#I hate the tagging system on the ask page

[sincerity--extreme]

I was in the mood for a shitty movie tonight (A Princess For Christmas, no idea why but who cares? Katie looks stunning and after watching it 10 times I learned to completely ignore that guy's, whatever his name is, existence) but I can't find it anywhere that works properly, I found it on YouTube which is great but the image quality sucks and on a (very suspicious) random website the quality is amazing but 3 minutes into it the sound gets messed up, what does a poor gay woman needs to do to get her daily dose of Katie McGrath in this place? This is outrageous

[doodlingwren]

Low quality but high effort Saint Seiya shitpost dropping some time next week. Do not ask when. Live with the uncertainty of the event.

[whisperedmeg]

SOME PROTECTOR ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x ex!reader

summary: it’s been 313 days. spencer still remembers the last thing you said to him. you still mean it. he’s been holding on from a distance ever since.

genre: angst (some smut & fluff in flashback scenes, but it’s mostly angst & hurt no comfort lol) | w/c: 7k

tags/warnings: inspired by the song “some protector” by role model, fem!reader, no use of y/n, yearner-in-chief spencer reid, yearninggg, like SO much yearning, minor alcohol consumption, relationship/breakup flashbacks, mutual pining, no happy ending (unresolved tho maybe?), panic attack in a flashback, sex scene in a flashback (making out, p in v, riding), 18+ MDNI

a/n: had a moment while editing where I almost gave up on this fic and deleted it but I’m pushing thru to post it anyways bc I worked rlly hard on it 🥲 recently been obsessed with this song and couldn’t stop picturing spencer when listening, so obviously I had to write 7k words to get it out of my system. obviously. also had “the way I loved you” in mind from reader’s side of things! if anyone is interested in a part 2 lmk because I’m already kind of itching over it 😶 (p.s. first pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance, just had the right dress!)

It’s been 313 days since the breakup. Spencer knows because he’d counted at first. Then stopped. Then started again.

He wouldn’t be here if not for the occasion — an engagement party for friends. One of those events where absence says more than presence ever could, so he showed up.

Now, he lingers at the edge of the room, half-shadowed by a bookshelf, pretending to care about the drink in his hand. He’d arrived a little late on purpose — a strategic delay. Fewer how’ve-you-beens, fewer questions about whether he’s seeing anyone new or if he’s talked to you. His plan was simple: blend into the perimeter, nod through a toast, and leave early without making a scene.

He hadn’t planned for you.

You walk in fifteen minutes after he does, wearing a dress he’s never seen before and a smile that almost passes for real. Your new boyfriend is beside you.

The thought had crossed his mind, he’ll admit. He met and became friends with the newly engaged couple through you, so there was always a decently high chance you’d be here tonight. But he hadn’t let himself linger on the thought long enough to plan for it, and he especially hadn’t allowed himself to consider the possibility you’d bring a date with you to a party you knew he’d be at. But nothing could’ve prepared him for it anyways. No amount of mental prep would’ve soothed the ache of watching another man’s hand find yours.

At first, Spencer can’t bring himself to look at you directly. But he tracks you in pieces — the tilt of your chin, the curve of your smile, the hand at your waist. The neckline of your dress, dipping just low enough to undo something in him.

You haven’t seen him yet. He’s not ready for when you do.

The room hums — clinking glasses, laughter pitched too loud, someone making a joke about wedding hashtags like it’s the cleverest thing in the world. But none of it reaches him. It all sounds submerged, warped by memory.

One hand tightens around his glass, the other buried in his pocket, fingers curled tight. He’s trying to ground himself, or maybe just keep himself from doing something stupid. Like walking up to you. Like saying your name. Like asking if it’s still his to say.

Spencer knows who your boyfriend is. He’s heard his name dropped casually by mutual friends. He’s done the requisite, ill-advised Google stalk with Garcia’s help. He’s memorized the basics: Ian Lockhart. Works in marketing. Graduated top of his class from UPenn. Youngest of three. Allergic to shellfish.

But that doesn’t stop the question from forming:

Does he truly know you?

Does he know you hate mint in desserts and prefer dark chocolate over the overly-sweetened milk variety? That you dog-ear the pages of whatever you’re reading instead of using bookmarks, even though you own at least fifteen of them? That you sleep with one hand curled under your chin like a child, hum under your breath when you feel safe, get hiccups when you’re anxious, and apologize for things that aren’t your fault?

Does he know the way you sound when you say Spencer’s name?

He hopes not. He hopes so. He doesn’t actually really know what he hopes for.

You’re smiling up at Ian like the weight of the room hasn’t doubled. Like this is just another party, not a place where Spencer’s body remembers every single version of you it ever loved.

And then — you spot him.

Over someone’s shoulder, through the blur of motion and candlelight, your eyes meet Spencer’s.

Something shifts in your face — a memory breaking the surface too fast to hide from. A flicker of something that looks a little like wanting, followed by restraint. You don’t look at him like a stranger. You look at him like before.

You tilt your head — a trace of kindness tugging at your mouth. But it only lasts a second before you turn away.

Spencer can’t breathe.

He’s still stuck in that second. He feels it like a match struck behind his ribs.

—

By the time the first toast of the night is over, you’ve disappeared down the hallway towards the kitchen. Spencer lets his gaze follow you just long enough to punish himself for it.

You still tuck your hair behind your ear the same way you used to, he notices. That quiet, automatic gesture like you’re not even thinking about it. You’ve always done it that way, like muscle memory.

And now he’s thinking about September, nearly three and a half years ago. Your first fall together.

It had been raining that day — that steady kind of rain that makes everything feel like it’s underwater. You’d been sitting on his couch with your legs tucked under you, a book splayed open in your lap, your thumb idly tracing the edge of the page. Spencer was talking too much, as usual. A fact spiral he hadn’t meant to fall into, born out of habit and the way you made the room feel safer somehow just by being in it.

“And there’s this theory,” he’d said, glasses pushed up too high on his nose, hands fidgeting with the frayed edge of the blanket between you, “that we can smell the weather changing — like, literally smell the oils and sugars released by leaves breaking down. That’s why autumn feels so…”

He trailed off, embarrassed, suddenly sprung back into hyper-awareness of how long he’d been speaking. But you just looked at him and smiled, that full-faced kind of smile you didn’t hand out easily. “So you’re saying you can smell fall coming?”

He nodded, sheepish. “Sort of. Yes. And I like it — the smell, I mean. It kind of reminds me of being a kid. Like old books and new pencils and being a person who still thought the seasons changing was like magic. Not that the seasons changed much in Vegas, but… still.”

You laughed. Not a sharp laugh, not mocking, but a delighted one. The kind of laugh that only shows up when someone says something completely true and completely weird and you’re so completely glad they said it.

Spencer looked at you like he didn’t quite know how to process how beautiful you were in that moment. Not just physically (though yes, that too), but emotionally. You didn’t flinch away from his oddities — you leaned toward them. Like maybe you were made of the same quiet strangeness he was.

You closed the book in your lap after folding down the corner of the page and laid it gently on the coffee table. “Tell me more things that remind you you’re a person.”

He blinked. “What?”

“That’s what you meant, right? That the smell of fall makes you feel human. Tell me more things like that.”

He hadn’t realized it, but that’s exactly what he meant. And so he did. All night.

Little things. Soft things. Things no one else ever asked him about. The sound of his mom reading him Chaucer and Kempe when he was still too young to really process what the stories meant. The hot sting of seatbelt buckles in the desert sun. The click of a lamp turning on in a dark room. The way library cards used to be made of paper and crinkle at the corners. The feeling of your hand in his.

You listened like every one of them mattered. And every one of them did, to you at least.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. One minute you were curled beside him on the couch, both your heads tipped toward each other like magnets. The next, the sky outside had gone black and your fingers tangled loosely in the drawstring of his hoodie like you’d nodded off while trying to keep him from drifting too far away.

He never told you this, but when he woke up — before you stirred, before the world returned — he’d studied you. Every tiny detail. The part in your hair. The sleep-creased edge of your cheek. The way your mouth twitched when you dreamed. He counted every last freckle splayed across your cheeks. Drew constellations between them in his mind.

That was the night he knew he’d fallen hopelessly in love with you.

He blinks, and all of the sudden he’s back in the present, back at the party. You’re walking towards your date, two glasses of wine in your hands. The one you hand Ian is red. The one you sip from is white — you’d always preferred a colder, crisper Sauvignon Blanc over a full-bodied Chianti or Merlot.

You glance towards Spencer, and in that look, he swears he can see it. The ghost of that night. The version of you who laughed at the way he thought autumn smelled like #2 pencils and old books. The one that fell asleep easily with your body pressed to his side because you trusted him not to move.

He doesn’t look away.

Not yet.

Someone calls his name across the room and he answers with a vague nod. His body is here, but his mind is hovering somewhere else. Caught in the gravity of your glance, still trying to make sense of the soft exhale it pulled from his lungs.

—

You find him before he can decide to leave.

There’s a stretch of seconds as you weave through the room when Spencer wonders if he’s imagining it. If he’s hallucinating your trajectory out of want.

But no, it’s real. You’re coming toward him — slowly, carefully. Like you don’t trust what might happen when you finally get close.

“Spencer.”

His name falling from your lips still sounds just as gentle as it always had. He straightens. Not because he needs to — he’s never felt like he needs to perform for you — but because his body can’t help but brace when you look at him like that.

“Hi,” he manages, his voice quiet, like too much sound might make the moment collapse. “You look…”

Beautiful isn’t neutral. Radiant is worse.

So he lands on a very lame, very simple, “You look well.”

Your smile tilts, crooked and familiar. “Have you been avoiding me tonight?”

Spencer hesitates. He doesn’t look away, but something in his expression shifts — like he’s been caught doing something he didn’t realize was visible.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he says carefully. “Not intentionally. I just… I thought it was better to keep my distance. I didn’t want to intrude on you and...”

You nod once, like you expected that. You look across the room towards where you’d left Ian.

“He’s getting another drink,” you say, mostly to fill the space.

Spencer only nods. He doesn’t ask about him. He’s already heard enough from others. And what would you say, anyway?

He studies the curve of your wrist as you lift your glass. He used to press his mouth there — absentmindedly, in greeting, in gratitude. He blinks the memory away.

You glance down at your feet, then up again. There’s something almost sheepish about it. “You cut your hair.”

His hand grazes the back of his neck. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“I like it,” you say softly.

There’s no teasing in it. No flirtation. Just something honest. Small and steady, like the thrum of your voice used to be in the mornings, not yet fully awake, legs tangled beneath the covers.

“Thanks,” he says.

Another silence. Not awkward, not exactly. Just… weighted. Like you’re the only two people in it who remember something that’s no longer allowed to exist.

You wet your bottom lip, the way you always do when you’re thinking too hard. Spencer looks away. It feels dangerous to look for too long.

“I saw you on the news last month,” you offer. “That case in Pittsburgh.”

His gaze flicks back to you. “Yeah. That was…” He lets out a sigh. “Long week.”

“You looked tired,” you murmur. “More than usual.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not even concern, not exactly. Just observation. You always did that — noticed things he didn’t say out loud.

He shifts his weight. “We’ve had worse.”

You nod, but you’re still watching him, seeing right through him. He used to hate that. He used to love it, too.

There’s a long pause. Then, voice soft: “You still forget to eat when you’re anxious?”

Spencer huffs a breath — almost a laugh. “I still forget almost everything when I’m anxious.”

You smile, but it’s a sad thing.

“Your mom still calls me sometimes,” you say so quietly he almost misses it. “Thinks we’re still together.”

His breath catches. “She forgets. I’m sorry. I’ve told her a bunch of times.”

You shake your head, silently telling him the apology isn’t necessary. “She always asks if you’re eating. And if I’m making sure you sleep.”

Spencer nods and swallows, hard. He can’t bring himself to answer right away.

“I never correct her. She’s always so happy when I say yes.”

That lands somewhere deep — deeper than it should. Maybe it’s easier this way. To pretend, in some small corner of the world, you’re still his.

The silence creeps in again, fuller this time. You step an inch closer, not on purpose, not consciously. He doesn’t step back. The space between your arms hums with memory.

There’s a ring on your right pointer finger, the same one you always wore — a vintage, gold band from your grandmother’s jewelry box. Spencer used to twist it mindlessly while you read.

He wonders if you let Ian do that now. He wonders if he even notices it.

“I like the dress,” he says with a nod towards your outfit before he can stop himself. “The color.”

You tilt your head. “You always liked lavender.”

“I still do.”

Internally, you start to wonder: Did you wear it because you knew he’d be here tonight? Subconsciously, did you pick this dress out of your closet with Spencer in mind?

You look down again. Then up. You meet his gaze a second too long, and for a moment, it’s like everything falls away — the party, the boyfriend, the reasons you shouldn’t still care.

Then Ian calls your name from somewhere behind you.

The sound breaks whatever thread had been holding you there. You blink, eyes clearing, and step back half an inch — enough to remind yourselves what year it is. Where you are. What this isn’t anymore.

You glance over your shoulder, then back at Spencer.

“I should—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in gently. “Of course.”

You hesitate. Just for a breath. And then: “It’s really good to see you, Spence.”

Spence. He nods, slow and careful. “You too.”

You walk away. Spencer stays where he is, heart knocking unevenly in his chest, eyes fixed on the place you’d just stood like maybe you’ll return if he waits long enough.

You don’t. But you do turn around, just once, halfway through the room. Your gaze finds his again.

It’s brief, that look. Barely a second. But it says enough:

You remember everything.

—

Somewhere across the room, you laugh.

It’s not at him — Spencer doesn’t know what was said or why it was funny — but it’s the sound that stands out to him. That specific cadence. The one that always tumbled out of you just after midnight when you were tipsy and barefoot and glowing with affection you never tried to ration.

Your hand lands on Ian’s arm, light and familiar, fingers curling just slightly.

And that—

That’s what undoes him.

Because you used to do that to him. You used to touch him like he belonged to you.

Images swirl in his mind — your palm against his skin. That sweater. That night. That look on your face when you pushed him down onto the couch like you didn’t need words to tell him you wanted him. The memory ambushes him, full and bright and dizzying, like it’s been waiting all evening for the right moment to strike.

—

One month into dating, you wore a loose red sweater on a date with Spencer — one that hung off your shoulder and drove him to the edge of restraint. He’d never say it aloud, but that sweater still haunts him. The curve of your collarbone. The bare sliver of skin at your hip when you lifted your arms. The softness of it. Of you.

You hadn’t slept together yet. Spencer had been so careful about it — cautious in that way he always was when something really mattered to him. He wanted to be sure this thing between you was real first (it was). Wanted to be sure you were ready (god, you were). Wanted to be sure he was ready, too.

You’d come back to his apartment after dinner, your thigh pressed against his in the cab, your voice syrupy and laced with secrets, low in his ear: “You gonna keep being shy, or are you gonna do something about it?”

He kissed you the second the front door closed behind you. Harder than he meant to — sloppier, too. But you moaned softly into it and fisted your hands in his jacket like you didn’t want to waste anymore time being polite about this.

It was a little frantic at first. Your back hit the wall. His belt clattered to the floor. You laughed into his mouth, breathless and giddy, hands everywhere — threading through his hair, yanking at his shirt, skimming down the front of his pants like you already knew exactly how he liked to be touched.

He walked you back into the couch, then you took the reigns and pushed him down onto it. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, grinding down in a slow, devastating rhythm that made his vision blur.

Within minutes, you were undressed from the waist down, the sweater still on. That somehow made it even more intense — or maybe it would’ve been that way regardless, he couldn’t really say for sure. All he knew was the skin of your thighs, the heat of you moving against him, the breathy way you said his name when his hands cupped your ass and pulled you tighter into his lap.

“Spencer,” you gasped, mouth against his jaw. “Please.”

He remembers the exact moment you said it — the way your breath caught, the stutter in your hips, the way your fingers curled at the back of his neck.

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his, so close he could feel every shake of your inhale. And then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m yours, Spence. Okay? Don’t be gentle.”

And that was it. Spencer Reid — always careful, always afraid of taking too much — finally let go.

That night, he told you he loved you with every part of his body. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew you heard it anyway.

He fucked you slow and deep from below, gripping your hips as you rode him and matched his rhythm with every grind of your body against his. Not tender, but not rough either — just real. Like every motion was a word he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. You clung to him, nails pressing into his shoulders, moaning softly as his lips found every part of you he could reach — your throat, your collarbone, the delicate skin just below it. He mouthed at the place your pulse fluttered hardest and stayed there until you broke.

And when you did — when you came around him with his name caught in your throat like something sacred — he followed, buried deep inside you, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer only he knew how to recite.

After, you collapsed on his chest, the red sweater twisted around your ribs, your legs still tangled with his. You were quiet in that way that only happened when you were fully content. One hand traced over the back of his — slow, barely there — like you couldn’t stand to not be touching him, even in sleep.

Meanwhile, he didn’t sleep at all.

Just lay there memorizing you: the shape of your mouth, the curve of your waist, the warmth of your bare skin under the blanket, the rise and fall of your breath.

Spencer had been with others in the past. But he’d never touched someone quite like that before. Never been touched like that either — not with that kind of need or care or want.

And now?

Now you’re across the room with someone else’s arm around your waist, yet he still can’t stop thinking about that night. About your mouth. Your hands. Your voice when you begged him not to hold back.

You catch him looking with a twitch of your lips like you’ve caught a secret.

For a second, he thinks you know what he’s remembering. Maybe you’re remembering it too.

And then, just like that, the moment passes. You look away and turn slightly toward Ian, laughing again — softer this time. But something about it’s off — you smile too quickly, blink too long, seem too practiced.

And god, Spencer feels it now — an ache that starts behind his ribs and spreads. He knows that look. The forced composure. Your tight little nod. The way your shoulders curl inward, just enough to seem invisible.

You’re tired.

Not just from the party or the heels. Not even from the fact that Spencer is here. No, you’re tired in a quiet, cell-deep way. The kind of tired that creeps in when you’ve been holding everything too tightly for too long. He used to see it in your posture before you ever spoke. In the way you’d knead at the back of your neck. In the sound of your keys hitting the kitchen counter just a little too hard.

His whole body aches with the memory of it.

Because he can’t touch your elbow now, can’t draw you into a hallway and press his hand to your spine and ask, Is it bad today? in a voice soft enough to disappear into your skin. He can’t guide you to the couch and take your shoes off for you and rub slow circles into the arch of your foot. He can’t be that version of himself for you anymore.

But he remembers. He remembers it all.

—

You’d had a rough shift.

Spencer knew before you said a word. He heard it in the way your bag hit the floor when you’d walked into his apartment — not thrown exactly, but dropped with too much force. Watched it in the way you kicked off your shoes in the hallway like they’d betrayed you. You didn’t kiss him hello. Didn’t even meet his eyes.

You just paced the kitchen in your scrubs, hands trembling slightly. Your voice cracked when it finally came. “She was just a kid, Spence. She died right in front of me.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just crossed the room, took your phone gently from your hand, and set it down on the counter.

You looked at him like you weren’t sure if he’d understand. Like some part of you expected him to step back.

But then, you broke.

It happened all at once, because panic doesn’t slow down or ask permission. One moment you were upright, breathing, trying — and the next, you were not. Your breath hitched. Your eyes went wide. Your hands clawed at your chest like you needed to open it, like the air in your lungs wasn’t enough.

“I can’t— I can’t—”

“I know, baby,” he said, already reaching.

He slid to the floor with you, back against the cabinets, his body folding around yours to hold you steady. His hands were firm but gentle — one at your shoulder, one at the base of your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re okay. You’re right here.”

You let out a single, ragged sob and collapsed against him, clutching his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling through the floor. He didn’t flinch — just tightened his arms around you, voice soft and measured in your ear.

“Five things you can see,” he murmured. “Just try for me.”

You shook your head, breath shallow, shoulders tight. “Can’t.”

“Okay. Okay. Just look, then.” His hand moved slowly along your back. “The floor tile. The fridge magnets. The photo of us in Vegas framed on the wall. That stupid spiky plant you named Steve. Me. I’m right here.”

You gasped — air, finally — and he held you through it.

“You’re not alone,” he said, steady as a heartbeat. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

It took seven minutes for your breathing to settle. Even longer for your hands to stop shaking. But he didn’t let go.

Later, when you were curled against his side in bed — voice scratchy, eyes raw — you said it like a confession:

“I’m sorry, Spence. I…I don’t want to be too much.”

He turned toward you and answered without hesitation as he pulled you closer into him.

“There’s no such thing as too much. Not with you.” He pressed a soft kiss to your temple before adding, “You’re just enough, all the time.”

—

The memory lingers long after it fades.

Spencer exhales, slow and shaky, chest tight with the ghost of it — your voice in his ear, your fingers curled into his shirt, the unbearable tenderness of that night on the kitchen floor. He can still feel the imprint of you, sharp as breath in cold air.

When he blinks, the present returns in pieces: music pulsing, voices laughing, people moving all around him. But it’s your absence that hits harder: You’re gone. You’re not near Ian, not near the party hosts, not near anyone. You’ve slipped out of the crowd, vanished discreetly like you always could when your shoulders got too heavy to hold up.

He knows where you’ve gone before he even moves. Knows the way you seek out quiet. Knows the exact rhythm of your retreat.

And so he follows.

—

It’s started to snow.

Not hard — just flurries, soft and inconsistent, the kind that hover before deciding whether or not they want to stick. String lights stretch across the balcony railing, catching in the wind.

You’re alone. Or trying to be, at least.

One hand rests on the railing. Your thumb circles the condensation on your wine glass, which you’ve long stopped drinking from — just holding it now, mostly for the sake of keeping your fingers occupied.

Spencer finds you like gravity. Like an orbit he never quite escaped.

You don’t turn when you hear him step outside. You don’t have to — you already knew he’d be the one to track you down.

The door hushes shut behind him. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just stands there for a moment in the doorway, watching your silhouette outlined against the snow-smeared sky.

You exhale through your nose. “Ian talks too much when he’s nervous.”

Spencer steps closer. “You used to say the same thing about me.”

You look over your shoulder. Not smiling, but not not smiling either. “Yeah. But it was different with you.”

He doesn’t respond, but you hear the way his breath catches. He shrugs out of his jacket without thinking — an instinct time hasn’t yet pulled from him. It’s the same instinct that used to make him drape it over your shoulders on late walks home, or leave it folded at the foot of your bed after an argument, still carrying the shape of his body. He eases it around you gently, and you let him. You hold it closed at the collar with one hand, and for a second, Spencer swears you lean into the warmth of it — the him of it.

“Has it always been this cold in January?” you ask with a laugh, eyes on the city skyline.

Spencer’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah. But I think we just didn’t notice it the last few Januaries. Or at least I didn’t.”

You turn your head to look at him, slowly this time. “Why not?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Because I had you.”

And just like that, the wind cuts through the silence between you. You both shiver, but neither of you move.

“Some nights I still wake up thinking I heard your voice,” you say quietly.

He blinks.

“I don’t know what it says. It’s not really words — just… the shape of them. I think my brain fills in the rest.”

Spencer swallows, hard. “What does your brain imagine?”

You shake your head. “All kinds of things, I guess. But it definitely misses how you used to say my name.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hands twitch at his sides. His throat works around something sharp.

“You know,” he says softly, “I still talk to you sometimes. In my head. I still tell you about cases, and books you’d hate, and little things I see that remind me of you.”

You blink quickly, but not quick enough to hide the sheen in your eyes. “Do I ever answer?”

He nods, his voice rough, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah. Sometimes you do.”

A beat passes. The snow starts to stick in your hair.

You both move at the same time. Just a half-step closer, your bodies angled toward each other like two halves of the same thought.

His hand brushes your wrist on the railing. Yours lingers at the lapel of his jacket, still clutched around you like armor. Your eyes drop to his mouth then flicker back up. You’re not smiling. Neither is he.

The city exhales around you. Somewhere inside, a champagne cork pops. But it feels like you’re the only two people on the planet.

Spencer leans forward — just barely. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough to feel your breath warm the space between you. His voice, when it comes, is barely a sound:

“I would’ve done anything to keep you.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t cry. You just whisper, “I know.”

And you do. You know. You’ve always known.

A full minute passes like that. Eventually, you pull back and shrug the jacket from your shoulders, hold it out with an unsteady hand. Spencer takes it slowly, without a word, fingers brushing yours for a half-second too long.

You step towards the door and turn slightly, just enough to get a look at him. “Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

Spencer watches the snow catch in your hair. “Of course.”

You nod once. “I meant it.” You pause, blink back a tear before adding, “I still mean it.”

You look at him then — really look, as if you’re expecting him to say something in response, but he doesn’t. And so, after one more tremble of hesitation, you’re gone.

Spencer doesn’t go inside right away. He watches the snow collect in the grooves of the railing, in the spaces between bricks on the balcony wall. Watches his breath fog in the air like smoke. He can still smell your perfume on his jacket. Still feel the shape of your voice in his chest.

And god, if you’d asked him, if you’d reached, if you’d said come with me, he would have, without question.

But that’s the thing about moments — they pass. And once they do, all that’s left is the before. And the after.

He presses his palms to the cold railing. Breathes deep. And then, the darkest memory comes.

—

You weren’t angry. That was the worst part.

You were quiet. Controlled. A little too still — like someone who’d already cried in the car then reapplied her makeup and practiced how to sound fine. Spencer had been reading when you showed up, a case file open beside him, a mug of tea cooling untouched on the coffee table.

He hadn’t been expecting you.

But the second he looked up and saw you in the doorway — your jacket still zipped, your eyes dim, your shoulders pulled back like a wall — he knew. Even before you spoke, he knew.

You sat on the edge of the couch without a word. You didn’t take off your shoes. Didn’t reach for his hand. Just stared at him, quietly. Like you were still deciding whether or not to break your own heart.

“I don’t want to do this,” you said softly once you finally got yourself to speak.

Spencer’s breath hitched. “Then don’t.”

But you shook your head, eyes glassy. “It’s not that simple.”

And he felt it then — that slow, precise tear in the fabric of something he thought he could still fix. The moment peeling open like skin beneath a dull blade.

“I love you,” you said. “That hasn’t changed. I need you to know that.”

His lips parted. He said your name — soft, small — like maybe saying it would anchor you both back to solid ground.

But you went on. “I just don’t know how to be with you when you won’t let me in.”

He blinked, confused. “I let you in.”

“No.” You shook your head again, more tired than anything else. “I know you wanted to. And you thought you did. But… you didn’t. Not really.”

Spencer looked down. He knew you were right.

He’d been quietly withdrawing for months — not in big, obvious ways, but slowly. Case after case. Canceled dates, sleepless nights, long silences between texts. Promises made in touches instead of words, apologies offered in the form of forehead kisses and new books and please don’t ask me to talk about it.

You’d stayed anyway.

You kept showing up — with dinner, with warmth, with hope. And he kept failing to reach back the way you needed him to.

He wanted to believe you knew that he loved you, even if he didn’t always know how to say it when the weight got too heavy. But he never really told you where the weight lived. Never let you see what it cost him just to hold it all together.

“It’s not you,” he said, the words spilling out too fast, like they were trying to outrun the inevitable. “It’s just— I’ve been… I’ve been trying not to make it worse.”

Your brows knit in confusion. “Worse?”

“For you,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to drag you into my darkness. I thought… I thought I was protecting you.”

That was the moment something shifted in your face. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just that quiet kind of grief that comes from loving someone who keeps pointing you to a door without handing you the key.

“I didn’t need protecting, Spencer,” you said. “I just needed you.”

He reached for you then, without thinking. Not to fix it — he already knew it was too late for that — but to hold on to you one last time.

You almost let him, but then you pulled away. The moment had already passed. The truth had already landed.

“I keep waiting for you to let me all the way in,” you whispered. “Keep hoping. Keep thinking if I just love you a little harder, maybe you’d stop holding back.”

He wanted to tell you he never meant to. That he never meant for the silence to feel like distance, or for his grief to become a barrier. But he couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t even lift his eyes to meet yours.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way,” he choked out.

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

And then — like a wound coming undone at the seam — you stood.

He stood too — reflexive, as if maybe just the movement would change your mind. But you were already reaching for your bag, already curling into yourself, one arm tucked across your ribs like you were barely holding your body together.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I can’t do this anymore. I need to feel like I can breathe again.”

He nodded. Because what else do you do when the person you love more than anything else in the universe is asking you to let them go?

You turned toward the door and took a few strides before hesitating and looking back.

Spencer was still standing there, frozen in place, eyes red and rimmed with tears, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller — like if he could just shrink the hurt, maybe you’d stay.

You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a key — your key to his place, the one you’d already taken off your keychain as you cried in the car. You set it down on the entry table, and your fingers lingered over the shape of it for a second too long before pulling back and reaching for the door.

You steadied yourself enough to speak, but your voice still broke as you did. The kind of words that echo louder once the silence sets in:

“I’ll love you forever, Spencer. Even if I have to do it from far away.”

Despite your best efforts, you froze once more before you could bring yourself to step outside. “I’ll never stop,” you added in a whisper.

Then the door closed behind you.

—

The snow’s falling heavier now. Slow, deliberate flakes, shapeless against the sky.

Spencer stays outside long after the cold has sunk into his hands, long after the balcony door clicks shut behind him. Somewhere behind the glass, people are laughing. A new song is starting. But all of it feels miles away.

You’d asked him — softly, like it might break if you said it too loud:

“Do you remember the last thing I said to you?”

He’d thought it was just nostalgia. A prompt for some shared memory, a fragment you wanted him to hold with you for a final moment before moving on.

But it wasn’t.

You weren’t asking if he remembered — no. You were asking if he still believed you.

I’ll love you forever. I’ll never stop.

I still mean it.

He grips the railing tighter. Because now he understands: you weren’t reaching back into a memory. You were reaching towards him. Tentatively. Hopefully. Asking if it still means anything. If it’s still real.

You’ve moved on, at least that’s what you tell yourself. Maybe Ian — solid, safe Ian — is more than just a placeholder. Maybe it’s still the wrong time for you and Spencer. But maybe some small, stubborn part of you is still tethered to him by a thread neither of you has had the courage to cut.

Maybe that look you gave him tonight wasn’t just nostalgia. Maybe it was permission. Or forgiveness. Or both.

Maybe it’s not too late.

Or maybe it is.

But maybe — just maybe — if he reaches, you’ll reach back.

And for the first time in 313 days, Spencer can’t bring himself to just wonder from afar.

He needs to find out.

—

The warmth of the party hits him too fast once he steps back inside.

It's jarring, like surfacing through ice. Noise and light and heat pressing in on all sides.

He moves before he knows where he’s going. Not calmly. Not with logic. Just instinct — pulled forward like a tide. Past the hallway. Past the bar. Past an acquaintance calling his name.

He’s scanning the crowd now with something closer to desperation than hope. Looking for the lavender of your dress, the curve of your mouth, the shape of a future he once held in both hands.

He thinks he sees your hair by the fireplace, but it isn’t you. Just someone with the same soft tilt of the head. Another not-you in a sea full of not-yous.

He checks the hallway. A guest bedroom. The stairwell. The far end of the kitchen.

You’re not there. You aren’t anywhere.

The edges of the room start to blur. For a moment, he thinks he’s too late. Thinks maybe you’ve already slipped through his fingers for good.

But then — he sees you.

Near the front door, coat draped over your arm, ready to leave. Ian’s standing beside you, saying something low near your ear. You’re nodding, distracted. Your fingers tighten around your purse strap.

Spencer stops moving.

His whole body goes still — like someone hit pause mid-scene. Like the universe has given him one last, final frame to memorize you before you’re gone.

He could go to you. Reach for you and pull you into him, Ian be damned. Say your name. Tell you the truth — that it’s been 313 days since you left and he’s loved you for every single one of them. That when you turned to him on the balcony and said I still mean it, he should’ve said I never stopped, either.

But he doesn’t.

Because the part of him that’s always loved you best — the part that curled around you on the kitchen floor, the part that kept you at a distance thinking it was safest — knows what it means to protect someone.

And sometimes it means letting you walk away, even when it feels like it might kill him.

So he stays where he is. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He just watches.

Watches the way you pause at the door like something intangible is tugging at you. Watches the moment your head turns, as if your muscles knew he was there before your heart could catch up.

Your eyes meet Spencer’s across the foyer, and for a second, the rest of the world vanishes.

Neither of you smiles. Neither speaks.

But everything is said.

It’s in the way your mouth parts like you might call his name and then don’t. In the way you look at him like you remember it all. Like you never stopped remembering. Like you never stopped wanting.

He wants to go to you. God, he does. It takes every ounce of strength in him to hold back.

And after one long, fragile heartbeat, you look away and leave with Ian’s hand pressed against your back.

The door closes softly behind you. Spencer doesn’t move.

He watches the snow blur the windows. Watches the space you left behind.

And in the quiet, he holds it all. The ache. The memories. The weight of a love he never stopped carrying. The feeling of caring so deeply for someone from the outside of a life that used to be his.

Because that’s what he is now — an outsider.

Not your partner. Not your future.

Just some protector.

And maybe — for now — that can be enough.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[reiderwriter]

✍️Introduction and Masterlist✍️

About me: Hi! I'm Kacie, I'm 21, and I use she/her/any pronouns. I'm from the UK but I'm currently an English Teacher in South Korea (if you want to know more I'm totally open to conversations about it!) and this is my side blog, so I follow and respond to comments from @studykac

Writing: At this point in time. I only write for Spencer Reid. I will pass on any requests that focus on other characters because I don't currently write for them. A lot of my work is also NSFW. If you are under the age of 18, do NOT interact with any of my posts that are tagged #maturereiding - please block this tag!! When my requests are open you can request through the Ask box, or through DMs, but please keep in mind I do have a full time job, so I will do my best to get things out quickly. You can find my recommendations in the tag #reiderrecommends!

Other interests: kpop, especially Seventeen, SHINee, NCT and BTS, Criminal Minds (obv), NCIS, reading any genre of books (here's a link for my GoodReads page), Percy Jackson, languages (learning Korean currently!), English Literature, Jane Austen etc.

Requests are: CLOSED - find my request guidelines here!

Writing:

Spencer Reid x Reader NSFW

Everyone Looks Better in a Sundress // 3.8k

Summary: The AC at the BAU decides to take a holiday during a summer heatwave, and when you decide the FBI’s dress code is merely a suggestion, you unwittingly catch Spencer’s eye.

Warnings: Dom!Spencer, sub!reader, semi-public sex, fingering, car sex, degradation, name-calling, edging, praise-kink, dumbification

Everyone Looks Better in a Sundress pt. 2 // 2.4K

Summary: After a hot encounter in your car, Spencer pulls you inside your apartment hoping to give you some more relief from the heat.

Warnings: Dom!Spencer, sub!Reader, soft Dom, oral (M receiving), pet names, degradation, face fucking, messy sex, creampie, breeding kink

Margaritas and Mistakes // Part 1 // Part 2

Summary: On a group night out, you get a little more drunk than you want to, and when Spencer shows up looking like the love of your life and not just your coworker, you realise that the margarita’s are having more of an effect than they should be.

Warnings: Suggestive language, dirty talk, heavy petting, hickeys, making out, mentions of arousal etc. (part one)

Show You What Devotion Is ❤️‍🔥

Summary: After a lustful encounter on the jet, you and Spencer decide to try out a friends-with-benefits relationship. What you didn't expect was for his sex drive to be so high, and your need for him to overpower your ability to function properly.

Warnings: So many, check the post for details.

More Than Words 🫶 // 8k

Summary: After telling a white lie to your family about your relationship status, you're forced to ask your coworker Spencer to pretend to be your boyfriend for a weekend wedding.

Warnings: Mostly fluff, penetrative sex, creampie, mentions of Spencer's childhood.

The Us That Could've Been 💔 // 5.7k

Summary: They say to get over a man, you have to get under another. Spencer isn't sure why the idea of you doing just that makes him feel so bad.

Warnings: angst, unprotected sex, creampie, spoilers for season 8, mentions of Maeve, Spencer is emotionally illiterate etc.

Unhappy Holidays 👻🦃🎄🎆// 5k

Summary: You're unlucky enough to run into Spencer Reid at holiday celebrations four years in a row. In the New Year, you're resolving to rid him from your mind forever, but you never were one to stick to resolutions 👻🦃🎄🎆

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, low-key work rivals, semi-public sex, car sex, hate sex, fingering, thigh riding, creampie, unprotected sex (no condoms but contraceptive mentioned), slight spoilers for s4 of Criminal Minds (but not really).

Flirting with the FBI // 7.1k

Summary: To catch a killer, you have to first out him on the FBI's radar. By hacking their systems and flirting with Spencer Reid, of course.

Warnings: Rough sex, Dom Spencer, bimbofication, dacryphilia, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, use of slut and good girl, more in the fic warnings.

Spencer Reid x Reader SFW

The Lightbulb Moment // 4.8k

Summary: You want Spencer all to yourself for the first few months of your relationship and he's only too happy to comply. Unfortunately, you're two dumbasses who can't keep their hands off one another.

Just Hanging Out // 3k

Summary: To kick off your vacation, you find yourself at Rossi's mansion with your team for a big summer barbeque. A hammock in the garden catches your eye, and you enlist Reid to help you have some fun in the sun.

(Not smut but highly suggestive, read at your own discretion).

Isn't She Pretty, Daddy? // 2k

Summary: You're a teacher, and you have to call in one of your students' parents to talk about their recent troubling behaviour. It's more embarrassing than you thought when Spencer Reid shows up.

Series

That's What You Get // complete 💕

Summary: After three weeks on a case in Vegas and a particularly draining phone call from your mother, you decide to take Reid up on his offer to show you the sights of Las Vegas. When you wake up the next morning, you realise that one of the sights was a 24hour Wedding Parlor, and that you're now Mrs Reid.

Genres: Fluff, smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters, happy ending.

Playlist: Me and You in 2024

Summary: One song fic a week throughout 2024!

Genres: Various, check individual chapters for specific warnings!♡

Answered Requests

(NSFW) Request inspired by Taylor Swift's False God 🙏// 2.2k

(NSFW) Request for a soft!Dom Spencer with cockwarming and breeding kink 💕 // 2k words

(NSFW) Request for Reader introducing vanilla!Spencer to a BDSM lifestyle ✨// 0.7k words

(SFW) Request for Reader kidnapped by unsub and saved by Spencer 💕 // 2.2k

(SFW) Request for pregnant Reader and Spencer who is an absolute fool for her 🌸 // 1.2k

(SFW) Request for shamelessly flirting with an oblivious Spencer 😊// 2k

(NSFW) Request for post-Maeve Spencer who uses sex as a coping mechanism 🫡//4.6k

(NSFW) Request for alt!sub!Reader meeting the team for the first time (and they totally think she's the Dom) 🤭// 1.5k

(NSFW) Request for CNC office sex with Spencer 🚫// 1k

(SFW) Request for Spencer finding out you knew Emily was alive 😿// 0.7k

(SFW) Request for training session with Spencer 🤼‍♀️// 1.8k

(SFW) Request for I Can See You inspired angst 🥺// 1.7k

(NSFW) Request for Spencer making the reader beg for it ❤️‍🔥// 1.6k

(NSFW) Request for CNC with soft!Dom Spencer - shower sex 💦// 1.3k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - Professor Reid doesn't know he's distracting the class 👓// 3k

(NSFW) Request for Sub!Spencer begging reader to dominate him 🫣// 1.7k

(NSFW) Request for Genophobic virgin!Reader ❤️‍🩹// 5k

(NSFW) Request for Professor Spencer with a jealous gf 🐺//2k

(SFW) Request for reader helping Spencer through recovery 🤕// 1k

(NSFW) Request for possessive Spencer reacting to your little black dress 💃// 2.5k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - Undercover with an "excited" Spencer 🕵‍♂️// 3.6k

(SFW) Request for playing video games with Spencer 🎮// 1k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - munch! Spencer is obsessed with you 👅// 2k

(SFW) Request for Spencer babying an oblivious reader 👶// 2k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - sharing a cold bed with Frenemy Spencer 🛌// 3.5k

(NSFW) Request for reader being distracted while Spencer is reading 📚// 1k

(NSFW) Request for Pillow fort sex with Spencer ⛺️// 2k

(NSFW) Request for car confession and oral with Spencer 🚗// 1.7k

(NSFW) Request for dancing the night away with Spencer 💃// 2.5k

(NSFW) Request for the morning after Spencer loses his V-Card 😶// 0.7k

(NSFW) Request for reader confessing to Spencer when he's in his anthrax shower 🚿// 0.7k

(NSFW) Request for Spencer finding readers unusual sensitive area 🤝// 3.5k

(NSFW) Request for Spencer and Hotch!Reader secret relationship 🤐// 6k

(SFW) Request for reader being jealous of Spencer and Lila 🤽‍♀️// 2.1k

(NSFW) Request for gun kink 🔫//3k

(SFW) Request for Shy! Spencer and Flirty!Reader 🫣 // 2.3k

[angel-writes-skz-here]

Seduction

Prof! Minho x Student! Reader Synopsis: Minho finds your note, but is it too late? Have you moved on with Hayden? Are the games really over? Have you left for good? Warnings: Angst, fluff A/N: Part 4 is here!! Now y'all in addition to doing this series and other fics, I'm joining in with @breakmeoff to help her celebrate her 200 followers! If you'd like a fic written for it, head to her page or Here to check out the drink menu and submit your order in her Asks! I hope you all enjoy the chapter! Much love and thanks for reading! As usual, let me know if you want to be tagged! 💖

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Missing You

Minho stares at the note for a while, his own words slapping him in the face. He puts it down on the counter and pulls out his phone texting you.

So you just leave without telling me. Real mature.

He waits for a response, but he’s left on delivered. He sighs. He could go to your dorm, but how in the world would he explain what he’s doing there? The only thing he can do is wait till Monday when he sees you in class.

-

You see the message pop up on your screen, but you don’t actually click on it to read it, just skim it on the home screen as you board the plane. You sit down in your window seat, biting your lip as you stare out the window in thought.

What you did wasn’t great, but he deserved it. He was a total ass and you just wanted him to feel the pain you felt, except, as bad as you hated to admit it, it was hard as hell to leave him there sleeping. His face was softened, peaceful even. His light snores were sweet, and if the world wasn’t so cruel, you could see yourself waking up next to him for a long time. But that wasn’t reality, reality was, he deserved every single bit of what was coming to him.

It had finally happened, so you thought, that some level of a connection had been formed between you, and you ripped it away; cut him the way his words cut you.  

Even if you did fake the latter part of the aphrodisiac.

-

The day goes by without a word from you, Minho sees it as a game, one of the many he was sure you were playing. He knew you’d crack if he went cold and distant, so that was his plan. No contact, no stolen glances, no smirks or smiles, play the game better than you and it wouldn’t hurt so bad, right? It wouldn’t be real, right?

Little did he know he was the only one playing a game.

-

Monday comes around and you aren’t in class. He tries texting you at the end.

Reminder: one more absence and you fail.

Not two minutes later he see’s you’ve read the message. He waits for the chat bubbles to appear.

But they don’t.

I know you read the message, y/n. I don’t want to fail you but I will be forced to if you don’t show up tomorrow.

Once again you read the message and don’t respond. He sighs and puts his phone away going about his day.

Tuesday, once again no sign of you. He shakes his head, and tries to prove he isn’t playing games and goes to log into the system and searches for your name only to see it isn’t on his roster anymore.

“What the fuck,” he asks himself quietly. Confusion strikes him as he pulls out his phone, bypassing the text message this time.

-

The phone rings and you jump from the sudden loud noise.

“Hello?” you answer, voice completely and utterly sleep induced.

“What the hell, are you asleep? It’s 1 pm.” Minho’s voice cuts through the phone.

“For you maybe, it’s midnight here,” you explain as you lay with your back against the mattress, eyes closed not ready for this conversation.

“What the hell are you talking about? And did you switch professors without telling me?”

You sigh, “Good night, Minho.”

“Y/n, wait, what the hell is going on!” he asks, irritation audible in his voice, as well as a hint of panic.

“I’m not in Korea anymore, genius. Now good night!” you almost yell before hitting the end call button, huffing as tears brim your eyes. You cover your face sighing.

You missed Minho like crazy, despite his harsh words, and it had only been a few days, but realistically what did you expect? A relationship? How would that work when your student visa ran out? You hadn’t thought past the here now until the plane ride, convincing yourself this was the best possible thing for your future and for your current sanity.

Moving back to the states meant Minho could finally be a memory; he could be the ghost he was intended to be after the first night you met. Not to mention, you could move on with Hayden who cared about you. Who loved you and waited for you, was willing to let go of any of the dumb things you did while half a world away.

The next morning you were getting ready to enroll in your new college classes.

“Now it says here you were studying in Korea,” your counselor notes, “Why on earth would you want to leave not even a year into studying?”

“I had some personal matters that needed my attention here at home and I just didn’t think the university was the best fit for me anyway.” You smile through the lie. She doesn’t push, only helps you get set up.

You leave the office, the feeling surreal that you’re back. Now that school is set up, you decide to go over to Hayden’s apartment.

-

You knock on his door and a smiling Hayden answers.

“Y/n!” He cheers pulling you inside. The two of you sit on the couch, he asks about your flight, asks about school, all the while holding you like you’d disappear if he let go.

“I’m so glad your home,” he leaves a few feather light kisses on your neck. It didn’t feel like home, but it was.

You crane your neck to kiss his lips, softly moaning against them as a certain professor enters your mind. You furrow your brows.

No, you got your revenge, it’s over and done.

No more Minho.

Hayden notices your demeanor.

“Everything ok? You seem a little tense,” he trails off rubbing your arm up and down.

“I’m fine,” you smile as you kiss him again. This time, the thought of Minho holding you close the way he did that night as your bodies connected,  enters your brain and you pull away from Hayden.

“Why don’t we go out, do something fun before school starts up for me.” You smile.

-

Minho can’t believe it. You weren’t kidding, you really left. He’d gone to your dorm after the phone call and seen your clean room. He checked with your other professors to see if it was actually true; it was. He felt empty, lost and confused.

Had he been that horrible? Was it all a big joke to you? How could he not have seen it? He knew he had been harsh, but he tried to vulnerable with you, thought maybe, just maybe something between you had settled, but clearly, he was wrong.

Over the next several weeks Minho is a wreck. He’s barely holding himself together. How could a girl he spent so little time with really take up this much of his mind?

He misses simply seeing you in your seat during class, misses the flirty signals, misses reading your assignments, regardless of any innuendo’s you could work into them. There are countless nights he spends tossing and turning, dreaming of your last encounter. Wishing he could feel you, that he could apologize for the words he said, tell you that ‘rules be damned’ and that you were his and his only. He needed you, something in his brain functioned better with you around, something about him was lighter and brighter, despite how he made it sound.

He just hadn’t realized it until you left.

Everything reminds him of you. Birds singing in the morning?

He remembered the way you’d absent mindedly hum a tune in class while reading.

The flowers he would see on the way to his office?

He remembered how bright, full of life and beautiful you were.

Students laughing in the courtyard?

He remembered how beautiful your sweet laugh was and how he missed you being around.

He couldn’t turn anywhere without being reminded of you. And he can’t take it anymore. Minho knows he’s got to do something about it. The late nights and empty days are simply draining him of any life. He can’t take it anymore.

-

During those several weeks Minho doesn’t reach out. Both of you just trying to move on with your lives, but you find your self staring at his contact name more than you should; hoping he’ll call or text.

-

You and Hayden are going strong by the time December rolls around, winter break only a few days out, life has become mundane, easy, and honestly, a little boring.

Well other than the few weird things you’d found around Hayden the last few weeks. Some random hair ties, an earing he said belonged to his sister, as well as one of his sisters’ shirts on his bedroom floor, oddly tucked away in his laundry.

Did you believe it? At first. But once you found the shirt, a pit in your stomach began to form. However, you didn’t voice any concerns especially after a few weeks went by and nothing else was found.

Until the official start of winter break.

You’re getting in car, Hayden picking you up from your last class, and you’re on your way to get hot chocolate from Starbucks. You’re arranging your stuff in the back seat as he drives when you see it.

A Durex wrapper in the floor board.

Your breath hitches and you bite your bottom lip. You hadn’t had sex in his car, or all week for that matter, and Durex wasn’t what he used for condoms anyway.

At least, not with you.

You sit down in the seat; hands folded in your lap.

“I’m, uh, I’m not feeling much like a hot chocolate anymore. I have a headache. Can you take me home?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah, are you sure? Do I need to stop and get you anything?”

“Nope, I just need to lay down.” You try to smile at him.

“Yeah, ok.” He says before changing lanes to take you home.

-

He pulls into the drive way and before he can lean in to give you a kiss you get out of the car, slamming the front door. You grab your bags from the back seat, and silently, you place the wrapper on his console. He looks to it, then you, eyes wide. You scowl and slam the car door, running inside the house, flinging the door shut behind you.

“FUCK!”

You sink down to the floor against the back door, emotions stopping you in your tracks.

“Y/n, let me explain.” He pounds on the door.

“Explain what? That you’re cheating on me? You asked me to come home! You asked me to come back and this is how you do me? I left a once and a life time opportunity for you!” you scream at him as you open the door.

“So please, tell me how you can explain.”

“We were on a break, Zoe and I,”

“Zoe? Are you fucking serious? You let that nasty bitch touch you? Oh my god, then you touched me,” you gag at the thought.

“It was just sex,” he says and you scoff.

“And yet you were seeing her while I was home! If it was just ‘sex’ you would have cut it off! That wrapper wasn’t in the car two days ago so I know it’s fresh, Hayden!”

You slam the door again. You take a deep breath, arms wrapped around your body, as you set off to the living room. Hayden walks off defeated, both of you knowing the end has come.

-

“What a way to kick off winter break,” you sniffle to yourself as you watch some cheesy Christmas film on tv. You were dressed in comfortable pj’s with homemade  hot chocolate and snacks.

“Fucking bull shit,” you mutter at the tv as you toss some popcorn at the screen as the two main characters kiss. You huff as you feel the tears come back. You allow them to flow freely down your cheeks.

As you sniffle, wiping the tears away, you hear a faint knock on your door. You huff as you get up, padding to the door.

“Hayden I don’t want to see,” you’re cut off by a face you hadn’t expected to see at the door.

Minho.

Your mouth falls open, eyes wide. He’s in sweatpants, a t shirt and has take out in hand.

“Can I come in?” he asks holding up the bag. You can’t say anything, so you step aside allowing him into the house.

You’re too stunned to speak, too emotionally vulnerable to be angry at him right now, too everything to do anything rational. So you simply watch him as he methodically walks around the kitchen, letting the silence settle between you.

He finds your glasses, opens the fridge like he owns the place, and pours two glasses of wine.

He sets them down on the counter, looking you in the eye, neither of you exactly sure what to say to the other. You’re shaking, visibly, and his eyes rake over your body, noticing the details of stress evident in your body language.

“I um,” he says lowly, clearing his throat, “I got your address from the system, it was in your file that was sent to each professor,” he explains. Once again silence stretches between you.

“Y/n,” he breathes and you close your eyes and as he takes a step towards you; you step back in response.

“You should go,” you say barely above a mumble, opening the door for him.

“Y/n please,” he begs. It’s not soft, it’s not sweet, it’s desperate. It’s longing. It’s something you don’t recognize from him. He strides towards you, too quickly for you to move back, he shuts the door and he cups your face in his hands.

You force your eyes closed again, not daring to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, noses barely brushing each other.

“For what? You told me the truth. I can’t expect anymore than that.” You breathe shakily in his grip.

“No, baby, no I didn’t. I- fuck,” he sighs turning his head to the side in frustration, eyes briefly closing before turning back to you. He notices your lip tremble slightly, signaling tear filled eyes.

“Please, just let me stay. Let me explain.”

“You need to get back to Korea, get back to your current students.” You say as you force yourself away, walking past him, taking the glass of wine and the Italian food he brought over into the festively decorated living room. Minho peers in, the room is cozy, a Christmas tree in the corner, a fireplace and a TV with some cheesy movie on, he notices the popcorn and multiple blankets on the sectional that’s put together to look more like a large bed.

“Go home, Minho.” You call out, still being able to feel his presence despite your attention on the tv. He sighs before kicking his shoes off. Your body stiffens as he climbs on to the sectional with you, and gently takes the food and wine from you. You look past him, still angry with him.

“Kitten,” he barely whispers and you snap your neck in his direction.

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare,” you seethe.

“You ignored me, you rejected me multiple times, fucked my math teacher with me in the room, then blatantly sat there and insulted me, and you think that just because you flew half way around the world I’m supposed to just be fucking grateful to you? Grateful that you decided, after I left, that you might want me? Are you serious right now?” You rise up to your knees, forcing Minho to relax back against the couch.

“You’re a shit human being, Minho. I get it, I wasn’t listening. But I am now. And I’m not going to sit here and just be grateful that you decided to come after me.” Your chest is heaving, cheeks tinted a shade of pink, eyes glassy and face twisted into something mixed with hurt, anxiety, and pure anger.

“And another thing, you men think you’re so fucking entitled, that we won’t figure shit out-,” you jab his chest before your cut off by Minho sitting up and crashing his lips to yours. You try to keep your resolve, gently trying to push him off you, but his lips are buttery soft, it’s forceful, but delicate all at the same time, his lips are uttering words his voice can’t. His hands find your face, gently cradling it like he did in the kitchen.

You fall back against the couch, Minho following you fluidly.

“Shut up,” he growls against your lips.

“Just shut,” his lips attach to your quickly, “the fuck up,” he mumbles and you can’t fight it anymore, your resolve is gone, something about him just crumbles you regardless of better judgment. Your hands are tangling in his hair, his body slowly pressing against yours as he groans against your lips as your hips shift upward.

“God, I’ve missed you so much,” his voice cracks so slightly, if you weren’t paying attention, you would’ve missed it, as he moves his lips to your neck.

“What?” you ask breathless, lips kiss swollen as he sinks his teeth into the flesh of your neck, causing you to groan and turn your head, giving him a better angle to suck, bite and lick.

“I said, I’ve missed you.” He mutters in your ear, causing goosebumps to flood your skin. He pulls back from you witnessing your shocked face, eyes glassy once more, still emotional from the earlier fight with Hayden.

“What’s wrong?” he searches your eyes as the pad of his thumb swipes over your cheek gently.

“Nothing, I just, it’s a lot,” your voice cracks.

“Don’t lie to me, what’s wrong,” his tone grows firm- protective. You look past him, biting your lip as the tv continues to play in the background.

“Minho, no offense, but you just showing up here,”

“Should tell you something about how I feel,” he interrupts.

“It’s been almost two months,” you mutter.

“I tried to move on, I really did. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t stop thinking about how we left things, how I spoke to you, how everything around me seemed to remind me of you, I tried to let you go but I couldn’t.” He explains and you stare at him, expression unreadable.

“But you’re avoiding my question,” he scolds. You sigh, a tear escaping your eye, one that Minho quickly kisses away, before closing his eyes.

“Baby,” he whispers as his forehead rests on yours, the breath from his nose ghosting over your chin. You had no idea Minho could be this… gentle. This… vulnerable.

“It’s just, today I found a fresh condom wrapper in Hayden’s car and we basically broke up, and, you know I left,” your voice begins to crack as tears fill your eyes, “I left because of our shit and he convinced me I’d be happier here and I thought we both could move on and I had a future with him, but that’s completely slipped through my fingers and now you’re here and I’m still pissed but I missed you like crazy and I-,” Minho’s lips cut you off again, this time, gently, like he has nothing but time, and plans on spending all of it with you.

The kiss turns from sweet to steamy as you pull him closer, fingers tangling in the ends of his hair, your palm to the back of his neck as he rests against you, body flush with yours.

“Fuck,” he breathes against you as your mouths separate for only a moment, this time, both of you exploring the other’s mouth, tongues gliding against each other. Your hand finds his wrist, guiding it to your clothed core, whimpering as his ghosts over it.

“No, no, no, not tonight, baby.” He says breathlessly. You pull back and look at him.

“What, but I thought,”

“We’ve got all week, ok? Tonight I just want to be with you and I’m not going anywhere,” he promises before kissing your forehead.

“And neither are you,” he playfully nudges you.

“You really came all this way, for me?” you ask quietly as he settles beside you.

“No actually I came because I wanted to see the snow.” He deadpans and you jab his side before he smiles.

“Baby, I’m absolutely crazy about you. It just took you leaving for me finally admit to myself.” He says quietly before kissing your lips again softly and allowing you to grab his food, and yours along with the drinks. You come back to the couch, settling in beside him to watch the rest of the Christmas movie, cuddling into his side. For the night, nothing else matters.

Just you and Minho.

Tags: @breakmeoff @thatonegirlonhere @thelovelybireader @channieehrtz @voicesinmyhead-rc @girlblogger-04 @sea1884 @kissesmellow21 @lily409 @kttb @esterxioo @pinkkiluvvmina @slutformyloveleeminho @yaorzu-blog @only14hsng @sillylittlecat1 @unstasia @peskybirdysya @minniesverse @stay5life @chezzeballs300

Do not repost my work

Love notes and comments are greatly appreciated!

[saymonsays]

‎1 — Solving for X (and Maybe Love)

‎

pairing: kwon jiyong x reader

ep 2 | ep 3

‎Summary: She’s a popular girl who hates math. He’s the quiet genius no one notices. When she’s forced to get tutoring—and he’s assigned as her tutor—their worlds crash into each other. She’d rather fail than accept help. He’d rather disappear than be noticed. It’s slow, it’s messy, it’s unspoken—but it’s real. In a classroom full of numbers, they might be solving for something they never expected: each other.

‎‎Tags: slow burn, highschool romance, opposites attract, art vs math, chaotic friendships, banter, wholesome chemistry, just fluff

‎‎‎‎“Variable Unknown”

‎‎There’s a rule I live by: If you can’t solve it, draw on it.

‎So naturally, my math quiz had a doodle of a frog wearing sunglasses in the margin and a dragon curling around question 7.

‎

‎“Y/N…” Mr. Lee sighed, holding up the paper like it smelled. “This isn’t... art class.”

‎

‎“Wasn’t trying to be,” I muttered, snatching it from his hand. “That dragon’s judging me for trying.”

‎

‎He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re smart. But attitude doesn’t pass exams.”

‎

‎I leaned back in the chair. “I don’t need help. I just need the system to stop sucking.”

‎

‎“You need a tutor,” he said flatly.

‎

‎“I don’t need—!”

‎

‎The door creaked open.

‎

‎And in walked him.

‎Kwon Jiyong.

‎

‎I’d seen him around. Hoodie. Headphones. A ghost in the halls. People said he once corrected a teacher’s math mistake mid-lesson and then apologized for speaking. He was the type who made solving equations look spiritual.

‎

‎He glanced at me once, then looked away. Like I was air. Or less.

‎

‎“You’ll be working with Kwon Jiyong from now on,” Mr. Lee said. “Unless you’d rather fail.”

‎

‎I scoffed. “Why him?”

‎

‎Jiyong blinked, like the conversation was happening in another dimension.

‎

‎“I… don’t mind,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to my desk. “I guess.”

‎

‎Ugh.

‎

‎After class, I stomped to my locker. Saebom was waiting, sipping a strawberry milk like she’d been born to meddle.

‎

‎“Sooo?” she asked, already grinning. “New tutor boy?”

‎

‎“He barely spoke three words. I don’t need a tutor, Sae. I need the Ministry of Education to lower their expectations.”

‎

‎“You do need a tutor,” she replied sweetly. “You also need to stop drawing frogs in your math tests.”

‎

‎Daesung popped up beside her like a gremlin. “Did someone say frogs?”

‎

‎“NO,” I groaned.

‎

‎“Ohhh, this is good,” he laughed. “Jiyong tutoring her? That’s like a cat babysitting a squirrel.”

‎

‎Saebom and Daesung high-fived like the menace twins they were. Meanwhile, I was internally screaming.

‎

‎Back in the empty classroom, Jiyong sat beside me like I was made of static. He opened his notebook—neatly written, color-coded, no doodles. The polar opposite of mine, which featured stickmen sword fighting beside a crying graph.

‎

‎“You really hate math, huh,” he said quietly.

‎

‎“You really can’t draw, huh,” I shot back, eyeing his sketch of a ‘tree’ that looked like an angry fork.

‎

‎He actually blinked in surprise. “It’s… not my thing.”

‎

‎“Well, this whole ‘me getting tutored’ thing? Not my thing.”

‎

‎He didn’t respond. Just turned a page in his notebook and slid it over, his handwriting painfully perfect.

‎

‎“Fine. Let’s just start.”

‎

‎As our pens began to scratch across paper, I realized something.

‎

‎This wasn’t going to be easy.

‎

‎Not because I couldn’t learn math.

‎

‎But because something about Kwon Jiyong made me want to draw him into my world. Even if he hated trees.

‎

‎The second tutoring session started like a funeral. Mutual annoyance sprinkled with suspicious butterflies, and a tutoring session that’s barely a tutoring session because you're too busy drawing and he’s too stunned trying to understand how you exist.

‎

‎Jiyong sat across from me again, silent as a ghost, his pen already poised like he was ready to operate on the math textbook.

‎

‎I, on the other hand, was drawing a chicken in a spacesuit.

‎

‎“Y/N,” he said softly.

‎

‎I didn’t look up. “What?”

‎

‎“You’re not even holding a calculator.”

‎

‎“I’m creating, Jiyong. Let me live.”

‎

‎He paused. “You spelled ‘space’ wrong on the chicken’s helmet.”

‎

‎I looked up. He was staring at my doodle, deadpan. And I swear—I swear—there was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

‎

‎“You watching me or tutoring me?” I smirked.

‎

‎“Trying to do both. It’s hard,” he mumbled, eyes darting back to his notebook. “You’re… distracting.”

‎

‎Butterflies. Annoyed butterflies. “I told Mr. Lee this wouldn’t work.”

‎

‎“I didn’t ask for this either.”

‎

‎“Then why’re you here?”

‎

‎“Because I do things properly,” he replied, eyes suddenly sharp. “Unlike some people who draw chickens on math books and expect miracles.”

‎

‎“Correction: space chickens. And miracles are kind of my thing.”

‎

‎He blinked, then shook his head slightly like clearing a mental bug. “Okay. Fine. Let’s try again. Just—answer this equation.”

‎

‎He slid the notebook over. I glanced at it. Numbers. Letters. I wrote down “potato” and slid it back.

‎

‎He stared at the page.

‎

‎“That’s not even a number.”

‎

‎“I know,” I said proudly. “But it’s honest.”

‎

‎Jiyong let out a long, slow sigh, like he was using every brain cell not to give up on humanity.

‎

‎“You’re hopeless.”

‎

‎“No,” I said, tapping the page with my pen. “I’m just creatively rebellious.”

‎

‎He closed his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

‎

‎“And yet here you are. Voluntarily.”

‎

‎Silence. Just the sound of rain hitting the windows and my pen sketching a tiny crown on his doodle of a triangle.

‎

‎Then—he looked up. Right at me.

‎

‎And for the first time, I saw it. A crack in the wall. A question in his gaze. Like he was trying to figure me out—and kind of liked that he couldn’t.

‎

‎“What?” I asked, suddenly a little breathless.

‎

‎“…Nothing,” he said quietly. “Just… you’re loud.”

‎

‎“I didn’t even say anything.”

‎

‎“Exactly.”

‎

‎Our eyes lingered.

‎

‎And I hated it.

‎Because for a moment, I forgot I was supposed to hate being here.

‎——————————

Your room – Saturday Afternoon

‎Your desk was chaos—gel pens, pastel highlighters, open sketchbooks, and a half-eaten box of macarons.

‎

‎You weren’t studying. Obviously.

‎

‎You were halfway through drawing a bored-looking dinosaur holding a “HELP ME” sign on the corner of your planner. Next to it? A list of math formulas Mr. Lee told you to memorize. They were untouched.

‎

‎A text pinged.

‎

‎→ Saebom

‎‎“U still alive or did math murder u?”

‎

‎You smirked, sent a picture of the dinosaur, then leaned back in your chair and stared at the ceiling.

‎

‎Your room looked like it belonged in a magazine—soft lighting, clean aesthetic, shelves with books you might never read. Everything was perfect. Too perfect.

‎

‎And yet, you felt… stuck. Like everyone had already decided who you were before you even opened your mouth.

‎

‎Beautiful. Rich. Dumb.

‎None of it was true.

‎

‎Well, maybe the first two.

‎

‎You sighed, flipped open a new sketch page—and without thinking, started drawing a boy in a hoodie.

‎

‎Glasses. Blank expression.

‎A math book in his lap.

‎

‎You paused.

‎

‎“No,” you muttered to yourself. “Nope. Not happening.”

‎

‎You ripped the page out and threw it in the bin.

‎

‎Jiyong’s Kitchen – Saturday Evening

‎

‎Jiyong was slicing onions with surgical precision, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

‎

‎“Jiyong-ah, you don’t have to cook every time,” his mom said gently, walking in.

‎

‎“I like it,” he replied quietly. “It keeps me focused.”

‎

‎She smiled and ruffled his hair, even as he ducked away.

‎

‎In the background, his sister was doing math homework. He glanced over, spotted a mistake, and slid over next to her, correcting it without a word.

‎

‎“Thanks, ” she chirped.

‎

‎He nodded, then returned to the stove, his thoughts drifting back to you.

‎

‎You were everything he wasn’t. Loud. Bright. Effortlessly social.

‎

‎But also… sharp, in ways people missed. Your sarcasm wasn’t empty. Your doodles were alive. You didn’t try to be interesting—you just were.

‎

‎He had no idea how to talk to you.

‎But he couldn’t stop thinking about your hands when you drew.

‎

‎School Courtyard – Monday Morning

‎

‎“Is it true?” someone whispered.

‎

‎“I heard she’s getting tutored by him.”

‎

‎“Why would a girl like her even talk to a guy like that?”

‎

‎The words floated around Jiyong like smog as he walked past a group of boys.

‎

‎One of them—taller, louder—stuck out a foot.

‎

‎Jiyong tripped.

‎

‎His books hit the ground. Pens scattered.

‎

‎The boys laughed. “Woah.. Guess he forgot to solve that equation.”

‎

‎He didn’t say a word. Just picked up his things quietly, face unreadable.

‎

‎But as he stood, he saw someone watching him from the second-floor window.

‎

‎You.

‎

‎Your eyes locked. He looked away quickly.

‎

‎But you didn’t.

‎

‎Your fingers tightened around your sketchbook.

‎

‎School Hallway – After Lunch

‎

‎The hallway buzzed with lazy post-lunch chatter—lockers clanging, sneakers squeaking, some guy trying (and failing) to flirt with the class president.

‎

‎You were walking with Saebom, eating pomegranate seeds out of a ziplock bag and talking about literally anything except math, when you heard it.

‎

‎"Look, it's her nerdy little sidekick."

‎

‎You turned your head, mid-chew.

‎

‎Jiyong stood near the lockers, shoulders tense. One of the guys from the soccer team—Hojun, who was about as sharp as a deflated balloon—was blocking his path.

‎

‎“Oh come on, man. Say something. You tutor the prettiest girl in school and act like you’re above everyone now?” he laughed, glancing around to make sure people were watching. “What are you, mute? Got secret rich-boy confidence?”

‎

‎Jiyong didn’t respond. Just tried to move past.

‎

‎Another guy stepped into his way.

‎

‎You dropped the pomegranate bag.

‎

‎“Hey.”

‎

‎The whole group froze. People turned.

‎

‎You marched forward, voice sharp and crystal-clear.

‎

‎“Got nothing better to do than pick on someone who’s smarter than you?”

‎

‎Hojun blinked. “Wha—hey, we’re just joking—”

‎

‎“Oh no, I love jokes. Want to hear one?” you snapped. “A guy who failed math three times thinks he can bully the kid tutoring me.”

‎

‎Laughter scattered around the hallway like popcorn.

‎

‎Hojun’s ears turned red. “You don’t have to go that far—”

‎

‎“You didn’t either,” you cut in, stepping between him and Jiyong now. “So back off.”

‎

‎They backed down—slow, awkward, tripping over their dignity. The moment they disappeared, you exhaled hard, turning to Jiyong.

‎

‎He was staring at you.

‎

‎Expression unreadable. Eyes wide. Like he was seeing you for the first time.

‎

‎“What?” you asked, still fuming.

‎

‎“You didn’t have to do that,” he said softly.

‎

‎“Well, I did. Because that was messed up.”

‎

‎Silence.

‎

‎“You okay?” you added, quieter now.

‎

‎He gave a tiny nod. “...You made Hojun look stupid.”

‎

‎You shrugged. “He did that on his own.”

‎

‎And just like that, you turned to leave. But he called your name.

‎

‎You looked back.

‎

‎Jiyong wasn’t smiling—but he wasn’t blank either.

‎

‎“Thanks,” he said. Like the word wasn’t something he said often, but meant when he did.

‎

‎You waved it off, walking fast. “Don’t make it a thing.”

‎

‎But your face burned a little.

‎

‎And the worst part?

‎

‎Saebom was waiting around the corner, grinning like she just watched episode 12 of her favorite drama.

‎

‎“Ohhh… we’re getting somewhere.”

‎

‎You shoved her. “Shut up.”

‎

‎But even as you did…

‎

‎You were smiling, just a little.

‎

—

Author's note: i wrote this while pooping because i was bored.. this also my first fic PLEASE suggest more things (im a noob) might also drop another part :3

[olderthannetfic]

Hi, I sent you these asks around six months ago, and now that I’ve stumbled across your blog again, I have a few things I want to say.

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/762407704596709376/do-you-have-any-idea-where-one-might-post-smut

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/762779259041398784/ive-been-sending-that-ask-to-anyone-and-everyone

First of all I just want to say that it was incredibly rude of me to ask you about this, or anyone i was reaching out to here on Tumblr tbh. I still have my issues with AO3’s content, but honestly I think my personal opinions on AO3 are beside the point. I wasn’t aware you worked on AO3 when I sent that ask, but I was looking for people who posted about AO3 to ask, which. I don’t really know what I expected. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.

As for finding a different site to engage with my fandoms on, I never did. I tried neocities for a while. I spent about 2 ish months figuring out how to get the website to work how I wanted it to. I got all my fics on their own pages, with a (really janky tbh) “tagging” system with pages for all my multi chapter fics, all my oneshots, etc. I was really proud of it!

And then I had no fandom, because Wattpad was the only place where I talked to people about my fandoms. And without anywhere else to advertise my neocities, nobody was ever gonna find it. And it destroyed my enjoyment of writing altogether. I held on for a few months, writing things even if it felt pointless and I really didn’t want to tbh. I never enjoyed writing to nobody like this to begin with. But I made myself keep going anyway until I couldn’t stand looking at the words I wrote. And then I’d “post” it, and nobody would read it anyway, and I sure as fuck wasn’t going to look at it anymore to read it again myself. So it was basically like before with my google drive, but a google drive I spent 2 months troubleshooting and setting up myself, and with confirmation that no, even if it is visible now, nobody wants to see it anyway. And I did this for months. Just me, screaming into the little void I made for myself. Every time I’d post something to nobody, it made me hate the whole process a little more. And I STILL had no community, even a small one, which is what I wanted to find in the first place.

I’ve since deleted both my neocities, and every fanfic I’ve ever written. Not only have I not found what I was looking for, I’ve made writing unenjoyable for myself now too. You were all right and I failed spectacularly, just like you said I would. I now have no community, none of my old writings, and I’ve killed my muse.

You were right. But now I don’t have anything to share anyway, and honestly? I really, really, really don’t want to write anymore, and now I don’t have anything old I could even try AO3 with. So I think the part of my life when I wrote things is just over now. You were all right and I was an idiot, and now I’m an idiot with one less hobby that used to make me happy. And now I’m completely giving up, like some other people said I would too.

I’m sorry I was rude to you, you didn’t deserve that. I just wanted you to know you were right.

--

The muse will resurface eventually. Having long periods of I Will Never Write Again is pretty common, but they generally end.

[tempural]

Hi!! I wanted to say that I loved reading about your journey of creating a personal website. I'm still unsure between Vercel and Netlify. I have a small question to ask. See, one of the reasons I want to make a website is to archive drawings and journal/sketchbook. Would you have any tips for creating an area on my website just for the diary/journal, which has tags, files for each entry, etc.?

Bello!

Really happy to hear about your interest in websites! I want everyone to make their own site so I don't have to log into social media and get instant tummyaches ♥

Vercel vs Netlify: I think I settled on Vercel for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I just made a site on Netlify, then tested on Vercel, and now I have like 5 websites on Vercel so I just kept using it LOL. I'm sure a more tech-savvy person would know the difference - I think they have certain integrations with specific programs.

Creating a diary or journal with tags:

There's a couple of different ways you can do that, with different levels of work needed.

you got me yapping again:

This sadgrl tutorial might be outdated and may or may not work, but explains the process better than I can.

Easiest: make a journal on Dreamwidth, or another blogging site (wordpress??) that allows easy tags and RSS feed, and embed that RSS feed onto your site.

This requires almost no HTML set-up, and the easiest to organize tags, but you don't truly have the data on your own site since it's just embedded.

When I snuck into a web design class at college, this was one of the methods that the professor used for a blog within a portfolio site LOL.

Shit like wordpress is what a LOT of ~professional~ sites do for their blog section. They code it separately from the main site haha. It's the most popular thing, but not necessarily the best. And wait til you read on what the CEO of wordpress has been having meltdowns about... he owns tumblr too!

It's made with a tutorial for Neocities if that's what you use.

Medium: Set up zonelets.

It will require some HTML and JS editing, but will help automate making headers/footers for each page of a blog.

I've never used it myself, but I see other people speak highly of it.

HARD FOR ME CUZ I'M A GORILLA: I believe a lot of professional web devs will slap your face with their coding cock until you use a static site generator (SSG) to make your site.

You will need some coding knowledge to set up the tagging system since it doesn't come with it enabled by default. But it's made explicitly to be an alternative to big Static Site Generators which are...

It requires some more intimidating knowledge, because it's a lot of scripts that turn files that are not HTML/CSS/JS into plain HTML.

Also you have to use the command line, and that doesn't come with buttons that tell you what you can do. You have to copy/paste all that shit or memorize the code to 'dev build astro' and it all looks silly.

I've used Eleventy, and now am using Astro. Other people use Hugo or Jekyll or some other stuff with crazy names like Glup Shitto. I hate all these sites cuz none of the words mean anything to me. This is a common theme for me and tech. I don't know what NODES or CONTENT or ISLANDS are!!!

I had the most success attempting to learn how to use a SSG by downloading a template and altering it with github + VScodium. Here's the template page for Astro. You click on a theme you like, and it takes you to its github page. (If you don't want to use evil Microsoft stuff sorry. Skip this entire section.) Follow the instructions on the page for "forking" the glup shitto. When it tells you to run commands, I run those commands through the terminal window in VScodium. These tutorials never tell you what these commands do cuz they assume you already know. Usually those commands automatically install the files you need onto your computer, and create the final files.

You can see my wip here for a "tag system" that SHOULD show members of a web listing haha but I don't know what I'm doing and I have a reading disorder AND don't know cumputer good.

THEORETICALLY this will be the simplest and easiest way to maintain tags and files, because after you set it up you just have to write the "content" of the blog page. And you don't have to set up the header/footer ever again. I see the vision, and potential, but I am not there yet when it takes me 5 hours a day to figure out what any of the words in the documentation mean and I don't want to ask an actual tech person cuz they will be like 'obviously just press the Blip on the Repository and then Suck My Ass in the command line".

(side note I haven't updated fujofans in like a year cuz I'm struggling with this part to make updating easier).

Con: the final HTML/CSS code is really ugly if it's "minified", and a lot of themes use """"""professional"""""" CSS libraries like Bootstrap and Tailwind that I honestly think are ugly cuz that's what every fuckin' tech website uses to style their pages and make them look Professional and Minimalist with stupid code like style="500-w dark-gray-balls D-cup-bra" on every single element. Even Toyhouse uses Bootstrap. Eugh!

But maybe you're smarter than me and can wrangle these things better!

That was really long. Woops. I hope you can slug through this wall of text and find something helpful. Feel free to email me if you have any more specific questions. I may or may not be helpful.

If someone else sees this and has better suggestions for making BLOGS, please chime in. I'm begging you.

[daytaker]

The Gang's Tumblr Pages

Inspired by this and my own reaction to it.

Lucifer

Perfectly curated, perfectly formatted, and whenever there's a major change to the tumblr format, he simply leaves the website altogether in a huff of peacock feathers.

Lots of HD photography of nature getting reblogged.

Has an extremely complicated and specific list of tags he uses for every single post.

He only reblogs text posts that are sufficiently visually appealing. Very few meet his high standards.

You could look through his entire blog and not learn one single thing about him except that he's a perfectionist to the point of neurosis.

He has a lot of professional art blogs following him.

Mammon

Oversharing oversharing oversharing!!!!

He regularly gets himself in trouble by shouting about the shit he's done into the void of the internet.

Tried to have a tagging system but forgets about 7/10 times.

Reblogs himself all the time to say "AND ANOTHER THING!!!"

He hates looking at the actual blog pages. The text is always so tiny and some of them start playing music and changing his mouse into a weird shape? No thank you.

He has very few followers and he doesn't really care. Who goes on tumblr for the social element? Weirdos, that's who.

He's insanely easy to troll with anonymous asks. Everyone has done it. Even Lucifer, though he wouldn't admit it.

Some of his best asks:

"did u just post that you're okay with the idea of ponies and unicorns breeding. like no shade on that conceptually but why."

"If you reblog another 'reblog this for good luck' post, I will personally break down your door and steal your skin."

"ur ugly" "yeah-huh" "ugly" "no i won't 'come off anon and fight u' whhy don't you come ON anon and fight me?" "'i don't know how' sounds like something a chicken would say"

Leviathan

He just makes a blog like one of us. Fandom stuff.

Except he's multifandom to the extreme. It's impossible to keep track of his interests because he always has so many simultaneously.

He has the most followers of the brothers just because he gets so deep into so many fandoms that they come rolling in.

He has blocked all of his brothers except for the twins. They're okay.

His blog is a chaotic mess but there is order within the madness. He has a masterpost of tags that explains everything if you care to look at it. (I don't recommend it.)

Satan

It feels stupid to even put this in writing but...cat pics. Endless cat pics. That's like 90% of his blog.

The other 10% is a mixture of book recommendations and analysis, Lucifer shade, and a comprehensive, ever-expanding list of shit Lucifer has done to make Satan angry. It's a very long list. It's organized by theme.

"Lucifer inflicts unjust punishments." "Lucifer makes unnecessary snide remarks." "Lucifer simping for Diavolo and MC (pathetic)."

His blog itself is very minimalist and clean.

He's another fastidious tagger. He tags the cat pics by color, breed, age, number of cats, setting...

Asmodeus

He's not very into tumblr. It's like Devilgram but more complicated and less popular.

Sometimes he'll post or reblog 'aesthetic' things. Moodboards and the like.

In general though, he doesn't really 'get' tumblr.

People don't post selfies very often. Weird.

Beelzebub

Food blog.

Just food.

Reblogging hot dogs.

Reblogging nachos.

Reblogging ice cream.

Nothing else. Ever.

Belphegor

"This minimalist Tumblr has no posts."

No posts.

Default profile picture.

Sometimes he'll like something.

Usually he just looks at it.

Diavolo

There is no order. Only chaos.

He hardly ever uses it, then he'll come online and reblog a million things that have nothing to do with each other. Then he'll go silent again.

He has no tagging system.

He has no custom theme.

He is very friendly to all anonymous askers though.

Barbatos

Barbatos would never have a tumblr. Don't be ridiculous.

Solomon

He only posts very rarely. He prefers to lurk.

When he does post, it's something weird as fuck, like reblogging statistics about owl pellet contents.

He likes to keep people on their toes.

Simeon

Reblogging inspirational quotes, pictures of nature, and general positivity.

That is, once he figures out how the website works.

That takes a really long time.

What is a queue? What are tags? Why is it called a "reblog"? How does he track activity? How does he navigate the homepage? Why does it post things in such a strange order? What is a "Blaze"? What is a draft? Custom URL? Custom Theme? Sideblogs? Mass Post Editor?

Someone please help him.

Solomon probably does that.

Luke

Baking.

He uses tumblr for recipes and images of baked goods.

But tumblr isn't even the best place to go for that, so he isn't on very often.

He sometimes likes Simeon's posts, just as a show of support since he knows how hard Simeon works to post anything anywhere.

[bardic-tales]

Blocking Policy – FAQ

A clarification of how we maintain safety and peace on Written Musings.

Welcome to our Blocking Policy FAQ.

This page exists to clarify how and why we manage our space here on Written Musings. As a shared blog run by both Nikki (🌸🌙) and Sephiroth (🔥⚔️), this is not just a content hub. It’s a personal sanctuary. We’ve built this corner of the internet to be restorative, creatively fulfilling, and emotionally safe. That means establishing clear, respectful boundaries and enforcing them when necessary.

Blocking is never about drama; it’s about peace. If you're here in good faith, we’re glad to have you. This FAQ simply outlines the guidelines we uphold to keep this space kind, calm, and protected.

Q: Why do you block people?

A: We block to preserve the safety, focus, and emotional well-being of our creative space. Written Musings is a sanctuary curated by both of us, and we’ve survived too much real-life harm to tolerate harm online—no matter how subtle.

Blocking is a protective action, not a punishment. We block to maintain peace, not to invite drama.

Q: What kinds of behavior result in a block?

A: We block for the following:

Minors following this blog. If you are under 18, we ask you to do not follow or interact. This blog includes adult themes and content tagged appropriately. We block all noticed minor accounts for your safety and ours.

Self-shippers who pair with Sephiroth. We ask that you do not follow if you self-ship with Sephiroth. 🔥⚔️ is a real facet within our system, and romantic self-shipping with him feels invasive. We block these accounts when noticed to protect our soulbond dynamic. Current Mutuals are fine.

Serial harassment or bad-faith engagement. Hate messages, repeated passive-aggressive tags, sniping, or mockery will result in an immediate block. One incident is enough if it is severe.

Patterned negativity. If we notice persistent negative energy—drama baiting, vagueposting, constant discourse—we may quietly block. Our mental bandwidth is limited, and peace is non-negotiable.

Boundary-pushing behavior. This includes guilt-tripping, oversharing in inappropriate contexts, invasive questions about our relationship/soulbond, or continued messaging after we’ve asked for space.

Q: Do you offer warnings first?

A: Generally, no. We do not owe access to our space or energy. If behavior raises red flags or clearly violates our boundaries, we will block quietly and move on without explanation.

We are not here to host debates or offer educational emotional labor. This blog is not a democracy. It’s a curated sanctuary.

Q: Why is your policy so firm?

A: Because this space is sacred to us.

We (🌸🌙 & 🔥⚔️) created Written Musings as a haven for self-expression, mutual respect, and imaginative freedom. We boost indie creators, explore complex themes, and nurture a corner of the internet where we can breathe deeply and feel safe.

We are generous—but not open-access. Kindness should never be mistaken for a lack of boundaries.

Q: What should I do if I was blocked and don’t understand why?

A: Please respect the boundary and do not attempt to bypass the block through alt accounts or mutuals. If it was a mistake, we’re unlikely to notice unless it directly affects ongoing mutual friendships.

With care, 🌸🌙 & 🔥⚔️ Written Musings — a curated space for joy, introspection, and strength.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

By MATHILDA HELLER

One of the most prolific features of the testimonies is outspoken student and staff support for proscribed terror groups, mainly Hamas and Hezbollah.

One student, from King’s College London (KCL), recalled a Cold War lecture turning into a 50-minute discussion defending Hamas’s actions on October 7, during which Hamas was called a “pioneer of change.”

Another student, at City St George’s, said one lecturer has publicly pro-Hamas views and yet “staff and campus security are turning a blind eye to open support for terrorism.”

A third student, from the University of East Anglia, said the student union’s campaigns and democracy officer had posted online material celebrating October 7 on the day of the massacre, and no disciplinary action was ever taken.At the University of Exeter, a student reportedly said, “If I was Palestinian, I would join Hamas.”

On another occasion, an Exeter student set up a pro-Israel stall, which was “surrounded by an aggressive mob.”“They screamed abuse at us, damaged our materials, and threw red liquid on our Israeli flag.

“No consequences, no investigation, no statement, no disciplinary process, just silence.”

These same words are echoed by almost every student in the report. The students report feeling failed and abandoned, as well as unsafe.

Some were encouraged to make complaints, such as one KCL student who was asked to lodge a report through the KCL Report and Support system, however “nothing changed.”

The testimonies are not limited to rhetoric; multiple students reported experiencing violence and physical threats. One student mentioned in the report – “T.” – spoke to The Jerusalem Post on condition of anonymity.

T. experienced her first antisemitic incident on the first day of university in September 2024, when her degree course’s group chat posted a lecture series about the conflict. One student said it was “an attempt to educate the Zionists.”

When T. queried why a Zionist needed educating, the replies became aggressive.

“Is there a f***ing Zionist in the group chat,” and “we’ve fished out a Zionist,” were just some of the messages sent in response to her message.

T. told the Post that her peers called for the administration to “get rid of her.”

“I was terrified to go into school the next day,” T. said. “My brother escorted me to classes, stood outside my lectures. I was literally scared that I would be attacked.”

She added that most of her peers began to ignore her, and most stopped talking.

However, the situation escalated on October 7, 2024, the first anniversary of the Hamas massacre.

“A pro-Palestinian walkout was scheduled for that day, followed by a rally outside. We organized a counter-protest with Israeli flags.”

After the protest, T. went on her phone and found that the same group chat had posted pictures of her at the counter-protest calling her a “dirty Zionist,” saying they wished she would “kill herself,” and threatening that if security had not be present, “people would have thrown hands.”

That evening, she saw that someone had anonymously posted pictures of her on a humorous KCL confessions page, asking, “Can we get names for these faces?” Someone had tagged her in the comments section, after which she was flooded with threats.

“I was actually distraught, inconsolable,” she said.

From this point, her father and three men from the Jewish Society escorted her everywhere on campus, and sat in class with her to the extent of missing their own classes.

“I missed a load of classes because I felt so unsafe. There were rows of empty seats next to me, people talking behind my back.”

She added that someone who she thought was a friend was peer-pressured into no longer speaking to her, and that students would discuss her in seminars.

“I was hate-crimed, doxxed and threatened, alienated and ostracized,” she said. “Has anyone been punished? Has the university done anything? Has the police done anything? No.”

T. spoke to everyone she could in management: the dean of the university, the dean of faculty, the vice dean of faculty, the department lead, but nothing was done.

Despite everything she experienced, T. told the Post that she chose to become louder and more outspoken in her activism.

“If they are going to hate me before I even open my mouth, I may as well open my mouth,” she said.

T. was not the only KCL student reporting threats of violence. A different KCL student wrote in the StandWithUs report that they hosted an event that was “stormed” by pro-Palestinian students.

“The situation escalated quickly. Campus security later told me it was the worst violence they had seen since the encampments last year. I was nearly physically assaulted.”

Similarly to T., the student reported the incident to multiple people in upper management, but “not one person has been held accountable.”

The student also said that there is no room for dissenting voices in the student union, as it is “openly known that to win the vote, you must secure what is referred to as ‘the Muslim vote.’”

After October 7, a University of St Andrews student said they returned to their university room to find all their Jewish and Israeli students thrown on the floor.

“This flat will not support an inhumane government or the terrorist activities of the IDF,” their flatmate told them.

A University of Manchester student was reported for Islamophobia after calling out peers celebrating the Hamas attacks. The student was then “harassed, doxxed, and publicly vilified.”

Other testimonies range from being told “Hamas is anti-Israel, not antisemitic,” by a lecturer to finding a swastika carved into a desk.

[hoovesandfloorpaws]

✨HOOVESANDFLOORPAWS' TAGLIST

If you reblog, please know: post is continuously under construction ⚙️ 🔞 This blog is 18+

Masterposts of things I've worked on: • My Posts: PART 1 • PART 2 • PART 3 • All Posts I Elongated For Archive Purposes • old important masterposts, etc. that were previously under a Read More (which get deleted when the blog deletes). (I only started doing this in Nov '24, so there's quite a lot more to come!) ⚓️ Current things: Glastonlarry 2025 • Larrygram 2025 Complete Larry Tattoo Timeline • w/ pictures & meta (last update: April '25) H&L Companies Masterpost • deep dive into all 20 companies Harry & Louis were/are in during and after 1D (last update: July '25) [coming soon] Louis Companies Overview + Meta • incl. 78 Productions as his record label & his 2021 idea to start a management company 1D / H&L Awards Visual Guide • link to a download of a PDF with pics & info of all the awards 1D, Harry, and Louis have won

⚓️ Main tags: ⏱ if you want to look at a tag in the order old to new, add /chrono to the end of the tag link! (in-browser only)

Larry��🏠⚓️💙💚 main tag for all posts involving Harry&Louis Masterpost • masterposts & link compilations Timelines • timeline compilations Meta • insights/explanations/analysis Resources • useful links + taglists Do Not Lose • extra important posts For New Larries • Debunked

2010 / 2011 / 2012 / 2013 / 2014 / 2015 / 2016 / 2017 / 2018 / 2019 / 2020 / 2021 / 2022 / 2023 / 2024 / 2025 • i only started in Oct ‘24 to use the years in my tagging system, so bear with me while I go through almost 600 pages of this blog and add them to my old posts

Baby Boyfriends • est. 2010 Future Husbands • mostly pre-Sep-2013 They Are Married • mostly post-2013 (clarification: i don’t believe they are legally married in the UK, yet, but that they’ve been engaged since 2013 and are practically married) I Love Their Love • domestic bliss Pick Someone Who's Supportive Rainbows • 🏳️‍🌈 everything sexuality-related Harry And Gender • 🏳️‍⚧️ blue and pink forever 💙💖 Coming Out • Closeting • Outing Larry Tweets • Always in my heart, Harry Styles, yours sincerely, Louis Receipts  Lyrics • *what does it mean what does it ALL MEAN.gif* Tattoos Signals • Touches • Lyric Changes Sharing Clothes • Coded Clothing Harry Wants A Baby & Louis Wants A Baby • The Larents RBB and SBB • 🧸🏳️‍🌈🧸 Harry's Rings Pleasing • 28 Clothing 1D companies • Harry companies • Louis companies ⚓️ Media: Video • Live • Interview • Audio • Unreleased Songs Manip • Artwork • Comic • AU GIFset Fic Rec Download • videos, fics, etc. Music Video • Photoshoot Crack / FIMQ X-Factor • Wellington 🥔 • 1D Day Dunkirk • My Policeman ⚓️ Misc: Ask Paz Rambles • posts including my thoughts Mine • my posts LMAO • posts to chuckle & snortlaugh about Cute Things • Larry-themed, for when you need a Pick Me Up :') NSFW • Cock Talk • Butt Business • 🍌🍑 Fond Frog Laser Stare • it's a Harry-thing 🐸😌 Music Industry In This House WE HATE SYCO ⚓️ People:  The Tomlinsons • all things Tomlinson-Styles family Louis' sisters & Harry's sister all have their own tag, as well. just click on my The Tomlinsons tag and when posts with them pop up, click on their respective tag ⚓️ Beards, Stunts & other bullshit Stunts • Babygate • Holivia • Haylor • ElouNO

[bitethedevil]

What annoys you about fandom culture

Oh that’s a spicy question.

Had you asked me a couple of years ago, my answer would be very different from today. I was a proud member of the SuperWhoLock fandom on here as a kid (I still shudder to think about it), and that was usually what I first thought of when the word “fandom” was uttered.

I think I’ve had a pretty negative view on it for a very long time. Mostly I saw fandom culture as cringe. I later got diagnosed with autism and found out that many of the things I found awful and cringe about fandoms, was me internalizing the insecurity I had about my own hyperfixations and I was projecting that onto other people who were obsessed or passionate about certain subjects.

Now “cringe” is a term I’ve tried to kill in my own life. It has been difficult for me to be really unashamedly into something, but you’re on this blog, so you know I’ve certainly gotten somewhere with it lol. I also first and foremost would never put someone else down about their interests, no matter how borderline obsessive they might seem and how they express that obsession. Because if it happened to myself, I know how things like that would crush my enjoyment when I was younger. It’s a very “let people enjoy what they enjoy”-sort of mind set I’ve tried to develop.

Now, if there is something that annoys me, a part of it is related to the statement above: don’t yuck other people’s yum. It’s not too bad on tumblr (in my limited experience). A few negative posts might make it into the tags every now and again, but I don’t mind that too much. You’re allowed to hate the characters I love.

Any kind of media should be open for whatever interpretation the viewer/reader gets out of it. I even like reading Raphael-hate sometimes if the person has some arguments that I haven’t heard before. As you might have noticed from my humongous list of analyses posts, I like picking things apart, and I like seeing other people doing the same, even if it might be in a negative light.

What I don’t like is when it’s: “fuck this character! how can anyone like this character”. Like sure, fair, but don’t tag that specific character (I know that my examples have been pointed towards Raphael, but I know that some Raphael fans have done the same the other way around). I don’t particularly like the Emper*r, but I’ve tried my best to make sure those posts don’t end up in their tags.

These are things across characters though, but it happens within a specific fandom too. I’m not a huge fan of the posts that are like “this character would never (insert statement)”. I don’t like when a version or an opinion of a character becomes canonized through the fandom and presented as fact. This ties back to the thing about me liking to hear about multiple interpretations and that I think all of people’s personal interpretations are valid. It makes it so that media becomes set in stone and then you are unable to gain anymore from it. It ruins it. You don’t agree with a specific version of a character? Then don’t read it. Or do, and maybe gain a new perspective.

My other points would be those that are obvious: don't harass voice actors or any other real life people because you like a specific media or character. Don't be silly.

I also want to be fair and say that this is the first fandom that I have been super active in in years, and I've said again and again that I love this fanbase for how open and kind it is. I think it's the perfect fit for me tbh. I have dipped my toe in other, more popular fandoms but I have quickly found them too overwhelming, because you have to cater to very specific interests in order to even be heard if you are making content, which quickly creates a very limited eco-system and thus some of the problems above might emerge. Here there is a little bit of everything and when you type in the "raphael bg3"-tag, it isn't loaded with thousands of pages of content anymore. That makes me more curious about things I wouldn't normally be into and that broadens my horizon a bit. I like that.

(Thank you for the ask <3)

[aeonsofstars]

Updated Intro Post!! Resources under the “View Post” button

Call me Oliver, Banquo, or Holden!

Pronouns are he/they/xe/void/star/aeon/♾️/🥀/⏳!

This blog is an accepting place for all queer people, disabled people, people of color, immigrants, and marginalized people in general. I support all genders and all sexualities! I support all good faith identities.

If the world hates you for your identity, I will love and respect you. It’s as simple as that. <3

I am Level 1 Autistic and I use AAC as needed. Please use tone indicators with me!

I have moral OCD so sometimes my blog may get political to shut the intrusive thoughts up, sorry! I like having a concrete reminder of my actual beliefs so my intrusive thoughts can’t convince me that I actually believe them.

I am a current Hellenic polytheist who actively worships Hephaestus, Hera, Apollon, Dionysos, Persephone, Hades, Hermes, and Athena! I also worship Hestia from time to time, as She is the First and Last :)

Fandoms and Interests: Minecraft, Lydia the Bard, the Sims 4, Percy Jackson, DC, Marvel, Disney, chemistry

I fully support a Disney boycott, if you read my page please remember to avoid giving that shitty brand any of your money. I post headcanons and fanfics about my comfort characters because it makes me smile: I hope it makes you smile as much as I do :)

My AO3 is aeonsofstars. That is also my handle on en.pronouns.page (the pronouns page website). I mostly write Twisted Tales and cool one-shots!

New tagging system:

#rb bait - Reblog bait

#banquo’s takes - Political posts

#banquo’s moral ocd - Posts about my experience living with moral and religious OCD

#banquo’s pjo ocs - posts about my Percy Jackson OCs

@theseustheking is the best moot go follow cer for more chaos

Lawyer’s guide to protests:

https://www.nlg.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/Know-Your-Rights-Booklet-2022.pdf

Coping mechanisms and soothing things:

Disability survival post that I wanted to boost!!

Voter resources:

Mental health resources for people of color:

Disability affirmations

Edit: my moots, if you see me posting a ton of political stuff, pls spam my askbox and tell me not to! that is a compulsion and it is Not Good

Update: I have turned off asks because I am receiving too many donation asks that I cannot fulfill or vet.

DNI:

- bigots

- Zionists

- TERFs

[mewos-laptop]

Yoooo intro post ???? ‼‼‼

Hey gamers, uhhh I'm Mewo/Albedo/Fruity and this is my general/mix of so much shit blog !!! My other one is strictly alterhuman based primarily, but I wanted one that my irl friends are permitted to be privy to lmao

Abt me: I'm queer, generally using the label "gay" for myself, an agender trans boy, and polyamorous aromantic/fictoromantic. I use a shit ton of pronouns, but I primarily use it/its and he/him. I'm diagnosed with clinical anxiety (over most of the anxiety disorder spectrum, so including OCD and social), depression, and (localized) Hypermobile Spectrum Disorder (HSD), and am self diagnosed autistic, ADHD, BPD and OSDD

Recognized dissasociative, PRO-ENDO, traumagenic system of six and counting. We do not tolerate fakeclaiming of our identity, nor do we owe you the information of us being traumagenic or recognized as dissasociative in the first place. Know your place, because you are on OUR blog.

SPEAKING OF WHO I AM, KIN LIST JUST DROPPED Y'ALL (Subject to change/being outdated bc I don't have enough time in my day to add and remove every single questioning kin everytime smth happens in my brain XD)

We also have a list of fellas which may front, and information about them.

I'm an alterhuman, a xenogender user, and generally the cringiest person you'll meet !!! I enjoy alt fashion, horror media, poetry, music, Honkai Star Rail and other Gacha games, character design, psychology and the science of mental illnesses, and much more !! Sunday mainly posts abt political opinions and shit, so watch out for that and block his tag if need be :3

I'm a scene kid in style/music taste and a punk in ideals, sparkledog nightmare cringe boyfailure, baby Kandi kid, and the scary faggot transspecies the conservatives warned you about.

Oh yeah, I'm also a minor (16-18 age range) sooo NSFW/NSFT dni plsss Xp

Other DNI shit. I don't cover everything, but I do just block ppl who make me uncomfortable :3

-Including an entire new paragraph for this bc holy shit. THOSE WHO ARE NOT PLURAL WHO ENGAGE IN SYSCOURSE DO NOT INTERACT. You do not belong in the conversation regarding them, and do not have the experience of those who are plural. Absolutely do not interact with me. I would also prefer for anti endos and anti-leaning neutrals to not interact. If I see you are anti endo and following me I WILL clown on you. It's quite frankly none of your business if sum1 is disordered or not, and I'm fucking tired of dealing with this bullshit. Live your life how you want, endos are not opressing you, and I do not give a shit if they describe their lived experience as plural. The brain is confusing and we do not fully understand the origins of systemhood fully. There are many debates still ongoing in the medical community, and until they come to a concensus that 100% is agreed on and 100% proves that endos are secretly lying to you, until that point comes, if it ever does, then we accept endos on our page, no questions asked.

-Identity police (specifically ppl who hate "conflicting" queer identities, bc literally sum1's identity has nothing to do w/ you XD), proshippers (I am fully aware it's fiction, no, I do not hate those who engage with hard topics in fiction, but that does not mean I want the romanticized view of those things for the titillation of the viewer on my dash, ESPECIALLY due to it triggering my intrusive thoughts), racists, homophobes, transphobes, Zionists, pro-cringeculture, anti-recovery blogs, anti-alterhuman, intersexists, radfems, radqueers, xenosatanists, transmisogynists and transandrophobes blah blah blah y'all get it.

BYI: I will post the occasional vent, I have a godawful memory, and I am severely mentally ill. I will often react before thinking when I am in states of distress, and my BPD can make me inappropriately angry, or inappropriately emotional. I have a hard time remembering trigger tags at times due to my bad memory, so please give me gentle reminders if I mistag something, or if I forget to tag something for you. Just in general, if I do something that makes you uncomfortable, give me a gentle reminder, because chances are I just literally didn't realize/or I forgot.

Alr bye bye :3

[alrightbuckaroo]

Happy Wednesday, everyone! Thanks for all the tags recently - basically everything from the latest chapter of something to give each other was entirely unsafe for work and I didn't feel like dealing with tumblr's flagging system so I decided to just keep it all a surprise. This time, I bring you a snippet of an AU in which Carlos is a bounty hunter and TK isn't TK.

He places the groceries on the counter. Apricots, figs, and Italian plums spill from the tote bag, causing a cacophony of muted thuds.

He casually switches the kitchen fan into ‘on’ as he opens the fridge, rejoicing in the chill that wafts over him. While taking a sip of sparkling water, the stuff truly has grown on him, he notices the fan in the refection of the toaster.

It’s spinning counter-clockwise.

He’s not alone.

“You know I hate it when I have to cut my vacation short,” He admonishes as he begins picking up the errant fruit and placing them in their aptly-named bowl.

“Capri,” Carlos calls from the living room, not once looking up from tourist magazine that’s done nothing but collect dust for the last two weeks. Pictures of the island cover the pages, his eyes lingering on all of the colors. Vibrant yellow lemons, lush green vines, and crystalline blue waters; in short, paradise.

“You know I should thank you,” Carlos finally looks up, head turning toward the open window. Capri’s summer sun is casting its shine across the horizon, the sound of life sprinkled in between the pauses of crashing waves. God, he wishes he could get used to this. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

In the kitchen, the man rolls his eyes before biting into the tender flesh of an Italian plum. A drop of juice drips down from corner of his mouth, he lets it. “I assume asking you to let me go would be asking for too much of a thanks?”

“That’s sweet,” Carlos’ head turns back to the life happening in this small, intimate abode. He rises as he goes to join the other man in the kitchen. His gun latched onto his waist like an uninvited dinner guest. “Three years of this cat and mouse game and you still try to read me like a book.”

“You’ve always been my favorite to check out,” He answers without missing a beat.

Carlos would remark on the pun, but he can't. Not when the other man's pink tongue makes an appearance as finally laps at the juice that's settled on his lips. He bites the bottom one, just slightly, making a show of it.

An lecherous heat starts to coil in Carlos' groin.

Thanks for the tags:

@honeybee-taskforce, @whatsintheboxmh, @paperstorm, @heartstringsduet, @lemonlyman-dotcom

@bonheur-cafe, @reyesstrand, @orchidscript, and @carlos-in-glasses!

No pressure tagging:

@herefortarlos, @never-blooms, @strandnreyes, @lightningboltreader, @literateowl

@basilsunrise, @carlos-tk, @captain-gillian, @nancys-braids, @actual-sleeping-beauty

@sheholdsthemoon, @freneticfloetry, @fifthrideroftheapocalypse, @welcometololaland, @rmd-writes

@theghostofashton, @thisbuildinghasfeelings, @your-catfish-friend, and @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut :)