely shouldn't have."

"Why?" You knew why, but the thought of hearing him answer it aloud excited you a little. 

Unfortunately, he knew you better than that. "Don't play coy. You know why, honey."

"You're cruel," you huffed, and he laughed, rolling his hips to meet yours, earning another moan. "Maybe I don't."

"Use that wonderful imagination of yours, then," he answered, rubbing your clit at the same time as he moved his hips once more, effortlessly rendering you unable to respond to him again. 

A teenage boy probably could've lasted longer than the both of you, but you decided to blame it all on your already sensitive nerves from a prior orgasm, and the fact that Spencer Reid had not had you like this for over 2190 hours (not that he was counting).

Whimpers escaped your throat as he kept his hips thrusting into you at an achingly slow pace, while his fingers working on your clit did anything but. It was an aching juxtaposition that left you reeling for more, and Spencer was now the one shutting his eyes so he could hold onto some semblance of composure. 

"Spencer," you pleaded, and it was a quiet moan from behind you that told you he was exactly where you were. 

"I know, honey," he replied, the desperation in his voice jumpstarting your heart. "Need to come, yeah?"

"Mmhm," you nodded your head quickly, breathlessly moaning. "Please."

"You're going to. Don't worry. Don't need to beg, sweet girl."

Commingled moans and obscenely wet noises filled the air, and your hips stuttered as your stomach twisted into knots. 

Chanting his name like a prayer, you meet him wherever your two souls go in that moment, and it's a shuddering feeling as you come at the same time as him. For the first time in forever. 

His hand drops back to your thigh and he massages the muscles there gently, willing himself to stop before he crossed the line of overstimulation — not that you think you'd complain about that. 

There was an emptiness when he pulled out, but then he was kissing you again to make up for it, and you were smiling against his lips as you kissed him back. This time, without the fever. 

"How're you feeling?" he asked you, quietly. 

"Happy," you answered, forcing your heavy eyelids open when he pulled back. "How are you feeling?"

"Also happy," he agreed, and your heart soared. 

"Good."

"You need to go pee," he said, placing another kiss on your cheek, before he leaned his body away entirely. 

"Help?"

Arguably, you could do it yourself. Your limbs were tired, yes, and your mind was melting, but you were coherent enough to brave it alone. 

Thankfully, you didn't have to. 

He carried you to the bathroom, running the bath water after you had silently begged him for it with your eyes (looking between him and the empty bath with wide eyes and a jutted lip worked wonders), and leaving you to pee. 

"Are you getting in with me?" you asked him as wobbly legs akin to a fawn carried you over to the now full and steaming bathtub. 

"Do you want me to?"

Hesitantly, you nodded your head, fidgeting with your fingers in front of you. "But you'd have to take your shirt off. So you don't have to."

He studied your face for a moment longer, before he nodded, and fingers expertly worked at unbuttoning down the shirt. 

"I'm okay now. That's the important thing you have to remember, okay?" his words provided little comfort, but you nodded your head regardless. 

You had a suspicion already of what sight you were going to be met with, but it didn't stop the guilt settling into your chest when the shirt fell to the floor anyways. 

"Spence," you murmured, taking a hesitant step forwards, heart falling to your stomach. 

Bruises littered the skin, some fresh and still purple, others nearly healed and yellowing. But there were so many, and it was then that you were swallowing the rest of him in with your eyes, catching the bandage on his thigh. 

"What is that?" you nodded towards the covered wound, and when your eyes returned to his face again, he was staring at you with an unreadable expression. 

"A lot happened," he answered, quietly, before repeating, "I'm okay now."

You nodded your head, tears stinging your vision for nothing more than your ridiculous amount of empathy. "Can you tell me about it?"

"I will," he promised. "Eventually. Just not now, okay? I haven't processed it all yet."

"Okay," you replied, and his heart shattered at the sight of a tear slipping down your face. 

"Hey," he took ahold of your hand and tugged you closer to him, fingers running through your hair and resting at the base of your scalp. "I promise, honey. I'm not going to disintegrate from a few bruises."

"It isn't just a few," you answered, voice wavering. "There's so many."

"You have a heart too big for your chest," he decided to say instead, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. "Most of them don't even hurt now. Please believe me when I say I'm okay."

"I'm trying," your voice is thick with a sob caught in your throat. "I think I'm just really tired."

"Yeah," he crooned, agreeing. "Your body's released a lot of prolactin, which encourages sleep. Alongside the endorphins and dopamine that you're crashing from upon seeing this."

Wordlessly, you nodded your head, and he kissed the tip of your nose in an attempt to comfort. 

"Bath, then we can sleep, and we can talk more in the morning," he listed off, and you merely nodded your head once more, sniffling and wiping your eyes. 

"Okay."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[smoozie]

Grian and Scar are both loyal to an extent. They don't let their loyalty consume them nor overstay it's welcome. But they have different ideas of when loyalty ends

Grian is not a traitor. It's odd to see him depicted as one when the only precedent in canon is his rendezvous with Bigb. In 3rd Life, Grian explicitly declares his loyalty as to Scar and Scar alone. His alliances with others are tenous. He goes all in one and lets other arrangements fall to the wayside. He wasn't ever loyal to them though, they were a means to an end.

Scar has a bad case of "friend to all is a friend to none" which we will see again and again. Scar is by no means a friend to all in 3rd Life, but he still puts his brief friendship with Bdubs above his weeks long dedication to Grian. And this choice is so interesting because he clearly betrays Grian because he is on yellow not red. (I mean yes the no kill pass, but that likely would have never come into play had Grian been red). However, he expects Grian's anger when he returns. Or it seems that way because he immediately surrenders himself. So what was the point? He gets Grian down to red, only to kill Bdubs and hand him the victory. Not to mention he waits for Grian to return before he moves against Bdubs. His loyalty to Grian most definitely surpasses his brief alliances in 3rd Life (he literally tells Grian he can kill him for "keeping [him] alive this long"). But Scar is not so loyal as to consider himself above killing an ally. Scar plays a very dangerous game of balance with his alliances, he wants everyone to be allied with him despite the improbability of such an arrangement.

In last life, people seem to have a different interpretation of Grian's actions (particularly pertaining to his loyalty), than I do. I don't think Grian is betraying anyone when he kills Jimmy and Mumbo. Last Life requires all non-red alliances be severed once a party reaches red. Grian takes this very seriously, only "faltering" once when he tries to preserve his allyship with Mumbo. But even then he's trying to kill him, so I'd hardly count it. Grian removes himself from the southlands when he goes red, and on red he remains loyal to Joel. He rejoins the southlands when he returns to yellow and is back again to Joel when they're both reds. He is consistent in his loyalty and as I've said, doesn't let loyalty overstay its welcome. He knows when to let go, and he does so.

Keeping in mind I haven't watched Scar's Last Life in a hot minute, this is from memory and a recent rewatch of Joel's. Scar makes an unfortunate alliance with Joel at the beginning of the season, unfortunate because of the fleeting nature of their alliance. Scar proves again he is more than willing to set loyalty aside to do what needs to be done when he attempts to murder Joel as the boogeyman. Upon finding out Joel is also a boogeyman, he instead later tries to help Joel as he embarrassingly fails to kill anyone over and over. Even avenging Joel by killing Mumbo for his boogey-kill. When Joel is on red continously placing traps around their mountain for Scar, Scar chooses to take little offense to it. He knows he would have done the same. Scar does what needs to be done. He is a survivor first and foremost

Double life is interesting because it shows a break in Grian's loyalty habits. He doesn't stay loyal to a faction he declares at the beginning nor does his loyalty follow the games rules. Grian "cheating" on Scar feels out of character. It almost seems like an act of revenge for Scar's betrayal in 3rd Life. An overdue comeuppance. Which is a fun interpretation I like. You could also see it as an act of defiance against the watchers, to say "no I am not playing by ur rules anymore. You cannot choose my allies for me". Whatever floats ur boat. I get people who downplay the "affair" as not the serious because they just call each other secret soulmates and send presents, but I think that interpretation misses the most important part: how it is presented to us. Grian and Scar both portray the secret soulmate bit as akin to cheating, so it makes the most sense the audience interprets it as such.

Double Life Scar is often misinterpreted to be happier with Grian than he actually is. In the beginning, Scar doesn't care to find his soulmate. He doesn't even realize it's Grian until the end of the episode. First thing Scar does the next episode, is try to introduce Grian to his Jellie-pandas. Which are immediately rejected by Grian. Scar then decides he will torture Grian with pain as payback, which he also teaches to Pearl. (A really great parallel imo because had Scar been tied to Scott I think he would have also been rejected). Interestingly, both Grian and Scar understand loyalty as a necessity to survival, especially in this particular game, as such they stay together despite BOTH being displeased with each other.

Grian stays firm with the bad boys until their early deaths. Despite his button pressing habits and that one fight they had over falling off ladders, he doesn't betray them. But he doesn't let grief consume him. That's the way of the game. His allies die, he needs safety. He moves on. And he once again proves his secondary allies (not nosey neighbors as they are now his primaries) mean little to him when he kills Scar. Again. And calls it the ultimate betrayal Grian when I fucking catch you

The clockers actually seem to be the perfect alliance for Scar. Bdubs who he can betray a million times over and always be forgiven, and Cleo who has still not forgiven Bigb for his choice to kill her two seasons ago. Scar has no reason to betray these two and never does, but he does believe Bdubs will betray them.

Grian in Secret Life is interesting because it is the first time we see him struggle to get an alliance. He kinda just shows up on Cletho's doorstep one day and asks to be let inside. Scott implies he lacks loyalty because of his quick departure from the bad boys last season, but I have emphasized I disagree with this interpretation of Grian. Grian remains loyal all season. When he dies he doesn't know both Cleo and Etho were taken out just moments before him, and celebrates the amount of damage his final stand caused Gem and the Scotts. He will sacrifice himself for loyalty.

Secret Life is by far the most telling for Scar's stance on loyalty. He goes where the wind takes him. He tries to blend in for as long as he can and hopes no one notices he shouldn't be there. He only chooses the mounders over Gem and the Scotts because he is currently standing with them when the question needs answered. Friend to all friend to none. He could have easily picked either side. He refuses to take Pearl's offer for hearts, tho this is most definitely out of respect. He wants a fair fight with Pearl, and he gets it. He very quickly turns his blade on Pearl after Gem is gone. Because he was never too tied to one.

So uh tl;dr: Grian and Scar are quick to kill loyalties when necessary, but Scar will always prioritize his survival over being loyal

[plasticfreckles]

🌙 the S is for Starved Of Touch solavellan enjoy 🌙

He is reluctant to leave her side, to travel with Fiona's mages to measure the artifacts' influence on rifts as per his proposal.

Not when she is barely out of the fever sweats.

She snorts when he voices this, blowing her nose on the muslin fabric scrap that might as well have grown into her like red lyrium since autumn has found Skyhold.

"My brother is among the mages," she says. Ah yes. Haleir. A young one, not even old enough to consider vallaslin, who meant to stop at Skyhold for rest before travelling on to a clan just outside the Graves.

"I'd rather someone kept an eye on him. He tends to pick fights he does not intend to finish." Her ears twitch a little when he drags his nails through her hair, across his scalp.

The medicine won't let her wash herself, but she enjoys having her hairs moved.

"I shall watch out for him, vhenan."

She smiles, wide enough he can see the small gaps between each of her teeth, even the swollen part on the inside of her lip that she chews on when nervous. Presses a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you. I'll be much better by the time you return, Solas, I promise."

Then she blows out the candles by her bedside and returns to resting.

-

She really is much better by the time they return. So much better, in fact, that he spends quite some time finding her.

She stands with Josephine, intently listening the conversation the Ambassador has with their guest, though he knows she can only understand about half the words passed between them in quick, dialected Orlesian. Serault, if he is not mistaken.

Lavellan clutches a small box with both hands, low to her belly. The swirls burnt into the wood look decidedly like a human interpretation of her vallaslin - just outside of graceful.

She has evidently indulged in the extensive bath she has whenever she returns to Skyhold for more than a week; where she scrubs her skin with three different soaps, puts rosemary cream into her every strand of hair and wraps her head in a beeswax towel, trims her nails and takes out all her piercings to clean with alcohol. She holds her waves out of her face with two jewelled braids tied behind her head. The flowy, light blue chiffon is held to her body with pearled straps over shoulders and arms and a stained bronze corset.

He knows her back is bare beneath her hair. Three months past, he's watched Lavellan make the gown, holding the fabric taut with her toes while carefully trimming it with a blade. She had shrugged when he noted her crouched position on the floor, the availability of scissors in the hold. I've always sewn this way. That I have a clean ground to do it on is more luxury than I have ever known.

There's power that she exudes, wearing this thin a layer in this cold a part of the fortress. But he knows the tights over stockings over wool socks inside thick riding boots underneath her skirt.

He hadn't noticed her hair had grown so long that when undone, it flowed down to just above her thighs.

When she catches his eye (his staring, really), casually shifting on her feet like playing the Game was all she had ever done, and she smiles at him, he can see he even put powdered colour on her face, blue on her eyes, pink on her lips. It makes the lines of her vallaslin look all the brighter.

Solas finds he does not hate the marks as much, suddenly. Not on her.

"Forgive me," he hears her say, struggling to wrap her lips around the Orlesian sounds, not unlike she had struggled to speak their language, before he had started to teach her. "I must meet with this agent. He has been instrumental in measuring the Veil." She tilts her head toward the emissary, then motions for Solas to follow her toward the War Room.

He barely gets to close the door behind them before she kisses him.

"I missed you," she huffs into the space between them, one hand on his waist, the other lifting the box over his shoulder.

She all but pushes him into the wall behind him.

-

"What happened?" She follows his glance down her arm, extended before him from pushing a marker - her marker - back into the Hinterlands.

Three long, bloody clawmarks run along the freckled, perfect skin of her forearm. The tattoo she has there, simple thin rings drawn when she served as practice canvas for her clan's First to learn vallaslin, has barely been touched.

She shrugs.

"The barn cat had her young two days ago. A dead one was still halfways stuck inside her, like she'd just given up on number five. I tried to pull it out." A little chuckle, like she can't believe her own foolishness. "She did not like that."

"Who would?" She moves to sit atop the edge of the war table, tugging him closer by his hands until he stands between her thighs.

"I didn't say I blame her. And I've gotten scratched up worse before, so.. It doesn't look infected; I think I'll just wait it out." He won't let her finish her sentence before he smoothes his palm over the wounds, trickling magic into her skin.

"...I could've just put calendula ointment on it, you know." There's mirth in her voice as she says it.

"Indulge me, my heart," he replies, instead of saying You are in everything I do and I cannot bear to see you hurt, so please forgive your old lover's stubbornness.

Her hands brush against the dark stubbles on the back of his skull as she embraces him.

He never learns the contents of the box.

🌙

followup to the wishful thinking ficlet, inspired by both 1 danaerys gif thats in my mind rent free and also all 3 of our cats yelling so loud on the way to the car that the neighbors came to look what the fuss is about (they're probably fine)

[autistic-cat-with-a-book]

Hello there. I have written a story, which I am now sharing with the keepblr fandom. Enjoy it. Please. (It's a slightly alternate ending for Neverseen, if you were curious.) Tagging @permanently-stressed because I've been torturing her with crumbs of this for the whole week, so it's only fitting she gets tagged.

okay bye

Sophie was about to step into the shimmering beam of her pathfinder when she noticed the small yellow crystal in Keefe’s hand. She barely hesitated before grabbing his shoulders and letting the light carry both of them away.

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!” Keefe shouted as they reappeared by a lake the color of blood. Tall, foggy mountains surrounded the area, and the whole place gave Sophie the creeps. Nothing good could come of this.

“I could ask you the same thing!” She snapped. “Why are you leaping–illegally– to the Forbidden Cities? Are you seriously going to try to break into an ogre prison?” 

Keefe turned away. “Go home, Sophie.”

“Not unless you explain what’s going on here!”

Keefe opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by three flashes of light. Three dark cloaks with a white eye symbol on the sleeve.

The Neverseen were here.

“Keefe,” Sophie started as the figures slowly walked towards them, “What did you do? What did you do?”

“I…” his voice trailed off.

“How are we going to escape this?” She hissed.

“Simple answer,” said the first figure, throwing back his hood. “You don’t.”

With growing horror, Sophie found the name the voice belonged to. Fintan was here. So were Brant and Alvar. They were trapped.

Fintan held up his hands, a smile spreading across his thin lips. “My, my, Keefe. You’ve really outdone yourself. Sophie is such an excellent addition to our bargain.” His eyes narrowed as he said that last part and a chill went up Sophie’s spine.

What bargain is he talking about? Sophie transmitted.

“She is not part of this deal. Let. Her. Go,” Keefe said, ignoring Sophie’s question.

“Tsk, tsk. If only we could. But now that she’s here, I’d be so sad to see her go,” Fintan said, glee dripping from every word. A small flame flickered to life in Brant’s hand, and Keefe shrank back.

“If you hurt her, I won’t give you the cache!” Sophie heard this but didn’t have time to react before strong invisible arms wrapped around her neck in a chokehold. 

“Keefe,” she gasped hoarsely, “What are you talking about?”

But she has a sinking feeling in her stomach. There are better, safer ways to rescue your mom. You don’t have to trade the cache for this. Please, Keefe. A tear rolled silently down her cheek.

This is the only way, Foster. You wouldn’t be here if you had just gone home!

You know I couldn’t do that.

Fintan ordered Keefe to get the cache, and Sophie watched as Keefe quietly said, “Two twenty-one B Baker Street,” shock and betrayal coursing through her veins.

The cache popped into Keefe's hand, and Alvar immediately grabbed it, tucking it into a concealed pocket on his robe.

How could you? Sophie’s mental question was more sad than angry, but Keefe still didn’t respond.

“Miss Foster, I assume you and Mr. Sencen are communicating telepathically. Much fun as it is to watch you silently struggle, this would go a lot quicker if you would both listen to the terms at hand.” Fintan said, gesturing to Brant.

The scarred elf stepped closer, the heat of the Everblaze in his hand making Sophie sweat. “All you have to do,” he said to Keefe, grabbing Sophie’s monocle pendant and holding it in his fire, “is take this pretty little swan and brand your moonlark. If you do that, we’ll let her go free and you come with us.”

“If not,” Alvar interrupted, “Fintan will start giving Sophie some very painful scars.”

Keefe’s face crumpled and he transmitted, I’m so sorry. I know you’re going to hate me now.

I could never hate you,  she assured him, although she grew less and less sure of that as he took the pendant and stepped up to Sophie.

His ice-blue eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and Sophie tried one last time. “Please, Keefe. Why are you doing this?”

“Last night…I got more memories back,” he whispered. 

“I still don’t understand why you would join them,” she said. Alvar was nearly choking her, and she was getting very lightheaded. 

“You were raised to be the hero. I was raised to be something…else.” He brushed his hand over her necklace. “I wanted you to have this, in case someday–”

“Heartwarming as this is,” Fintan cut in, “We’re running out of time. And patience.” The last word had a deadly undertone and the tears in Keefe’s eyes spilled over as he raised the pendant to Sophie’s face. It was glowing red from the Everblaze. Sophie didn’t want to imagine how much pain it would cause.

But she didn’t have to imagine. 

All of a sudden, Keefe squeezed his eyes closed and pressed the red-hot swan against the side of Sophie’s neck. She screamed, thrashing in Alvar’s arms, but he held her tight. Bright white pain exploded behind her eyes, and she wanted it to take her far, far away.

 To a place where she wouldn’t have to deal with the Neverseen, or the Black Swan, or Keefe.

The white light promised rest.

Calm.

Peace.

But all too soon, she was ripped back to reality. Sophie could feel blisters bubbling up on her skin, and when she opened her eyes, Keefe had dropped the pendant. Smoke was rising from it, and her mind shied away from picturing what her neck looked like. 

Brant still had a sphere of Everblaze floating above his palm, the flames crackling ominously. 

“Okay,” Keefe said, his voice shaky, “I did what you asked. You have the cache. Now please, let Sophie go home.” 

“Oh, did we say anything about letting her go home?” Fintan asked the others with a laugh. “Mr. Sencen, we merely said we would free her. We never specified where she would be released.”

In one fluid motion, Alvar let go of Sophie, pulled out his Pathfinder, and said, “Have fun, you four!” Then raised the crystal to the setting sun and stepped into the beam of light.

While that was happening, Fintan had summoned a ring of fire around himself, Brant, Keefe, and Sophie, and the flames were taller than she was. 

No escape.

It was hard to think through the searing pain, but she was able to stay standing. Keefe held her shoulders and yelled, “You promised!” at the ancient Pyrokinetic.

“Come on,” Fintan scoffed, “Surely you’ve known us long enough to know that we don’t play fair.” With that, Fintan pulled Keefe away from Sophie and Brant took a small cloth out of his cloak. Sophie could smell the stench of the sedative, and she tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. Brant grinned as he pressed the fabric over her nose and mouth, flooding her brain with the sickeningly sweet smell. 

The last thing she saw was Keefe’s anguished face, and his thoughts whispering, It’s for the best, as he and the two pyrokinetics lept away.

Then she collapsed as the ring of fire grew even taller around her.

Heat. So much heat. Her neck, her arms, her back. They were all so, so hot.

 Sophie peeled her eyes open, coughing on the smoke and ash. She managed to sit up on the gritty sand, noting that she wasn’t actually on fire. But the Everblaze was raging all around her, making its way to the mountains in the distance. She guessed that a few hours had passed since–

Nope. She was not going to think about Keefe. Sophie cautiously reached up to feel her neck, then winced as she brushed her fingers over the blisters. That was going to be a permanent scar. 

“Help,” she croaked, pushing herself off of the ground. The lake was nearby, promising cool water, but she didn’t trust the bloodred color. “Help,” she repeated, louder this time. Her throat scratched and her muscles ached and her mouth tasted all kinds of disgusting, but that didn’t stop her. 

Anything, anyone, would be a welcome presence. With the moon high in the sky and the smoke billowing through the air, the whole place was even creepier than it was in the daytime, which was saying a lot. 

She crawled to where Keefe had been standing and noticed… what was that?

Sophie picked up a small glittering bead, noting the way it shimmered in the moonlight. Was this a leaping crystal? Why had he left it–oh. It must have been for her, in case she followed him here. 

Sophie let out a bark of laughter. This would have been useful a few hours ago before she got the sign of the swan branded on her neck. But…what if it wasn’t from Keefe? Maybe it led to a trap. The Neverseen could have left it here, hoping she’d leap right into one of their hideouts. But then why wouldn’t they just take her along with Keefe?

She brought the bead closer, looking for a clue. It seemed pretty ordinary, just an orb of shimmery compacted powder, but there– she saw a tiny, tiny K painted on the side. 

It was from Keefe. Wow. He really thought of everything. 

She held the tiny crystal up to the moonlight, hoping hoping hoping that it would work. A weak beam of light appeared, and Sophie nearly cried in relief. She stepped into the path, concentrating on the warm feathery rush of the leap as her body dissolved. 

She re-formed at the entrance to Havenfield.

Home, home, safe, safe! Her mind cheered. She limped up to her house, every muscle aching. Edaline and Grady were sitting on the enormous couch, and they both leaped up when she pushed the massive doors open. Edaline rushed to give Sophie a hug while Grady said, “What happened to you?”

“I…” her voice trailed off, a lump forming in her throat. “The Neverseen,” she whispered, gently removing herself from her adoptive mom’s embrace. 

“Oh, Sophie,” Edaline said, running a hand over Sophie’s cuts and bruises. She avoided the burn on her nack, and Sophie was hit with a rush of affection for her mom. 

Grady rushed to their extensive medicine cabinet, grabbing an armful of elixirs and balms. Soon enough, Sophie was lying on her bed, and Elwin –in his fuzzy T-rex pajamas– was treating all of her injuries. He thankfully didn’t ask too many questions, instead letting her relax and calm down from the day’s events. 

After Elwin left, Grady and Edaline brought up a cool cloth for her neck and a small vial of shimmery liquid. “It’s somnalene,” Edaline explained. “It’ll help you sleep. You need it.”

“It’s not a sedative, right?” Sophie asked.

“No, kiddo. These are like sparkly eye drops that make you feel very peaceful,” Grady explained, filling the eyedropper and positioning it over Sophie’s eye. 

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Edaline asked, concern clearly written all over her expression.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, Mom.”

Grady squeezed the somnalene into Sophie’s eyes, and immediately little twinkling colored lights appeared in her vision. Shortly after she settled down, her parents left, leaving her with her thoughts– and Iggy’s lawnmower-esque snore. Despite her long–long– day she was asleep in minutes.

The next morning, Sophie somehow managed to get dressed, eat breakfast, and meet with the Collective without collapsing or breaking into a fit of tears. Her neck still throbbed and her back hurt and her heart was broken, but she was going to be okay. 

She was the Moonlark. 

“So,” Mr. Forkle said with a sigh, “Let’s go through this again. Keefe took you to the Neverseen–”

“He didn’t take me, I grabbed onto him as he was leaping away,” Sophie interjected.

“Right. So then the Neverseen forced him to hand over the cache, and made him…” He looked quickly at the burn on her neck, his voice cracking.

Everyone got silent after that. After a moment, Granite continued quietly, “So Fintan, Brant, Alvar, and Keefe all light leaped away while you were sedated and surrounded by Everblaze.”

Grady and Sandor both looked like they wanted to punch something, so Sophie said, “But Keefe didn’t know that would happen! It was my fault.”

Edaline hugged Sophie, whispering, “What happened was not your fault. It never will be, so please don’t blame yourself.”

“I’ll try not to,” she whispered back. 

Sophie straightened up, clearing her throat to prepare for what she was about to say. “Do you think Keefe is….bad?”

“I think Mr. Sencen is confused, and desperate, and afraid. But I do not think he is bad, Miss Foster,” Mr. Forkle assured her. 

“So you think his guilt is making him do this.”

“Yes. He has chosen a difficult path, but I think he knows that what he is doing is incredibly reckless,” Wraith added.

“I wouldn’t be too quick to trust him,” Grady advised from the corner.

“Especially not after–that thing,” Squall said, pointing her frosty fingers at Sophie’s burn.

“What about the cache?” Sophie wondered aloud.

“We’ll deal with that later. For now, there is news I must share with you all.” Mr. Forkle said. 

Sophie's mind flashed through dozens of possibilities, but nothing could have prepared her for what Mr. Forkle said next. 

“Prentice is awake.”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Thank you all for an incredible 500 days of love and support. I offer you: answers to questions that no one has asked.

(As always, more can be found in the tags <3)

[demaparbat-hp]

Almost

[swampybogg]

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

Hello may 31th anon! Look at that, another year behind us and a new one to come. Have a nice day! ₍՞◌′ᵕ‵ू◌₎♡

[deoidesign]

.

[kuromi-hoemie]

feeling v proud of myself for eyeing something and thinking “that seems like it's 70 inches” then it was 😌

[tagidearte-spam-sb]

Can Secret of the Mimic give us Foxy again? I miss Foxy. I hope he (and Chica) are not thrown aside and we only get Bonnie and Freddy a la Fredbear Family Diner or something.

[megumi-fm]

hi i have been inactive for a while due to the chk chk boom. hope you understand.

[monty-glasses-roxy]

Yeah I'll try not to post much here (ADHD memory I'll try my best) for the strike as it's all I can do, maybe some Palestine posting for it too, so I'll save ask answers and fnaf posting for afterwards. There's currently a big ol' storm here at the moment making the internet a bit spotty so it's not like it's easy to post right now anyway so you're not really gonna be missing much

And to the anon in my inbox, hi I see you. You're not annoying or anything with your asks I'm just slow and now participating in the strike so I'm sorry but you'll probably be waiting a spell for those answers. Doing what I can, even if it's tiny, is more important right now I feel

[culmaer-sideblog]

please forgive me, but I need to complain and over-share or my brain is going to explode please feel free to ignore

[keeps-ache]

little soup cans are some of the neatest things we have, wish there were more soup-can-like things in this world

[rowenabean]