#NOT getting the press it needs to on tumblr dot com

[elodieunderglass]

I’m sorry but I’m VERY bothered by this video, and you all have to watch it with me, and then sit around me patiently, with candles burning, while I go like this

😶

🙏

Until I emerge from my trance with the perfect joke, okay

[javierpena-inatacvest]

His

Summary: Javi can't get enough of you (aka idk how to summarize this other than it's pwp whoops)

Word Count: 1.8K

Pairing: Husband!Javier Peña x Wife!Reader

Warnings: ... again, this is straight up pwp, unprotected p in v sex, rough(er) sex, breeding kink (I'm sorry!! I'm sorry!! It's physically impossible to not!!), praise kink, big, nasty creampie, cum play, 1 use of daddy and papí (but like, that's the goal), an ass smack, prone bone and the one position from s2e3 of Narcos because I say so!!! also sweet, tooth rotting fluff because I don't know how to write any other way

A/N: She's nothing, if not consistent, your honor 🤠 You'll have to pry Javier Peña and his big, fat breeding kink out of my cold, dead hands before I stop writing about it!!!!!! Figured what better way to break a hiatus than letting the ovulation demons do the lords work for me to post some smut on tumblr dot com, hope y'all enjoy!!!

Never Too Late Masterlist

“Fuck, Javi!” 

The only thing that’s keeping you from waking up your neighbors with the volume of your moans is the way Javi has you pressed against the mattress, muffling the sound of you screaming his name as he pounds into you, over and over. 

You swear he could smell it on you from the second he walked through the door, how you had been craving him all day. Just the thought of him alone was enough to make you ache with unbearable need and want. From the moment he left for work this morning, you were counting down the hours until he got home so you could climb him like a goddamn tree. 

But then again, how can anyone blame you when he’s the one who instigated it in the first place? 

“I swear to god, when I get home, I’m not letting you out of the fucking bed tonight ‘till I knock you up.” 

“Is that a threat or a promise, Javi?” 

“Both.” 

Javi’s always been a man of his word, but with the way he’s fucking you right now, it makes you wonder if he’s ever planning on letting you out of the bed again. 

“That’s it baby girl, let me hear it.” 

You can feel the way the words rumble in his chest, pressed against your back as he fucks into you, deeper and harder with each thrust. The grip around your intertwined fingers tighten, practically melting you into the bed with the weight of his broad body is pinning you down, caging you beneath him. 

Heat is radiating off him, the tacky sheen of sweat pooling where your skin meets, Javi’s hips flushed against the meat of your ass. He’s already got you three orgasms deep, but there’s just something addictive about Javi that always has you begging for more, desperate to cum around his cock over and over again until you have nothing left to give. 

“Oh my god- fuck. Fuck, Javi, I want more baby, please. Fuck me harder- oh fuck-” 

You swear you can feel his smirk creeping into the corners of his cheeks as he kisses your shoulder, relishing in the mess he’s already made you, and yet, you still can’t seem to get enough of him. 

“You want more, hermosa? Let me hear you, baby.” Javi coos, purposely slowing his pace down just enough to make you whimper, quietly laughing to himself at the way he can feel you back your ass up against his hips, trying to keep yourself as full of him as you can. 

“I want it, I want more, baby, please.” You whine, craning your neck behind you just enough to see the devilish grin Javi has plastered across his face. 

“You gonna be a good girl and take everything I have to give you? Let me fill you up until it’s got no choice but to fuckin’ stick?” He groans, the thought of fucking himself so deep inside you that nine months from now, he’ll be the reason for your growing family, igniting something indescribably primal in him. 

“Yes! Yes, please, fuck- I’ll take all of it!” 

It’s borderline pathetic how many octaves your voice has climbed as you beg him for more, a pitch and volume so loud and high you nearly startle yourself with your response. You can hear Javi sigh and curse under his breath. You’re not sure if it’s because having you like this drives him crazy, or if having you like this drives him so crazy, he’s worried he’ll bust right then and there if he doesn’t control himself. 

Your response has him shifting behind you, sitting back on his knees and gripping his fingers into the meat of your sides to force your bottom half up, one hand letting go to smack your ass just hard enough for your breath to hitch in the back of your throat. 

You’re not sure how, but the new position has him feeling even fuller, stretching you out to the point of pleasure filled sobs as he starts to pound against your g-spot, each thrust rougher than the last. 

You’re so wet that the sound of him sliding in and out of your cunt is almost as loud as the noise of his skin slapping against yours. That, combined with the lewd panting and moaning heaving from each of your chests, has the room sounding like you could easily give any porno ever produced a run for its money. 

“Love this pussy so fucking much. Always so fucking wet and tight for me. Whose pussy is this, baby?” Javi asks, his once smug demeanor quickly dissipating as he chokes out his question through gritted teeth, so drunk on you he can barely think straight. 

“Yours! Fuck, fuck fuck- It’s yours, Javi.” You sob, fisting at your bedsheets so tightly, you’re convinced it won’t be long until your knuckles turn white. 

“Fucking right, it is. Fuck you so full of me that I knock you up, make sure- mierda- make sure everyone knows you’re all mine. That what you want, Mami?” 

“Yes, y-yes! Oh fuck- yes! ” 

Javi gets one more smack at your ass before he reaches around to scoop you up from your front, draping his arm across your chest to flush it with his back, never letting the pace of his hips falter. If he wasn’t holding you up, you’re positive you’d be limp, so all consumed by pleasure that it’s engulfed every inch of your body. to keep yourself upright. 

His free arm snakes around to find your clit, whimpering as the pads of his fingers rub tight circles around the bundle of nerves. The undeniable tingle at the base of your spine is beginning to build again, the all too familiar clamping of your cunt around Javi’s cock growing tighter by the second. 

You can all but feel him in your stomach, every inch of him sunk as deep as you can take him, backing your ass into him to counter every snap of his hips. You shoot your hand behind you, digging your nails into whatever part of his thigh you can find to brace yourself on as he fucks into relentlessly, only egged on by the fact he knows how close you are. 

“You got one more for me, baby?” Javi mewls, nipping at your neck while the hot words of his breath dance across your skin. “One more time before I cum so fucking deep inside you?” 

You’re not sure how you even have the capacity to form words, nodding your head in compliance as you try your best to string together something comprehensible as the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter. 

“Y-yes, oh fuck- want you to fill me up. Put a baby in me, please, papí.“ 

“Fuck me.” Javi huffs under his breath, furrowing his brow in an intense focus to keep from fulfilling your request preemptively. “Cum for me, Hermosa. Cum all over my cock, and I promise I will.” 

It only takes a few more frantic strokes before you’re collapsing around him, orgasm shooting through your body with such radiating pleasure, you’re not even sure you’re on this earth anymore. The way he’s pinning your nearly limp body to his, pounding into you relentlessly to chase his own high is almost too much, but you’ll take it. You’ll take everything he has to give because it means that you’re his. 

“That’s my girl.” Javi coos, sliding the hand that had been rubbing at your clit up your chest, stopping to wrap around your jaw, just firm enough to dip your head back to rest against his shoulder. “My good fucking girl.” 

His head is buried in the crook of your neck, pants and moans muffled against your skin, growing louder with each snap of his hips, each one more reckless and sloppy than the last. You can barely make out the words he’s mumbling into your ear, his brain just as jumbled as yours as he nears his finish line. 

“I have so much fucking cum for you. Gonna fuck it so deep in you, it’ll- oh fuck- it’ll fucking take. Fill up this pussy with every last- shit- every last fucking drop. Fuck!” 

It’s a low groan that rumbles in his chest first, followed by a strangled whimper that dies somewhere in the back of his throat as his hips stutter, hot ropes of his spend spilling inside of you while he cums. You know he doesn’t dare let a drop go to waste, that he’ll keep his cock stuffed inside your cunt until you’ve milked him of every ounce he has to give. 

And fuck, he wasn’t lying when he said plenty to give. 

You can’t even tell where your body ends and his begins, melded together as one, his length nestled so deep inside you, you can feel all of him pulsing while his seed overflows, leaking out pussy and dripping down your thighs. You know there’s nothing more Javi wants than to keep every last drop inside your cunt, but the best he can do with how much he has to give is to keep fucking it into you, forcing hips to thrust deeper in sync with the heavy heaves of his chest until you’re all but sobbing. 

“It’s- fuck- it’s so much, Javi, fuck-” You whimper, jaw slack at the slick, sticky mess pooling around the base of his cock. 

“Jesus, fuck- I know, baby. I know, but you’re taking me so fucking well.” He coos, softly kissing your neck and shoulder before shifting your body to lay you down, somehow remembering to grab a pillow from his side of the bed to prop under your hips before your back hits the mattress. 

You hiss at the loss of Javi inside you, the sharp breath quickly replaced by a gasp as you the next plop of cum dripping out of your hole caught by Javi’s fingers, sliding up your soaked folds to gently press back into your cunt. He uses the last bit of strength he has to part your legs just enough to make room for his head, leaning down just enough to pepper soft kisses to your clit, trailing up your stomach and chest until he collapses next to you. 

The both of you lay there for a moment in silence, nothing left to fill the room but the post-orgasmic haze you’ve left behind, catching your breath as you try to let your brain sync back up to your body. 

“Javi… Javi, holy fuck.” You huff, the corners of your cheeks turning upwards in a cheeky grin as you roll your head to face him, giggling at the wide eyed, fucked out expression his face still can’t seem to shake. 

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Javi sighs, shaking his head in disbelief before running his hand through the sweat-dampened curls of his hair, prying them from the damp mat they’ve made on his forehead.  

“You came so hard, Jav.” You softly giggle, scooting close enough to lay your cheek against his chest, smiling as he drapes his arm across your back to pull you in closer. 

“Yeah, I know. Fuck, I haven’t cum that hard in a long time.” Javi smirks, fingers drawing gentle patterns on the warm skin of your back. 

“Trying to knock me up really turns you on that much, huh?” You tease, the two of you laughing like you didn’t already know the answer, or that he couldn’t say the same for you. “It’s hot.” 

“Yeah?” Javi asks, biting down on the plush of his lower lip as he raises his eyebrows at you. 

“Mhmmm. You’re already about to be the hottest DILF known to man, makes it that much hotter how badly you want to be a daddy.” 

Even though Javi rolls his eyes at you, trying his best to hide the boyish grin stretched between his cheeks. You snicker at the pink flush of his face, leaning over to leave a lingering kiss on his lips, both your smiles meeting each other’s mouths. 

“Fuck me.” Javi sighs, quietly laughing to himself, carefully brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. 

“Again? Already? Hate to break it to ya, but I think it’s safe to say you’ve got nothing left in the tank there, Jav.” 

This eye roll makes him grin even harder, supring on your giggles with the ticklish kisses he pecks across your body as payback for your awful joke. 

“You’re such a fucking dork. God, I love you.” 

“Love you more, idiot.”

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

[heelix1r]

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 ENHA & THE LITTLE THINGS THEY DO 4 U ! 🫐

bela is typing . . . HELP it is currently 2am & this is my 1st post on tumblr dot com . . . enjoy !

ot7 x f!reader | drabbles | fluff | bf!enhypen

masterlist | guidelines

. ° ༘ 🎧⋆ 🖇 ₊˚ෆ [ LEE HEESEUNG ]

ever the observant boyfriend, heeseung will never let you walk on the outside of the sidewalk.

whether the streets are victim to rush hour or the roads lay barren, if you find yourself closer to the road, hee will take it upon himself to gently guide you to switch places with him, usually while you’re conversing.

he gently presses his hand around your waist, beginning a silly maneuver that spins you to the safer side of the sidewalk. he never leaves you any time to interject — he does this every time, without fail.

“careful,” he says, swiftly swapping places with you. “don’t get too close to the road.”

“i’m not a child, hee,” you reply, sticking your tongue out at him.

“i know that,” he says, sticking his tongue back out at you. “but i just don’t want you getting hurt while i’m around, that’s all.” he leaves no room for argument, and you continue your stroll down the street. he brings your intertwined fingers close to his lips, showering the back of your hand in delicate kisses as you walk along.

he’ll never take his eyes off of you as you’re walking side by side, hand in hand, as he prioritizes your safety above all else.

. ° ༘ 🎧⋆ 🖇 ₊˚ෆ [ PARK JONGSEONG ]

jay’s eyes narrow as he watches you fiddle with your fingers quietly, realizing that something is amiss.

“is everything okay?” he asks, his voice soft, gentle. you nod your head, but something stirs in his brain that there’s something bothering you. he frowns, realizing that something, though he doesn’t know what, is stressing you out. but even if he wanted to pry, he knew better than to do that.

so instead, he wordlessly moves his hand closer to yours, intertwining your fingers together and squeezing your hand gently.

you turn to face him, and he simply smiles in your direction. don’t worry, i’m here for you.

he realizes there’s nothing else that needs to be said as he notices the way you slowly relax and release the tension in your muscles, focusing on the comfort his touch brings to you.

and that brings him comfort.

you return the smile, squeezing his hand in return. you can never hide anything from him. you know me too well.

. ° ༘ 🎧⋆ 🖇 ₊˚ෆ [ SIM JAEYUN ]

after waiting for an eternity, you finally hear a knock on your door. you open it to see jake standing there with a grin on his face, holding a small bouquet of flowers.

“what’s this for, jake?”

“they’re for you.” before you can say anything else, he gently places the florals in your hand, and welcomes himself inside.

“but we’re not doing anything today?”

plopping down on your couch, he beckons you to sit next to him. you oblige, and he wraps his arms around you. “i know,” he said, giving you a kiss on the cheek. “i went to put some gas in my car, and saw that the gas station was selling some flowers for cheap. they made me think of you.”

a smile creeps up to your face. “you’re so corny,” you tease him, bringing the florals close to your nose. the sweet fragrance is a testament to how much he cares for you.

and he never wants it any other way.

. ° ༘ 🎧⋆ 🖇 ₊˚ෆ [ PARK SUNGHOON ]

hey, let me in. in front of ur house :)

you stare at the text message in confusion, as you rise from your living room and to the door. you’re greeted by sunghoon, who let’s himself in before you can say anything to him.

“hoon?” you ask as he grabs your hand to take you back to the living room. “aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else?”

“nah.” his answer is blunt, and he tugs you to sit down next to him. once both of you are sat on the sofa, he turns the tv on and leans his head on your shoulder. “i called out sick.”

“are you sick?”

“nah,” he says again. after he realizes you’re not catching his drift, he clears his throat. “you mentioned a little bit ago that we haven’t really been spending time together since our schedules are so busy,” he explained, shrugging his shoulders. but he couldn’t hide the smile on his face. “so, i figured it wouldn’t kill anybody to call out for a day to see you.”

your eyes widen in delighted surprise as he wraps his arms around you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “i missed you, you know,” he admits. “let’s just spend the day together.”

you embrace him, your heart feeling full. “gladly.”

. ° ༘ 🎧⋆ 🖇 ₊˚ෆ [ KIM SUNOO ]

“you look beautiful,” sunoo says, watching you from the doorway. “come on, let’s go! we’re gonna be late!”

“sunoo, i haven’t even washed my hair today.” you whine softly as he grabs you by the hand, practically sprinting away from your house. you hardly have the time to lock it shut. “what are we doing?”

“you’ll see,” he says, throwing you a playful wink. he leaves everything a mystery as he simply guides you around, ignoring your questions. after some time, you give up with a huff.

you gasp as you approach one of the finer restaurants in town, turning him with widened eyes. “sunoo!” you exclaimed, stopping in your tracks. sunoo never wavers, and continues to pull you inside anyway. “what are we doing here?”

you can tell from his grin that this was his plan all along. “what do you think?” he asks, before turning to the hostess. “reservation for kim sunoo at 7 o’clock, please.”

you awkwardly follow him and the hostess to your table, where you sit across from him. “it’s not our anniversary, or even a monthiversary…”

“so?” he asks, taking your hands and squeezing them gently. “do i really need a reason to treat my girlfriend out for dinner?”

a soft blush rises to your face as he kisses your knuckles. “i guess not,” you murmur, a shy smile creeping across your lips.

seeing that reaction makes it all worth it to him.

. ° ༘ 🎧⋆ 🖇 ₊˚ෆ [ YANG JUNGWON ]

you knock on the door, and hear a distant “coming!” as jungwon’s footsteps approach you closer and closer.

opening the door, your nose is greeted with a familiar, welcoming aroma.

“something smells delicious,” you marvel as he gives you space to enter his home, and it takes a moment for you to realize something. jungwon notices your moment of realization and smiles sheepishly.

“is that…?” you murmur, creeping into the kitchen. he follows closely behind you, and both of you behold the sight of a messy kitchen, but a most delectable scent.

you turn to jungwon, who’s playing with his fingers nervously. “is that my favorite recipe?” you ask excitedly.

“it is,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck. “i was hoping i’d finish cleaning everything up before you arrived, but i had a few bumps along the way. sorry about the mess.”

however, he’s greeted with a tight hug as you nearly tackle him to the floor, and he returns the embrace with equal fervor. “i can’t believe you actually learned the recipe,” you say against his chest. “i was really craving it today.”

“well, today’s your lucky day,” jungwon says proudly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “take a seat, and i’ll gladly serve some to you. i hope it’s to your liking.”

. ° ༘ 🎧⋆ 🖇 ₊˚ෆ [ NISHIMURA RIKI ]

you feel your phone buzzing in your pocket while running errands, smiling softly to yourself as you see riki pop up in your notifications.

you see an image of a rabbit in front of his yard.

you stop in your tracks and smile.

AWWW that’s cute!

you put your phone away and continue, only stopping again when your phone buzzes moments later. another notification from your boyfriend, it seems.

it’s cute and small. just like u <3

a few minutes later, you get yet another notification from riki. wondering what it will be this time, you load an image of a rose growing outside his window.

he’s already sent you another text as you observe the image.

saw how pretty this flower was and thought of u too. i hope ur having a good day :)

oh gee, how you love this cheesy side of him.

this just made it 100x better. i love you! <3

his response is immediate.

i love you toooooooo <3

2024 © heelix1r.

[chaotic-neutral-knitter]

this whole "needing to sleep" and "having a job" thing is really getting in the way of pressing boop buttons on tumblr dot com huh

[thefrogman]

Back in the olden days, if you used the "keep reading" function on a Tumblr-dot-com post, it would

not get very many notes.

At all.

I am not sure exactly why.

I think people hated pressing an extra thing.

But maybe it was also a psychological phenomenon where, given the choice, they were unwilling to trust me with their time.

But if I sucked them in with a good story or a compelling image, they would get serious FOMO.

When I created a super high effort post-of-length I would get comments like, "This was way too long but before I realized it I was reading the last sentence."

That was a really good feeling.

I used to do tests to figure out the best posting strategies and I think I figured out you'd lose about 90% of your notes if you did a "keep reading" post.

So that notion was ingrained in my brain again and again from when I was very note-obsessed and I have since avoided the "keep reading" option almost like a conditioned response.

Just seeing that squiggly line appear still induces a Pavlovian fear.

But that was probably a decade ago and I did a new experiment. My story about replacing my mailbox did reasonably well with a strategically clickbaity "keep reading."

This was a promising result due to the fact that some people like to send me hate for writing a lengthy post.

I recently got a death threat for writing too much, which was a fun reminder of my M&M days (I melted men's rights activists' brains with a poorly worded analogy and they launched a years long harassment campaign).

It seems in present-era-Tumblr-dot-com many more people prefer pressing an extra thing rather than scrolling a bunch on their smartphone. The collective behavior has changed. And maybe I don't need to use tricks and running gags in order to get folks to "keep reading".

Unfortunately I started writing that ring light post a few months ago so I wasn't able to include that in the experiment. But I am going to try using the keep reading function in the future and as long as the average number of folks that usually read my longer posts continue to read my posts, that will be the standard approach.

I also tag these posts with "long post" so you can flag that if you wish.

While I am no longer in the audience-building phase of my Tumblr career, these essays and stories and educational posts take a considerable amount of time and effort to create, so I do want to make sure everyone who wants to read them is able to. But posts without hearts and reblogs can quickly die a gruesome algorithmic death. Even my most ardent followers would tell me things were not showing up on their dash. (I think replies help mitigate that, so if you like a long post, you can help with engagement.)

The collective noun is a "business" of ferrets.

Do you want to see a business of ferrets ready to do some business?

KEEP READING

I love writing and it is a huge catharsis for me. And I love sharing any knowledge I feel like I have the earned expertise to speak on with authority (technology, photography, light, fun ferret facts, etc). I wish I had the energy to be a photography teacher, but long posts on Tumblr are probably the best I can do for now.

I know my posts are super long, but I try to make them as fun and informationally dense as I possibly can. I don't like wasting people's time if I can avoid it. Though maybe I should trust my follower's attention span a bit more. I have this fear that if I am not constantly entertaining, people will click away or unfollow.

I think a good business for a business of ferrets would be selling pool noodles that look like ferrets.

So as long as I get roughly the same amount of notes I will do the keep reading. And then maybe people can lay off on the mean comments and occasional requests to end my own life because I bloviated about soft light.

100% true ferret fact..

If you ask a ferret what their business is, they will crawl on your shoulder and whisper in your ear...

[pukefactory]

PLEASE comfort with n murder drones Tumblr dot com with a s/o who is emotional and constantly thinks they’re not good enough for n whenever you can! /ref ^^

remember to dink warder and eat when u need to bestieeee <3

If there’s one thing I’m particularly good at, it’s drinking plenty of water (which isn’t very good when my bladder is as fragile as glass lol)—but I hope you’re taking care of yourself too, staying hydrated and eating when necessary. The same applies to anyone reading this! That aside, this is such a wholesome request, and I hope reading about N being an absolute sweetheart eases any troubles you might be facing.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮ WARM THOUGHTS ✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖

▷ Summary: A compilation of headcannons featuring N comforting an insecure reader.

▷ Character(s): Serial Designation N (Murder Drones)

▷ Genre: Headcanons, Fluff, SFW, Comfort

▷ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

✶ Despite his shortcomings, N is deeply in tune with your emotions—possibly even more than you are. He instantly picks up on your distress, much like an emotional support dog, and is by your side before you can even explain what’s bothering you. Once you open up to him, N is determined to do whatever it takes to show how important you are to him.

✶ The moment you begin doubting yourself in any way, N is quick to reassure you that you’re not a burden to him and that you’re the most important person in his life. He pulls you into a gentle embrace, wrapping you in his sturdy metal arms while offering heartfelt affirmations of love and support.

✶ To help you feel at ease when you’re feeling down, N wraps you in the softest, coziest blanket he can find and sits beside you, resting his head on your shoulder while holding your hand. Instinctively, he wraps his tail around you for added comfort and support. Whether you need someone to quietly sit with you or listen to your troubles, he’s always there, no matter what.

✶ N may not be the greatest at offering advice, but he always puts in his best effort. You can count on him to listen carefully and take everything you say to heart. He works tirelessly to help you overcome any self-worth struggles with his gentle smile and playful gestures of affection. When he tells you he loves you, he truly means it—and if you ever doubt it, he’ll make sure to remind you every chance he gets.

✶ Whenever you begin to relax, N does his best to provide a distraction. Whether it’s anime, drawing, or reading, he will try anything to ease your mind. Once the two of you discover an activity that truly soothes your nerves, he makes sure to always have the necessary materials readily available for any future emergencies.

✶ Forehead kisses are his go-to! He gently presses soft kisses against your head to comfort you, whether it’s after a difficult moment or an emotional outburst. The tenderness of his touch provides a calming presence, offering something reassuring to focus on during moments of panic—a sweet and affectionate distraction.

✶ If you feel drained after a panic attack, N will effortlessly pick you up and carry you wherever you need to go. He’ll often keep you close simply out of concern, refusing to let you out of his sight for a while. His default is to hold you in a gentle bridal carry, never showing any signs of strain, no matter how long he carries you. Your comfort is his priority, and as long as you’re at ease, so is he.

✶ Deep down, N is genuinely concerned for your well-being and simply wants to keep you safe by his side. At times, he may push himself too hard in an effort to improve your mental state and solve everything on his own. However, the moment you reassure him to slow down and just stay by your side, he quickly relaxes, realizing that his presence alone is more than enough for you.

[duelacadatoolshed]

it's a bitch convincing people to like you {Evan/Reader/HABIT}

Part 4/4 // FINAL

{ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 }

Summary: HABIT doesn't do aftercare, he leaves that you for Evan to deal with in the aftermath.

Warnings: so much blood, nudity, graphic descriptions, brief flashbacks and discussions about sex, wound aftercare including use of anaesthetic and suturing, mentions of violence, consent regarding the HABIT/reader situation is still a tricky grey area but it's framed in the discussion as SA even though the reader considers it to be CNC-adjacent.

A/N: probably final emhpost in the year of our lord, 2024. end of the story. not going to extend it and get burnt out. happy with this as the ending, beyond this is just the fucked up cycle of the worst throuple you can imagine. If you liked this, you can give it a like, or even a comment, I'd be very appreciative. Or put it into a time capsule and unearth it in 50 years so those closest to you can ask you if you really chose to bury only the 4th part of a 4 part NSFW HABIT EverymanHybrid X Reader fanfiction from Tumblr dot com. If you hated it, let me know so I can flick you through my exact coordinates, and we can fist fight about it in person like rational adults.

You're not sure when you pass out, only that it was from a combination of overstimulation, and pain as HABIT had been carefully carving his name to your chest beneath your boobs. It would definitely need stitches, but it wasn't anywhere near life threatening. Just a little something to remind you of him every time you looked in the mirror, he'd said with a grin, thrusting into you particularly hard, which had you choking out a moan, arching off of the bed.

He'd actually gotten you off far more then twice, and degraded you to the point of tears each and every time. The most shameful was how turned on you were by his cruelty, even if it logically upset you.

The first thing you hear as your waking up is swearing. Evan specifically swearing. He has two fingers to your pulse point, and his voice is shaking. You've curled up on your side away from him, hands still locked up to the headboard, and the more you wake, the more pain you feel; the cuts HABIT left on you are agonizing, but the rest of you somehow still feels all foggy and euphoric. Your thighs especially are feeling sticky and sore, but they don't hurt like they've been cut like your chest had.

"Ow," you whimper hazily, and then Evan's collapsed against you in relief, his forehead pressed against your side. He's shaking, babbling how thankful he is that you're alright, how he has no idea what's going on. You groaned, trying your best to wriggle onto your back, "HABIT broke my hand," you mumbled weakly, still feeling so foggy and pained, but Evan's sat back up, going completely still and silent when he sees your front.

"Please unlock my hands," you pleaded weakly, but your boyfriend is frozen, staring at your chest, "Evan, please, it hurts." You're coming back to yourself more now, and the sharper your awareness, the sharper the pain becomes.

"Yeah," he sounds shocked and sick, but he stands, begins moving. Tilting your head, you see him by the drawer HABIT had gone through before. He looks clean and showered, wearing pyjama pants, his expression far away, almost shattered. As more and more came back to you about how you got into this state, the more guilt, the more self disgust and shame welled up within you.

The demon that possessed your wonderful boyfriend had fucked you senseless after he'd made you kill a man in cold blood, and you'd absolutely loved it. God you fucking hated yourself right now. Maybe even more than you hate HABIT.

Evan comes back with the key and immediately sits beside you, unlocking the handcuffs; your shoulders ache like a bitch, and the moment you're free you burst into tears. Evan surges forward, pulling you into his arms as you sobbed, cradling you to him, on the verge of tears himself as he whispers apologies to you.

"I love you, I'm sorry," keeps tumbling from your lips, and all he can do is reassure you softly.

He carries you to the bathroom, and finally you get a good look at yourself, at what had horrified him so much. There was blood everywhere, but mostly on your stomach, dried and dark and caked to the cuts that very clearly spelled HABIT across your ribs. But in black Sharpie, across your chest and tits, it takes you a moment to figure out in your reflection, but you realise it says 'IF FOUND RETURN TO' above his fucked up signature in your skin.

Evan promises to take care of you as he sits you beneath a gentle, warm shower. Every touch is so tender, always asking before he did anything; your arms can barely move, so sore after being restrained like that for so long, and you let him clean you up. He's so careful when he washes you, though he has to stop every few minutes to give himself a moment as the situation would overwhelm him when he thought about it too much.

When you're clean and dry, he helps you into a pair of sweatpants, and strips the bloody sheets from the bed. He haphazardly tosses a clean sheet down, not bothering to tuck it in before he rests you atop it. Again you apologise, guilty, shameful tears in your eyes, but Evan lets out a long, shakey breath. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

"I'm so glad you're alive," he whispers faintly, "you have nothing to apologise for," except enjoying yourself, you thought, lip trembling, pain and all. He gets you pain killers and a medical kit, and you're actually surprised when he pulls out a syringe and a bottle that he tells you is a local anaesthetic. When you marvel at how he's so confident when drawing up a dose to numb the cuts on your chest, he quietly tells you he doesn't want to talk about it. You still can't help but wonder; it seems like exactly something HABIT would do, give him the chance, the cruel hope of helping his victims, and snatching back control the moment that hope is finally in reach.

"I love you, Evan," you whisper as he's finished with the anaesthetic and was discarding the syringe. But he freezes, his back to you. You see his shoulders sag.

"I love you too," he murmurs, turning back around and sitting at your side; he can't look at you, "too much to keep putting you in danger like this. You know you shouldn't be with me." He's absolutely right, you shouldn't have fallen in love with a man who was occasionally possessed by a sadistic megalomaniac with supernatural powers. But you did, and you'd the price for it, but you know deep down it's a price you'd happily pay again. But you can't find the words to explain yourself in a way that doesn't make you seem like a monster in your own right.

"But I do want to be with you," you mumbled, sounding almost pathetic to even your own ears, "I know I should know better, but I..." your heart breaks at his pained expression, and you sniffle quietly, apologising again, "you're right," it's barely audible, but you can't help but concede.

"I'm sorry," he offers quietly, "about everything."

"You, Evan, have nothing to be sorry for," you told him firmly.

"Even if you don't blame me for HABIT hurting you -"

"I don't."

"I still put you in danger by being around you knowing he could take over at any time," and he threads the needle he was about to suture your wound with, "and the fucked up thing is that I know HABIT better than anyone, and this is his version of gentle." Oh, you realise, that's what's getting him, that's what he can't figure out. He thought HABIT didn't care for you, because HABIT didn't care about anyone, so why had he left you comparatively unscathed?

"I think he did it because he knows it'd mess you up," you sighed. Even gives a wry, humourless smile as he stitches you up, muttering that HABIT was very good at what he did. After a moment, you laid back, eyes closed, "can I admit something?"

"Like what?"

"The fact that the worst part was knowing it was a way to torment you," you swallowed hard, "as fucked as it is to admit, the rest I could stomach; the pain, being violated, all of it I could tough out mainly because my genuine passion for refusing to give HABIT the reaction he wants outweighs my own sense of self preservation," Evan stills, looking at you with an unreadable expression, "but I still gave it to him when I realised how you'd find me, and that he was just using me as a tool to upset you, against my will."

"You can't say stuff like that," he says weakly, eyes going glossy as it looks as though he's about to cry again.

"I know what he's done, what he can do, I'm not scared of him," you insisted, "I just really don't want you to go through this on your own; I know you have the others and you're all going through this shit, but Evan," you voice caught in your throat, giving him a pleading look, "you especially push people away for their own good, with good reason I get, but I don't want to be one of those people if I don't have to be."

"He's going to kill you."

"I keep telling him he should," you give a watery laugh, "and instead he carved his name in me because he was so mad that I don't give even a single shit about him except when it comes to you."

Evan let out a long, shaky breath, closing his eyes as he processes everything you'd just said. He looks genuinely pained.

"I'm going to get you killed if we stay together," he mumbled, "that's- Y/N you know that's a fact. Whatever fucking game HABIT is play with you only ends one way if you don't leave before it's too late," he says it like he's seen it happen too many times before. You're conflicted; you don't think you could live with yourself if you walked away, but you don't want to be used as a tool to hurt him.

"Evan, do you want me to leave?" You ask softly.

"You should."

"That wasn't my question."

It takes a long time for Evan to open his eyes. He swallows hard, gaze trained on his hands as he set back to work stitching you up. You give him the time he needs, however, letting your eyes fall closed as you fight the urge to continue pleading your case; he knows what you want, and that it's to be in his life, to be with him. Now the choice was all his.

"I love you, of course I don't want you to leave."

[neallo]

do you have any advice on how to make friends on tumblr, im finding it a bit hard and would appreciate some advice. thank you

hello my dear anon. i would be very happy to provide advice on how to make friends here on tumblr dot com! i will be focusing on how to make fandom friends, because that is all i have ever really done on this webbed site. i am not going to get into the nitty-gritty of social skills and manners, because i want to focus on the basics of fostering connections with other people in a fandom on tumblr, but i'll quickly say: don't be over-familiar in an invasive or jokey-mean way to people you don't know well, respect boundaries and social cues (don't repeatedly message someone you don't know well if they're not replying to you), and be generally niceys!! i know you probably know all that. but it's key, and i think not everyone is totally fully aware of social skills when it comes to interacting online in particular, so i felt it was worth saying (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠❤

now we can move into the real advice :3c

first things first: actively participate in your fandom! you can do this by creating fanworks (writing fic, making art, etc)— and if you want to, you should give it a try! participating in the fandom doesn't need to involve making fanworks, though. plenty of people mainly participate in fandom by supporting creators and taking part in conversation about the characters or ships that they're interested in. on tumblr, you can do this by leaving your thoughts on fanworks that you like! you can do this by replying, or— even better— reblogging with comments in the tags!

other good forums to interact with the fandom include meta posts (you can add thoughts in the body of your reblog if you have something you want to say, or in the tags if you're shy / just want to go "hell yeah!!!" generally) and questions that people ask ("does anyone know if [character] ever [does/says something specific]?") — these are nice opportunities to find and connect with other fans who are talking about or want to talk about the things that interest you ❤️

of course, you can also post things in the tags! generally, best etiquette is to keep posts in the fandom, character, and ship tags kind / civil. you will see people saying things like "ugh [character or ship] is so annoying" or "i hate that people only write [character] as a [top/bottom/seme/uke]." however, this is not something i recommend doing or engaging with. everyone can do whatever they want forever, but i find this type of behavior unnecessary and unpleasant. people who center their tumblr experience around complaining about what other people like and do are frankly participating in fandom in a way that confuses me. i fail to understand why someone would choose to consistently focus on things that upset or annoy them; fandom is meant to be enjoyable.

try to talk about the characters and ships you like, and the dynamics you like for them. rather than going "ugh i hate it when people write [character] in [some specific way]," try talking about the dynamic or characterization you'd like to see more of. bonus points if you can resist saying "why doesn't anyone write [xyz thing you want]," because there's a good chance someone has written that, and if they see your post, they're not gonna know if you haven't seen their fic, or if you have seen it and just didn't like it. a better way to put that would be "does anyone have recs for fics where [xyz thing you want happens]?" do not say "i tried looking but couldn't find anything good." people aren't gonna want to rec you things if you're leading with a weird attitude. of course it can be difficult to find fic that you truly love which also aligns with your preferences, but especially in a tiny ship or fandom, it's best to have some tact. also, if you're really that pressed for stories you wanna read, it's a great reason to get into writing 🥰

all this said, everyone needs to bitch once in a while; that's normal. healthy even. this bitching is best left in DMs, though, or at the very least, on your blog, out of the tags. and don't let haterism consume you!!

OH! i almost forgot. send asks! send asks to people in the fandom that you think are interesting and nice. send asks for ask games when people reblog them, and send asks about fics or characters or fanart to other people in the fandom. if you're very shy, you can do this on anon, and then interact with the answer once it's posted by replying or reblogging.

okay. let's say that you've been engaging with fanart by reblogging and leaving your thoughts in the tags, engaging with fic by reblogging with thoughts in the tags and / or commenting on AO3, and interacting with other people in the tags for the characters and ships you like. and, best of all, sending asks! doing all of this, you'll get a sense for which people you might get along with, and who might be receptive to your friendship. if someone is replying to your tags, following you back, interacting with your posts, and so on for a while, that's a great opportunity to DM them!! (it's fine to keep things to asks and replies for a while if that feels easier, of course!)

once you have a person in mind that you would like to DM, it's up to you how you want to reach out. i'm an impulsive and somewhat outgoing person online, so in my early days in the DN fandom (and my last fandom) i would often just spontaneously DM people whose vibes i liked and introduce myself (hi, i'm neallo, i hope this isn't strange but i just wanted to pop in and introduce myself!). i would then let them know that i liked their blog, or their art, or their writing, often leaving a specific thought about the item in question ("i totally agree with your post about [character], he WOULD say that" or "i love how cute / pretty / impish you make [character] in your art" or "your writing style is so compelling, i've really been enjoying your fics"). i don't do this very much anymore, but it's not because it doesn't work. it's just that i have a finite amount of time and there are a lot of people in meronia now T__T so, generally, i only go out of my way to reach out to people i've already interacted with a good deal through posts / asks / comments on AO3 (aka people who i feel would possibly like to be friends with me).

you technically can cold DM people if you really like their blog or writing or fanart. i personally don't mind a DM from someone i haven't interacted with before, but i do always have to take a second to make sure they're not a child and not a spam bot or something. some people are put off by being messaged directly by someone they've never interacted with before, though, so i think it's generally best practice to kind of get a feel for things on the public side of tumblr before sending someone a message!!

now, a word of self-compassion and general caution. first: not everyone will reply to you. others may reply at first, but fall off (i am really bad about this myself, just because life has been getting in the way a whole lot recently). sometimes people are busy; sometimes they are just not really actively seeking friends or conversation; sometimes they maybe just don't think they'll vibe with you! it doesn't reflect poorly on you if someone doesn't respond to you or try to befriend you. it can be sad, or a little disappointing, but that's the way the cookie crumbles. don't take it personally, and try not to feel too dejected or hurt over it.

one more thing. ideally, this will not happen at all, but if it does, hopefully it will be seldom. in my experience, it has been very seldom! the thing is this: someone might be unkind to you. i personally am not that good at figuring out when someone is being mean to me unless they're insanely obvious about it! i will make excuses for someone doing or saying hurtful things several times ("i'm sure they didn't mean it like that" or "they're just kidding around") before i realize that they're being kind of an asshole. i don't actually think this is a bad trait, though-- i like to assume good intent from other people, and only rescind that assumption when i'm proven wrong. i only mention this to tell you: if someone routinely makes you feel bad about yourself, your art, your writing, or your thoughts, maybe they're not the best person to befriend.

[joojeans]

euijoo + size kink

this is more about euijoo’s thoughts than it is a scene! just wanted to write a lil something since i seem to have awoken many beasts with my euijoo size kink comment lmao i hope this is enough to hold you over for now but worry not! euijoo size kink agenda is here to stay on joojeans dot tumblr dot com ♡

it’s been a long fucking day for euijoo.

the day itself has been mostly normal—running errands with you, having lunch together, a little shopping. now you’re home, cuddled up on the couch while you watch a movie. this day has been textbook for the two of you except for one thing.

euijoo can’t stop thinking about how much bigger he is than you and as much as he’s been trying to keep from getting noticeably aroused by it all day, it’s getting increasingly more difficult. he feels like such a perv but fuck, it’s driving him crazy.

it all started when he woke up this morning, feeling a little shy when he realized you were already awake and watching him sleep. he had reached out to hold your face in his hand, but then your hand came up to rest on top of his. he couldn’t help but notice how small your hand looked compared to his and then he couldn’t help but notice how small your head looked with his hand holding it.

the size difference in combination with your innocent, adoring eyes was already making him stir in his boxers. he took your hand in his and playfully rolled himself over you, but that was a mistake because then he was painfully aware of how easy it was for him to cage you in under him. you look so small and vulnerable beneath him and it makes him want to fuck you like a ragdoll.

not wanting to ruin the sweet atmosphere, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips before excusing himself for a much-needed cold shower.

he wasn’t safe running errands either. you’d want a kiss at red lights and the way you had to reach up so much just to meet his lips had him white knuckling the steering wheel. he wanted to pull you the rest of the way into his lap. he wanted to fold you up and fill the car with your pretty moans.

lunch was mostly safe, but when you finished eating you had a crumb on your lip and he, being the doting boyfriend that he is, had wiped it away for you with his thumb. he had caught you off guard, your mouth opening slightly to speak and his thumb hooked itself between your lips. even his thumb splitting your lips open looked sinful. he couldn’t let himself follow that line of thinking all the way down to his cock.

he knew shopping wasn’t going to fair well for him, but he thought watching you try on clothes would be the hard part. he was wrong. when you started leafing through the racks of clothes to find clothes that suit his style, that’s when the problems arose. you’d grab a t-shirt and excitedly hold it up to show him, but all he could think about is how the shirt was long enough to be a dress on you. he would picture you walking around the house in nothing but the shirt each time you showed him one and he ended up buying all of them because they’d all look good on you.

by the time you got back home, you were both still too full for dinner, so you settled onto the couch to watch a movie instead. you’d insisted on cuddling—spooning, to make it worse. you had reached back for his arm, wrapping it around your waist, and he had to stop himself from audibly groaning at how much surface area of your torso just his hand could cover.

so now here he is, massive hand itching to cover every part of you, silently hoping you can’t feel how hard his large cock is against your small figure, swearing to himself that he won’t let his animal brain take over if he can help it.

cr. cafekitsune for mdni banners ♡

[motorway-south]

every day i wake up and scroll on twitter dot com and see more and more posts from people attributing malice and evil to decisions by the creative team at hotd that are clearly just byproducts of adaptation and every day i get mad about them and come to my tumblr to rant

with a highly dramatic character driven show like hotd, the actors need to be able to navigate the psyche and neuroses of their characters, INCLUDING so called "evil" characters. tgc tells press that what aegon's done to aemond is just brotherly love bc thats how aegon sees it, and in building the character is how tgc needs to see it. same with fabien frankel telling the press that rhaenyra's rejection was cruel and not kind enough to be acceptable. that's not necessarily how fabien frankel the actor responds to rejection, but it is how criston cole justifies basically all of his actions from that point. this is literally one of the most well regarded acting strategies and to see everything an actor says about their character be torn to shreds because it betrays the hypocrisy of a character's actions is so incredibly childish

[aita-polls]

AITA for refusing to share popcorn with my dad?

for context, i (18, nonbinary) have really severe dietary restrictions that make 99% of foods inaccessible to me. popcorn is one of the few foods that i can almost always eat, it's a comfort food for me. (this makes it sound like this is gonna be a really serious situation, but i swear it isn't, lmao)

my dad does this thing where, whenever he sees me with a bag of popcorn, he'll say something like "can i have some" or "could i have one" and when i hold the bag out for him, he'll grab a massive handful (he's got big dad hands so it sometimes ends up being like 1/4 of the bag) and laughs it off. usually i'll try and laugh it off too but it can be annoying since i'm not always happy about having my food stolen, and he knows this, but does it anyway

recently i've been less generous about bestowing popcorn upon him. it started while my family and i were playing a board game, and he pulled his usual "can i have some" trick, to which i told him no. he seemed really surprised and kept pressing for me to give him some, to which i kept denying. i told him that i made the popcorn for myself, and if he really wanted some he could make his own bag because we had plenty left. he refused and seemed upset, but obviously there wasn't anything he could do about it unless he wanted to duel me for my popcorn.

this kept happening over the next couple of weeks, where he'd ask for popcorn and i'd tell him no, this bag was for me, but if he wanted some he was free to make his own. i explained to him that the reason i was being such a cruel guardian of popcorn was because he had a habit of taking more than i wanted him to. sometimes, during these weeks of his popcorn famine, i would feel bad enough to give him a few pieces (usually 4 to 5), after which he would tell me i was being stingy and kept asking for more. it all sort of culminated with him getting frustrated with me in a movie theater for not sharing popcorn i had ordered for myself, and at that point i was just tired of dealing with it and wanted to enjoy the movie so i gave him the rest of my popcorn (about half). his voracious appetite was temporarily sated, but he still joked about how his movie experience was ruined by my popcorn hoarding tendencies.

it's not a very serious situation, i'm not at any risk of starving to death or anything of the sort obviously. but my brother did agree that i was being kind of a jerk in refusing to leave a meager offering of popcorn to my father at his behest, so i come to the wise tumblr dot com seeking advice. AITA?

[simmancy]

Happy Spooky Season, pumpkaboos! 

Here’s what’s happening this month / going forward on simmancy-dot-tumblr-dot-com.

𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜! 👋

Hi there if you’re new! My name is Kit, I am 32 now, this is my simblr, I am active on and off. If any of that bothers you, unfollow, it's okay! If you're here because I posted a mod list or a random piece of CC you like, then I have good news - I do those things occasionally! When I am actively posting, I usually dabble in gameplay. I don't do much storytelling anymore because... well, I don't have the time!

𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚂𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 🍬

I have SOME stuff I've been poking at in my ~spare time~. I love Simblreen, it's the best time of the year imo and it's just... a tradition. It's a tradition. So I'm going to try 🤞

I have been writing out a mod list centered around occults/spooky gameplay at least. So that's seasonally appropriate????? If you have a mod list request hit my inbox because I still fucking LOVE WCIFs and that's a sort of WCIF.

𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 🎃

This year (and likely going forward), I'm going to try to use my blog to showcase the community. There's SO many cool things in the ts4 tag!! So I've been scouring it at the dead of night to refill my queue 👻 That's what you can mainly expect this month. No CAS challenges, no CC challenges, just some creepies and kookies from others around simblr.

𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 🌕

Hi regular followers!! I’m so sorry if you've been here a long time, because I don't have much updates on my ~classic~ gameplays and saves and they just...... won't be. For a while.

Not So Perry... I have a bit of Gen 4 but I haven't played in a whiiiiile so. I might revisit that/redo/we'll see.

Star x Crossed is indefinitely on hold - I will probably revise how that was posting because the full episodes just aren't possible right now. I might do it more as like... an edit type thing, where the edits tell the stories or whatever. It SUCKS because I had really big hopes and dreams for that save and instead I... had a child.

The Nobel ABCs will return because I have 10 generations done in game. I just need to queue.

Maggie's Wonderful Life WILL eventually be done LMAO. I'm hoping to get back into that save soonish. I LOVE farming gameplay! So I want to play/finish it. I had about half of the introductions shot before I got distracted with other things and then... well. yeah.

New saves? When I manage to play, I play a lot of newer saves LMAO. Mostly because when I have time right now I need... something easy.

𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚄𝚙𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 🔮

I decided I like doing this once a year Simmancy Newsletter during my favorite time of the year. Halloween remains the BEST season, and there's also no guarantee I won't drop off the face of the planet again.

Obv the main thing is that, as previously stated, I had a baby. A whole ass baby. She's now 3 months old, and she is so much in the best way. We're currently teething and if you're like "Kit that seems a bit early," you're absolutely right but this is the lot I've drawn in life. She likes to be sat up, and stood up, and to talk to the Baby in the Mirror. She also is obsessed with trees and the cat. I know new moms are annoying and I'm absolutely that annoying new mom, I literally cannot shut up about her and therefore make my sims blog also about her.

I go back to work next month and I'm absolutely dreading it. Can I just be a sim and have someone press motherlode for me? Please?

Otherwise, there's very little in Kit World. The past 6 simblr years remain wonderful, and I've met some of my best friends on here. I go between BG3 and Sims when I have game time (which isn't a lot because Baby Simmancy is increasingly awake and mobile). I WISH I had more time to hang around here but maybe in a year or so.

Anyway, that’s my update of the year. Happy spooky season everybody! I hope it’s a good one!

Stay safe & spooky out there!

[wangxianficfinder]

Sorry to clog up your inbox with a query like this, but I couldn't find anything that helped. How do people break up paragraphs in asks? The ask form doesn't show it actually breaking them up whenever I press the "Enter" key. Does the "Enter" keystroke still apply despite that, or is it a matter of inputting the linebreak HTML code?

That's odd. Do you use Mobile or Desktop? Because it's working fine for me on Mobile when I press enter, both on and off anon.

I don't see why you would need an html code, it might be just a bug or something. Does it still not show a paragraph break when you hit space instead? I haven't had this problem so I don't know how to help exactly, sorry 😔

Anyone have any ideas?

- Mod C

--

alexseanchai: wangxianficfinder dot Tumblr dot com slash ask, or Tumblr dot com slash new slash ask slash wangxianficfinder? bc the ask box in dashboard mode has blocks now, same as the ask box in mobile app, and pressing Enter moves to a new block. I bet the character limit the other asker was asking about is only a problem in desktop site not in dashboard mode, too. Tumblr hasn't been subtle about wanting to get rid of customizable dot-tumblr-dot-com versions of people's tumblrs.

[showfall-costumes-department]

[Transcript received 10/21/23.]

[There’s inaudible yelling before a sentence can be made out.]

Danielle: “John, she’s upset about something, you can’t just ignore that!”

John: “I understand, but she still needs to eat!”

Danielle: “Get her something light, dude! You can’t just immediately start her on a hamburger like she’s been eating normally this whole time! Did you even ask what she wanted to eat?”

John: “She’s constantly shaking! She can barely hold things, Danielle, she needs food! Real food! Protein! This is the best I could do today!”

Jenny: “… I don’t need anything.”

[The two stop arguing at Jenny’s voice. Danielle is heard audibly crouching to Jenny’s level, the audio becoming clearer the closer she gets to the phone.]

Danielle: “Jenny, babe, yes you do… I swear we’re going to help you, if John would just listen to me about this for five minutes!”

[John is heard inhaling to respond, but is cut off.]

Jenny: “No, no, I’m fine, really—”

[Jenny yelps as a loud sound is heard in the distance.]

Danielle: “Shit, what was that?”

[John gets closer to Jenny, his voice finally lowered as Danielle creaks the door open.]

John: “… Jenny, you look sick, you act sick… You need to eat something.”

Jenny: “I don’t, I’ve been eating, I—”

[Both cut Jenny off, saying “bullshit” with similar tones.]

John: “Drinking water is not the same as eating well. All we’ve seen you eat recently is a small bag of chips, and only because Dani was going to cry.”

Jenny: “No, it’s just— I just—”

[The door closes as Danielle returns to sit next to Jenny.]

Danielle: “Shh… Girlie, I know something happened, but you need to take care of yourself…”

[John is heard muttering.]

John: “That’s what I’ve been saying, if you would listen…”

[There’s a pause, the loudest noise being the air conditioning.]

Danielle: “Jenny, I know you’re dealing with something. You don’t have to tell us what, but please just—”

[The device vibrates.]

Jenny: “… Oh, Rose posted again, I just need a little peek—”

Danielle: “Jenny, no!”

[Jenny had already picked up the phone before Danielle could stop her. She is heard tapping a notification.]

Danielle: “Shit, and you were doing so well with your cleanse…”

John: “She should be allowed to talk to her friends, Dani! That’s all the contact they have!”

Danielle: “It stresses her! I just wanted to help, John!”

[Jenny is heard as the two continue to argue.]

Jenny: “No, no, wait…”

John: “Well, I don’t think that was helping unfortunately, she’s obviously been missing them!”

Jenny: “No, god, no, this isn’t… No…!”

John: “Don’t you think cutting her off from her friends would make her worry more?!”

Jenny: “No, this…!”

Danielle: “Excuse me, but if you paid attention when I brought her in, she didn’t even say hello to you, she was too busy checking on one of her friend’s blogs on Tumblr dot com!”

John: “Well, yeah! Wouldn’t you after what she’s been through?!”

Jenny: “No, this is a joke or something! There’s no way!”

John: “She’s said several times now that her friend Edgar is important to her—“

[John’s voice gets cut out of the recording as Jenny lets out a loud, blood-curdling scream.]

Danielle: “Fucking—!! Holy shit!! Jenny, Jenny, woah, what happened?! Jenny, look at me, look at me!”

[Jenny inhales and coughs, choking on air, before screaming again, her voice carrying agony. A thud is heard as she drops the device, then she drops to her knees, unable to stay on the bench press table she was sat on. Danielle is heard frantically pacing around her after jumping up, trying to find a way to help.]

Danielle: “John, watch her, I’ll be right back!!”

[Danielle’s sprinting steps reverberate throughout the large gym before being drowned out again as Jenny begins to sob uncontrollably.]

John: “Jenny, hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m here, hey—”

Jenny: “Not anyone else! God, I can’t lose anyone else!”

[John yelps as Jenny grabs the front of his shirt, the fabric threatening to rip as she pulls him forward.]

Jenny: “Tell me it’s a joke!”

John: “What’s a joke?! What happened?!”

Jenny: “John, tell me he’s okay!”

John: “Who?! Who’s okay?!”

Jenny: “For fuck’s sake, John, if anything, tell me this is all a nightmare and I’m going to wake up! Maybe on the dock! Or really, wake me up in my office maybe! Anything! Just don’t let this be real!”

John: “I don’t know what’s happening, what do you mean?! Uh, uh, okay, Jenny, take a breath—”

Jenny: “I could have been there! I could have fucking been there! I was selfish again! God!!”

[Jenny screams again, John’s response cut out of the audio. Then, after a few seconds, there is a moment of pure pained silence. The device picks up a distant echo of a scream from outside. Jenny hyperventilates, unable to calm herself. Then, she stops. She goes eerily silent.]

Jenny: “… John.”

John: “Uh… Y-yeah…?”

Jenny: “… John… John… John, I… You…”

[Jenny struggles to breathe. She doesn’t continue what she seemed to want to say.]

John: “… Jenny, what happened…? You look like you’ve seen a ghost…”

Jenny: “… Maybe I have.”

[John can’t respond before the door to the gym slams open again. Danielle, out of breath, runs over to the two.]

Danielle: “I just ran and got a hot chocolate, granola bar, blanket, pillow… God… Holy shit…”

John: “… Nice endurance, I guess? Uh…”

[John trails off as his joke falls flat, supposedly looking at Jenny again.]

John: “… Jenny, what can I do to help you…?”

Jenny: “… There’s nothing. Nothing can be done anymore… Nobody’s there…”

Danielle: “Jenny, what went down…? That was terrifying…”

[Jenny doesn’t respond. There’s silence for about a minute.]

Danielle: “… Jenny…”

John: “… I think she fell asleep… She must have been low on energy and this just… broke her down.”

Danielle: “… Wow… Holy shit, I’ve never heard her raise her voice like that…”

[John hesitantly picks up the now darkened phone, placing it next to Jenny’s sleeping figure.]

John: “… I think that’s enough for tonight. I’ll… I’ll keep an eye on her, you go home.”

Danielle: “… If you’re sure… Good luck, John… If you need me, call me.”

John: “Sure thing.”

[The door to outside opens, then closes.]

[End transcript.]

[nereidprinc3ss]

I didn’t mean to have so much to say about this but wow do I!!!!

Lots of people say they love domestic spencer reid but I don’t think they love domestic spencer reid like EYEEE love domestic Spencer Reid. Because I love domestic spencer reid where he’s doing nothing. Or he’s being kind of….. not an asshole but…… where it becomes clear that he’s just dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person and then I love domestic Spencer Reid where he’s dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person but he can still say I’m sorry!!! And they can hug and it’s okay because loving someone requires being close enough to sometimes hurt them!!!! And the realism of this kind of fic just fills me w so much joy like THISSSS is what I want from tumblr dot com I LOVEE the meditative fics where nothing crazy happens and the plot comes from the authors understanding of rich interpersonal relationships!!!! I love!!!!

This was also beautifully beautifully written like a breath of fresh air wow I truly am so lucky to get to read work from such talented people thank you for writing this and thank you for sharing it with us!!

So anyway here are the lines that jumped out at me. There is really no rhyme or reason, I tend to extra love lines that are a little philosophical and ponderous about human connection and boy was this full of that!! I am not a literary critic I am just a girl full of thoughts

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

I just think this is an jarringly astute and concise observation of something we as humans do all the time in relationships and again there is nothing I love more than an observation about human connection that I can point at and go MEEEE I UNDERSTAND THAT I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!!!! It’s very exciting to me!!

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

This to me was a kind of honesty most fanfic lacks and obviously most fanfic is supposed to be optimistic and perfect and reflect the readers desires back to them but quite frankly to me it hits harder when there is this subtle kind of interpersonal angst and strife that is something we can feel and recognize within ourselves it makes it easier for me to actually connect to the fic. Rather than watching it like a movie I can recognize this kind of sentiment and it’s far more immersive to me and therefore a lot more fulfilling and rewarding and interesting to read

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

YEAH MAYBE THAT IS THE POINT!!! THE POINT OF EVERYTHING!!! THE POINT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! This to me is just beautiful and very succinctly summarizes something I’ve been working on and will probably continue to work on for the rest of my life and I think really the whole point of love and the lesson most people need to learn!!!! Once again I like my fluffy fanfic tempered w this kind of realism!! It adds so much texture

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

No yeah actually this IS the sexiest thing a man could possible say or do!! Like care and pay attention and be present and observant!!! I won’t even be talking about this because I love it too much to dissect it

Anyways this is maybe making me look crazy I just haven’t been engaged with fanfic very much recently and I did not go into this with the intention of having anything to say about it afterward but to my own personal deep surprise was so motivated to!! And it was so beautiful and so lovely I had to say something. Pls excuse if I’ve gone overboard!! This is just such a good example of fanfic at its absolute best to me like this is what it’s forrrr this is what I wanttttt!!!! Thank you for writing thank you for posting beautiful

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

[navel-gazing-necromancer]

hey no need to answer this ask, I probably won't see it anyway, I just saw the most recent post you made due to tumblr putting random posts on my dash sometimes and it's none of my business BUT.

I know literally nothing about you or your situation so have that in mind. that being said, consider this ask a sign to do whatever you want to do. listen to your heart and all that disney fairytale shit. want a haircut? grab some scissors cowboy. wanna dye your hair? buy the hair dye at the nearest store and use it at 3 AM. anything that makes you happy? do it. life's too short and all that.

OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: AS LONG AS ITS FAIRLY SAFE OKAY ONLY YOU KNOW WHATS WITHIN THE REALM OF POSSIBILITY FOR YOU ALRIGHT IM JUST SOME GUY ON TUMBLR DOT COM WHO CANT MIND THEIR OWN BUSINESS 😭

ok sorry for bothering you I just. idk guess I'm playing fairy godmother russian roulette bc I'm insane. still. you can get through this soldier . whatever "this" might be. also in case you need to hear this your mom sucks and you should hate her instead of hating yourself. OKAY SORRY IM DONE NOW

GO GET SOME JOY AND WHIMSY IN YOUR LIFE!!!!!!!! (AS LONG AS ITS SAFE!!!!!!!!!!)

ok,

i fucking love you

i can try!! i don't trust myself to cut anything more than a bob, let alone layers (I've played with god before and it's worked 1/2 times) but I might be able to press her on that. i get dropped off at a store every day so I could probably find something... i don't know the first thing about dying hair but Brad Mondo as my witness I may try

thank you sm (for this whole thing and for calling me cowboy)

I don't know who you are, but I will find you, and I will add you (please don't let that reference be outdated bc otherwise I just look like a massive creep)