#how am i supposed to curate my experience with that

[julietsf1]

Perfect Fit - Kenan Yıldız x Stylist!Reader

summary: Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head (8.5k words)

content: slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, Stylist!Reader, inspired by the movie two weeks notice

an: guess who got dumped just days before valentines :') we move tho! something not f1 today guys (whaaaat??!!) I am watching a lot of football during break and I adore this guy!! next fics will be F1 again dw! wishing you all an amazing day <3

----------------------------------------------

The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.

I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.

Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.

I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”

Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”

He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.

“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”

Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.

“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”

I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”

Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”

Boss. The word drips with teasing.

I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”

Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.

Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.

“No way.”

I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”

“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”

Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”

…

It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”

Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”

He gasps. “Wow.”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me shirtless.”

I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”

He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.

I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not. 

Nope.

Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”

Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.

It works.

I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.

That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.

Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”

I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”

“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”

I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”

Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”

I blink, caught of guard.

“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed. 

He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror.  “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”

I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”

He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”

I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”

He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”

…

I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.

What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.

Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.

Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.

He is, however, still wet.

Like, actively damp.

I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”

Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.

Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”

I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”

I blink.

Slowly.

Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”

I stare at him.

I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.

Then I stare at him again.

“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.

“Yeah?”

“You are in a training kit.”

“So?”

“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”

Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.

And, predictably, he doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”

“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”

“Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.

“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”

I glare at him.

Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.

And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.

…

It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.

I don’t need to look up. I already know.

I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”

I do, in fact, look up.

And there he is.

Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.

Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.

I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.

I press my lips together. I will not engage.

The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.

Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.

First, he sighs. Loudly.

I ignore him.

Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.

I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.

But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.

I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.

Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.

I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”

He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”

I exhale. “A question.”

“Yeah.”

I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”

Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”

I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”

Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”

I stare at him.

Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.

“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”

Kenan nods. “Correct.”

“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”

Another nod.

I inhale. Exhale.

I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”

He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”

“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”

Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.

…

I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.

Because Kenan never knocks.

The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.

“You busy?”

I don’t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”

“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”

I pause. That gets my attention.

“For what?” I ask warily.

Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.

“Boat day.”

I blink. “Boat day?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.

“No?”

“That’s correct.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”

I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”

He gestures at himself. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”

Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.

…

It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.

This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.

This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.

The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.

I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.

Then back to the scene.

Then back to Kenan.

He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.

“See? Fun.”

I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”

Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”

“Moral support for what, exactly?”

He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”

“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.

“You’re not.”

Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.

I blink. “What is that?”

“My dilemma.”

I stare at him.

Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”

“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”

Kenan nods solemnly.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”

I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”

I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.

I look.

Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.

My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.

I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.

Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.

“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.

“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.

“So?”

“So, I’m taking my time.”

Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.

“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.

“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.

“You’re scared.”

“Oh my god, I am not—”

“Prove it.”

I don’t think. I just move.

Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.

I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.

That’s when I make my second mistake.

I look at him.

Really look.

Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

And then, worse—he looks back.

Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.

Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”

“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.

Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.

His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.

And yet—it does.

The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.

His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.

And for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.

The moment disappears.

And we both pretend it didn’t happen.

…

It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.

I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.

Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.

“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.

I blink. Slowly.

Kenan does not blink back.

I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”

He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”

“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”

I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Kenan nods.

I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”

“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.

And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

My resolve shatters instantly.

I exhale. “Fine.”

Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”

…

Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.

At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.

And then.

It starts.

“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“No.”

Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”

I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”

He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”

“You would not.”

“Would too.”

I rub my temples. “Put it back.”

Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.

First, a leopard-print jacket.

I shake my head.

Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’

I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.

“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”

Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”

Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”

“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”

He laughs, but goes inside anyway.

…

I believe the mission is complete.

But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.

“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”

I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”

I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”

Kenan does not answer.

Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.

“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.

No.

Not a spa.

A very fancy spa.

I stop walking immediately.

Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.

I stare at him. “No.”

Kenan grins. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kenan—”

He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”

“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.

Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”

I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”

Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”

I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”

And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.

…

I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.

There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.

Because I am relaxed.

Painfully, dangerously relaxed.

I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.

It is impossibly good.

The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.

Except it is so necessary.

It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.

I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.

And then—

The groan.

Deep. Low. Involuntary.

I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.

Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.

I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.

But then—another groan.

Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.

My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.

I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.

This is not happening.

I am not hyperaware of him.

I am not wondering what it would sound like if—

No.

I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.

But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”

I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”

“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.

Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—

“You’re enjoying it, though.”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.

I am not doing this with him.

Not here.

Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.

And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.

I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.

It is perfect.

Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.

I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.

There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.

Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.

He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.

“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.

“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.

Kenan smirks. “You love me.”

I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.

He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”

I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”

“I would have you arrested.”

Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.

The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.

I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.

Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”

I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”

Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.

And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.

I gasp, scandalized.

“You did not just—”

Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.

He blinks.

I smirk. “Oops.”

And then—it’s war.

Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.

He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.

Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.

I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.

We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.

By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.

I am in no better shape.

We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.

Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.

“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”

I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”

Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.

Too comfortable.

Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.

But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.

Kenan and I snap back to reality.

Right. This was meant to be innocent.

…

I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.

Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”

Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.

I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.

“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”

Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.

And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”

I stare at him. Consider violence.

“Oh my god, Kenan.”

He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”

I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”

“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.

“I’m aggressive about my work.”

“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”

I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.

Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”

Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”

I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”

“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”

I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”

“Still, anything could happen.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”

Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.

I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”

Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”

“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”

I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”

I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”

Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.

“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.

I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”

Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”

I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”

“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”

Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”

He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”

I blink at him. “For what?”

But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.

Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.

And then—the reporter turns to me.

“And you are his date?”

Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.

“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.

The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.

“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk. 

I blink at him. Excuse me?

The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.

Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”

I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”

Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.

…

The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.

It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.

I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”

Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”

He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.

Another beat of silence.

Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.

Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.

Not a quick touch. Not accidental.

Just there.

Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.

Like it’s completely normal.

My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.

I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.

The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.

The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.

And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.

And find him already looking.

It’s not like before.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.

His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.

This is different.

I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.

But it’s there.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

So, I look away.

…

You’re coming to dinner with me.”

I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”

I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”

Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”

I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”

Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going home.”

“You’re coming to dinner.”

I give him a long, tired stare.

“Kenan—”

“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”

I exhale, already feeling myself caving.

It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.

We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.

And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

I pretend not to notice.

I am so careful not to acknowledge it.

So careful.

Until—

Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I still.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.

I don’t move.

And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.

There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.

And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—

“You look nice tonight.”

I blink.

Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.

He just says it.

And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”

Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.

“I can be polite,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”

…

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

That nothing has changed.

That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.

But lately, it’s harder to believe that.

Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.

Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.

Like right now.

I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.

A slow, deliberate movement.

And then—his hand finds my waist.

Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.

My breath catches, but I don’t react.

I won’t react.

Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.

“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.

Kenan hums, amused.

“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.

I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”

I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.

His hand finds my wrist this time.

His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.

And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.

“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.

My stomach tightens.

I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.

Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.

It’s not just this moment.

It’s all the moments.

A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.

The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.

It’s slowly driving me crazy.

…

I should have gone home.

We both should have.

It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.

Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.

Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.

“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”

I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”

“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”

He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”

“Right? You should really be thanking me.”

“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”

“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

I pause.

It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.

Except it does.

I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”

He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”

I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”

The worst part is—he’s not even asking.

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.

I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”

Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”

“So you admit it.”

I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.

Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.

He’s already too entertained.

Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.

A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.

It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not.

But I don’t move.

His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.

I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”

The absolute audacity.

I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”

His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”

Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.

And I know.

I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.

But I don’t stop it.

And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.

Because then, he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.

And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.

His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

Because of course this was going to happen.

Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.

I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.

His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.

“Finally.”

I should argue.

But instead, I just kiss him again.

[killjoygem]

I think the problem with doctor who fandom is people don't move on when they don't like it. In other shows people watch something, they don't like it, they complain for a while but eventually they find something they're more interested in and stop complaining, leaving everyone else who enjoyed it to just hang out on their own

But every new season/era in dw there's new stuff that people hate and nobody ever leaves and they never stop talking about it. I think the only way to have peace in this fandom is to cut off huge groups of people. It's impossible to like everything bc engaging with all parts of the fandom means standing in the middle of a constant battle

[michelle-your-belle]

Someone privated their 30+ hour lds stake dance Playlist from spotify 😭

[echo-s-land]

It's insane how most of the time I don't get how ppl interact and I also Don't Fucking Care

[jazzums]

they should invent a social media feed with not a peep of us politics

[set-wingedwarrior]

Seriously, this trend of tagging any sort of random ship in a fanart just to try and get more people to find it is getting under my skin.

I count that as mistagging, it's not possible that i look for my ship's tag and not only i don't find my own ship, but i find a piece of art of just one of the characters and tags for all the other ships involving them (most of the times notps for me), it's so goddamn annoying!

I am blocking on sight, get your shit together

[coolgoodandfine]

little bit of a vent, but just annoyed by how ace/aro characters are treated by most fandoms. like, if a character is gay/lesbian then to ship outside that is at most, uncommon, but often times actively discouraged and looked down on. with aspec characters though, it feels like its treated as "currently single" more than anything.

like, despite the fact that i know multiple people who would consider themselves attracted to a single gender but have past and active exceptions (as in currently married to in the case of one, and still considers some exes as people they loved in the case of a couple others), if a character is attracted to a specific gender, then to ship outside that is just not a thing. even if it were, its often actively discouraged

with asexual (not even getting into aromantic!) characters, the response is "well it's just fiction" "let people have their fun!" "puritanical much?" etc, but if a character were canonically gay, then their sexuality is actually respected and ships outside that sexuality don't really happen (and in case of an m/f ship its explored without ignoring their canon sexuality)

sometimes yes, it is someone who is aromantic/asexual exploring their sexuality, and thats great, but someone who is aspec writing an aspec character and someone who is not aspec (and ignoring their identity) writing on the same character often come across completely differently because one will actually take care to respect the characters identity, and the other will have a throwaway line about how "theyve never felt like this about anyone else" that they added so people wouldnt complain.

ive heard people describe it as shippers not liking to be told "no you cant play with your toys that way" but it's only relevant when the character is aro/ace. gee, i wonder why

[sbrn10]

Me about 50% of the time I am wading through publicly searchable CR-related tags: for the love of god, can people be. Like. Normal about anything?

Also me the rest of the time: *not at all normal about CR*

[actualaster]

So I guess social media as a concept has reached the end of its life cycle.

This is gonna suck I'm gonna lose touch with so many people but I'm just gonna have to give up on using this site regularly once you start forcing shit I don't want to see down my throat via algorithm.

I use tumblr primarily BECAUSE I am not forced to view content that I hate and want nothing to do with because advertisers are trying to tell me what I want to see.

If you take that away, what the hell do you even have that makes you better than other sites?? You, too, will simply be a generic slop-filled garbage dump gamed by bots and scammers using the algorithm to bury small creators entirely.

Also, I have never signed up for a site that refused to let me browse much or at all without an account lmao. I just started going "oh, a link to that useless website that I can't even see if it's of interest to me, hard pass".

I wish nothing but the worst on everyone involved in supporting this decision. Please, for fucking ONCE, listen to your users and don't make shit a user-hostile nightmare.

Tumblr’s Core Product Strategy

Here at Tumblr, we’ve been working hard on reorganizing how we work in a bid to gain more users. A larger user base means a more sustainable company, and means we get to stick around and do this thing with you all a bit longer. What follows is the strategy we're using to accomplish the goal of user growth. The @labs group has published a bit already, but this is bigger. We’re publishing it publicly for the first time, in an effort to work more transparently with all of you in the Tumblr community. This strategy provides guidance amid limited resources, allowing our teams to focus on specific key areas to ensure Tumblr’s future.

The Diagnosis

In order for Tumblr to grow, we need to fix the core experience that makes Tumblr a useful place for users. The underlying problem is that Tumblr is not easy to use. Historically, we have expected users to curate their feeds and lean into curating their experience. But this expectation introduces friction to the user experience and only serves a small portion of our audience. 

Tumblr’s competitive advantage lies in its unique content and vibrant communities. As the forerunner of internet culture, Tumblr encompasses a wide range of interests, such as entertainment, art, gaming, fandom, fashion, and music. People come to Tumblr to immerse themselves in this culture, making it essential for us to ensure a seamless connection between people and content. 

To guarantee Tumblr’s continued success, we’ve got to prioritize fostering that seamless connection between people and content. This involves attracting and retaining new users and creators, nurturing their growth, and encouraging frequent engagement with the platform.

Our Guiding Principles

To enhance Tumblr’s usability, we must address these core guiding principles.

Expand the ways new users can discover and sign up for Tumblr.

Provide high-quality content with every app launch.

Facilitate easier user participation in conversations.

Retain and grow our creator base.

Create patterns that encourage users to keep returning to Tumblr.

Improve the platform’s performance, stability, and quality.

Below is a deep dive into each of these principles.

Principle 1: Expand the ways new users can discover and sign up for Tumblr.

Tumblr has a “top of the funnel” issue in converting non-users into engaged logged-in users. We also have not invested in industry standard SEO practices to ensure a robust top of the funnel. The referral traffic that we do get from external sources is dispersed across different pages with inconsistent user experiences, which results in a missed opportunity to convert these users into regular Tumblr users. For example, users from search engines often land on pages within the blog network and blog view—where there isn’t much of a reason to sign up. 

We need to experiment with logged-out tumblr.com to ensure we are capturing the highest potential conversion rate for visitors into sign-ups and log-ins. We might want to explore showing the potential future user the full breadth of content that Tumblr has to offer on our logged-out pages. We want people to be able to easily understand the potential behind Tumblr without having to navigate multiple tabs and pages to figure it out. Our current logged-out explore page does very little to help users understand “what is Tumblr.” which is a missed opportunity to get people excited about joining the site.

Actions & Next Steps

Improving Tumblr’s search engine optimization (SEO) practices to be in line with industry standards.

Experiment with logged out tumblr.com to achieve the highest conversion rate for sign-ups and log-ins, explore ways for visitors to “get” Tumblr and entice them to sign up.

Principle 2: Provide high-quality content with every app launch.

We need to ensure the highest quality user experience by presenting fresh and relevant content tailored to the user’s diverse interests during each session. If the user has a bad content experience, the fault lies with the product.

The default position should always be that the user does not know how to navigate the application. Additionally, we need to ensure that when people search for content related to their interests, it is easily accessible without any confusing limitations or unexpected roadblocks in their journey.

Being a 15-year-old brand is tough because the brand carries the baggage of a person’s preconceived impressions of Tumblr. On average, a user only sees 25 posts per session, so the first 25 posts have to convey the value of Tumblr: it is a vibrant community with lots of untapped potential. We never want to leave the user believing that Tumblr is a place that is stale and not relevant. 

Actions & Next Steps

Deliver great content each time the app is opened.

Make it easier for users to understand where the vibrant communities on Tumblr are. 

Improve our algorithmic ranking capabilities across all feeds. 

Principle 3: Facilitate easier user participation in conversations.

Part of Tumblr’s charm lies in its capacity to showcase the evolution of conversations and the clever remarks found within reblog chains and replies. Engaging in these discussions should be enjoyable and effortless.

Unfortunately, the current way that conversations work on Tumblr across replies and reblogs is confusing for new users. The limitations around engaging with individual reblogs, replies only applying to the original post, and the inability to easily follow threaded conversations make it difficult for users to join the conversation.

Actions & Next Steps

Address the confusion within replies and reblogs.

Improve the conversational posting features around replies and reblogs. 

Allow engagements on individual replies and reblogs.

Make it easier for users to follow the various conversation paths within a reblog thread. 

Remove clutter in the conversation by collapsing reblog threads. 

Explore the feasibility of removing duplicate reblogs within a user’s Following feed. 

Principle 4: Retain and grow our creator base.

Creators are essential to the Tumblr community. However, we haven’t always had a consistent and coordinated effort around retaining, nurturing, and growing our creator base.  

Being a new creator on Tumblr can be intimidating, with a high likelihood of leaving or disappointment upon sharing creations without receiving engagement or feedback. We need to ensure that we have the expected creator tools and foster the rewarding feedback loops that keep creators around and enable them to thrive.

The lack of feedback stems from the outdated decision to only show content from followed blogs on the main dashboard feed (“Following”), perpetuating a cycle where popular blogs continue to gain more visibility at the expense of helping new creators. To address this, we need to prioritize supporting and nurturing the growth of new creators on the platform.

It is also imperative that creators, like everyone on Tumblr, feel safe and in control of their experience. Whether it be an ask from the community or engagement on a post, being successful on Tumblr should never feel like a punishing experience.

Actions & Next Steps

Get creators’ new content in front of people who are interested in it. 

Improve the feedback loop for creators, incentivizing them to continue posting.

Build mechanisms to protect creators from being spammed by notifications when they go viral.

Expand ways to co-create content, such as by adding the capability to embed Tumblr links in posts.

Principle 5: Create patterns that encourage users to keep returning to Tumblr.

Push notifications and emails are essential tools to increase user engagement, improve user retention, and facilitate content discovery. Our strategy of reaching out to you, the user, should be well-coordinated across product, commercial, and marketing teams.

Our messaging strategy needs to be personalized and adapt to a user’s shifting interests. Our messages should keep users in the know on the latest activity in their community, as well as keeping Tumblr top of mind as the place to go for witty takes and remixes of the latest shows and real-life events.  

Most importantly, our messages should be thoughtful and should never come across as spammy.  

Actions & Next Steps

Conduct an audit of our messaging strategy.

Address the issue of notifications getting too noisy; throttle, collapse or mute notifications where necessary.  

Identify opportunities for personalization within our email messages. 

Test what the right daily push notification limit is. 

Send emails when a user has push notifications switched off.

Principle 6: Performance, stability and quality.

The stability and performance of our mobile apps have declined. There is a large backlog of production issues, with more bugs created than resolved over the last 300 days. If this continues, roughly one new unresolved production issue will be created every two days. Apps and backend systems that work well and don't crash are the foundation of a great Tumblr experience. Improving performance, stability, and quality will help us achieve sustainable operations for Tumblr.

Improve performance and stability: deliver crash-free, responsive, and fast-loading apps on Android, iOS, and web.

Improve quality: deliver the highest quality Tumblr experience to our users. 

Move faster: provide APIs and services to unblock core product initiatives and launch new features coming out of Labs.

Conclusion

Our mission has always been to empower the world’s creators. We are wholly committed to ensuring Tumblr evolves in a way that supports our current users while improving areas that attract new creators, artists, and users. You deserve a digital home that works for you. You deserve the best tools and features to connect with your communities on a platform that prioritizes the easy discoverability of high-quality content. This is an invigorating time for Tumblr, and we couldn’t be more excited about our current strategy.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil.

I know you are flooded with asks and this somehow became extremely long. Too long. “Why am I suddenly telling this poor man my life story?” too long. “I think I’d rather he work on the GO3 script than read this wild beast” too long. “He’s going to think you’re criminally dangerously insane” too long. If you never get to it, I’m good with never seeing a response from you. Maybe it’s better that way? Maybe an anon would have been nice here. But, it’s 2024, so I say “we ball.” It’s a privilege to be able to send this to you at all. You get a lot to this effect and I hope they give you good feels, so maybe what’s the harm, yeah? Because this is not an ask. This is a thank you letter.

First, thanks for reblogging my therapist post, I hope it amused you. I nearly sent you “How am i supposed to explain this to my therapist?!” But refrained. At that time.

So, therapy. What is therapy really? Well…

Things have been really rotten for as long as I can remember. Bad health, bad doctors, bad relationships, bad coping mechanisms, bad all kinds of things. (Yeah, bad is a weak and unhelpful word, my therapist reminds me, but we’re doing this.)

Well, things got even more really really rotten and BAD these last few years. Health declined further, coping mechanisms declined further and more intensely, packed up my life, applied for disability, moved back in with my parents across the country.

Then 4 years ago last week I watched my fiance die of a sudden heart attack. I was 29. Two years later my best friend died. Then last summer I sauntered vaguely into a cancer scare. Not long before an operation my cat who has been my companion through so much garbage died as well. I’m not entirely in the clear on the cancer scare front. All my attempts at going back to work, volunteering, going to grad school - they collapsed on me because I couldn’t get through this STUFF.

(Sometimes when I talk about this, when I tell people, I think “they are going to think you are a raging pathological liar.” Because I’m not sure I would believe someone if they told me all of this happened to them. In such a short time period. All before they were 35. And hell if that hasn’t been isolating. You know how it sounds? Lonely. And it is.)

I did the hypervigilant and sensation/experience chasing stage of PTSD. It got me in a lot of trouble in all kinds of ways. I had to do a lot of medical and psych advocating because things kept getting worse. That was exhausting. Then that peaked. I went into the thick of the “I feel absolutely nothing” stage for a long time. I didn’t feel fatigue or hunger or thirst. Not people, feelings, a reason. Not hope.

But of course, like seems be for a lot of us, I somehow found Good Omens at just the right time. I was a very “I’m so cool and intellectual I mostly consume non-fiction media” person for too long. Like, what? How is that even a real thing? And it wasn’t real. It was just part of this curated autism mask that I don’t think anyone really bought anyway.

I think I got to a point where I’d just had too much reality. I needed fantasy. I didn’t realize I always needed it. But I denied myself for too many odd and painful reasons. Maybe I thought it was an escape I didn’t deserve.

But as it turns out, it wasn’t an escape. I watched both seasons last fall, and then this light came on. I watched it again and again.

I came to tumblr because I needed more. I found this fandom. I stepped into this beautiful world of fanart and fanfiction and brain flexing meta writing and a sense of community and wonder that you and Terry created - that everyone involved in the show inflated - exploded in the right way - like fireworks if fireworks were some kind of autocatalytic reaction - a self perpetuating force.

It’s not a “saved my life” feeling. Not a “getting my life back” feeling. It’s been a “maybe it’s time for you to have the life you’ve always been denied - that you’ve denied yourself” feeling.

I’m creating. I’m not “great” yet. Not terribly “good” at all. Maybe “behind” as far as the “proper” timeline for starting. I know there isn’t one, not really, but boy does that society machine make ya feel like there is. And sure, I started and stopped a lot in the past. But the second it got hard I always gave up. I felt like if I didn’t get it “right” to begin with, then I just didn’t have it in me at all. But for once I’m really in it. I’m writing and trying to draw things that look less like fever dream five year old drawings. (Not that there’s anything wrong with those, is there? 🙃) I’m eating better. I’m sleeping better. I reach out to old friends more. I’ve made new friends who share this love of Good Omens.

My therapist has been floored by the change in me. After that first funny mini flop, he has been so encouraging about it. I saw him this week and I said “Maybe this is helping me get prepared to start living again. Maybe it’s a springboard.” And he honest to god said “But You ARE living. This is YOU LIVING. Why does it have to be a springboard? Why do you have to turn this into ‘work?’ Just let yourself have this for once in your life.”

But there were two more added elements that made it all work. And I can’t help but think this whole brainrot thing wouldn’t have happened without them. So many things just happened all at just the right time - a proper coincidence.

In all of the madness of the last few years I finally got the memo that I'm autistic. i figured I was for a while. But it finally sunk in for me and my docs and my people. So I’d been working on unpacking that. Grieving the life that could have been entirely different, shedding the mask. I let myself hyperfixate openly instead of hiding it and hating myself for “spiralling” or “obsessing” like others -!like ‘I’ always punished myself for before we knew that it was a trait and not a personality flaw.

Then over the last few months my therapist and I started trying this new exercise. One session he stopped me and said “in the last 20 minutes you have responded to what I’ve said with 9 ‘I knows.’” My response to that? “Ugh, I know.” So we started this “I know” swear jar type situation. Really, I’ve been afraid of not knowing. I couldn’t let myself “not know.” Because it meant I was “dumb.” I was just drowning for so long in guilt and self loathing for the “I knew better and screwed up anyway.” Or “I should’ve known better - I should know that by now.”

As it turns out, there’s a lot of things I don’t know. That I didn’t know. Things I will never know. And refusing to admit all of that kept me from learning a damn thing. Kept me from asking questions. Kept me from trying new things because it was scary to do something new - something unknown - and I "knew" how it would all turn out anyway. Kept me from connecting with people because it was painful or embarrassing when they knew things I didn’t and it seemed like I already should have. Kept me from getting better at making art, music, writing. Kept me from forgiving myself. Kept me from growing. And kept me from moving forward. Maybe not on. I don’t know if we ever “move on” from things. But we can move forward as we carry them. And as we do, the weight gets less. We’re able to carry it better. But only if we can admit that we don’t know how. Only if we don’t treat ourselves like this is something we do know or should know and we’re just failing because we’re less than. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not deserving. We have to be able to say “I don’t know how to do this.” And then we can start looking for the answers. We can ask. We can learn.

I thought about the apple. Being able to tell the difference between good and evil. Aziraphale’s years and years of watching what he “knows” to be true be proven wrong. Crowley’s need to ask questions…

The simple and enormous gift of “Knowledge.” The “Knowledge” of the difference between Good and Evil. The “Knowledge” that can only be gained by realizing, accepting, admitting that there are things we don’t know. Asking the questions. Sometimes we get answers we don’t like. Sometimes the consequences of asking hurt us. And unless you want to stay in that painful place that painful knowledge got you, well, you’ve got to let yourself learn how to get out.

So all of this good? I never expected this. I never thought I deserved it. Joy and belonging and this sense that “Yeah, maybe things can get better. Maybe things can be good.” Because I said those things, not truly believing them, to the people I thought needed to hear it. But it couldn’t save them. It was hollow. The proof for us wasn’t really in our orbit or on our radar at the time. And now they’re gone.

People always say “it’s never too late.”

One of the people I lost said “it’s later than you think.”

I jokingly would respond “it’s already too late.”

It was for him in the end. For them. For some people I guess it really is. But maybe a lot of the “too late” people are there because they think “they know” that things will never be good for them. So they stop looking, they stop asking, stop finding. And eventually they just stop.

Then there came Crowley’s “It’s always too late.” The first time I heard it I thought “For sure, Crowley-cakes, I KNOW.”

But then…I just needed to rewatch the whole thing. And lines like that…familiar things…familiar themes…I was suddenly identifying with these characters. I suddenly saw myself. And the realization hit - I connected with something! Something new. And I FELT THAT. And that tiny little crack that made in the wall was just enough to start breaking it down. Yeah, when you start letting yourself feel after not feeling for so long, opening up to the good feelings means opening up to feelings and then the bad ones come out too. But when there IS good … it helps you balance. You can deal with the bad a little better because you’ve got the good thing to lean against when it gets too much. And now you’ve got feelings. You’ve got good and bad. You’ve got sticky foggy grey. You’ve got life.

Whew.

So, TLDR, thank you. From the bottom of my slowly healing heart, thank you.

And to sign off with some shits and giggles… I couldn’t find this in existence as a sticker so I had to custom order. Perhaps this will spread misery and panic among the humans of my city - or at least a malignant and creepy sense of unease.

Or maybe they’ll say “wtf” and go home and google it and they’ll fall into the Good Omens hole they never knew they needed too.

Thank you for this. I never quite know what to say to messages like this apart from I am really glad that it helps. (It becomes the weird extra piece that I worry about when writing season 3 -- hoping that it will be that thing again. Not just a story, but something that helps people feel and helps with healing and helps with love.)

[naneun-no]

On “Insecure Jikookers”…

Alright. I might lose followers for this and that’s very okay; curate your timeline and protect your peace babes. But for YEARS, every time the phrase “insecure jikooker” has come up on my feed my eyelid has done a little twitchy twitch 🤨🤨

And I have always ignored it, because I’ve never wanted to be out here policing ppl’s language and we are literally supposed to be having fun and celebrating love, like for me that’s the whole point, but —

I’ve been seeing the phrase popping up again surrounding the release of AYS and I just gotta say it.

You guys the term seems so culty 😬🥲

Like I think I get the origin (maybe)? It probably started when some of the early jikook bloggers (if you are one I salute you, I am not worthy, trust me this is NOT a dig at anyone, jikook bloggers are by and large cool and kind af 🙇‍♀️) would get these sketchy asks that were antis or cultists in disguise just casting aspersions on jikook’s bond or being blatantly homophobic and/or in general being rude little anonymous internet gremlins. Or maybe it was people who did want to believe that jikook was real but kept nagging and begging for reassurance at every turn, which I can totally see becoming annoying as hell and prompting people to start using the term.

But it feels like it’s used now as like a catchall for anyone who expresses any doubt or asks any critical questions? Even like… reasonable ones? And I used to see a lot of “hey believe what you want to believe but this is what I believe” but now it seems like the sentiment around jikooker communities has by and large become “if you don’t believe you’re an idiotic dumb person who has never known love — you’re either a rival shipper in disguise or WORSE (dun dun dunnnnn) an Insecure Jikooker — and we don’t want people like you around.”

And idk it just feels weird for a community that has always seemed to kind of pride itself on being the “rational, fact-based” ship… like we LOVE to be smug about how jikook don’t need edits to be obvious, don’t need slo-mo zooms with red circles and arrows because their chemistry and fondness and affection is just plain to see in basic footage. We’re the levelheaded ones 😌.

But doesn’t that mean that we should always be encouraging critical thinking, and if someone comes to a different conclusion than us, so be it? Like it or not, none of us have foolproof confirmation that jikook are anything more than very close friends. That’s literally all we know. The rest is our best guess based on vibes, anecdotes, dot-connecting, subtext and body language observation, experience, perception (!!This is a big one because confirmation bias is real!!), and suspicion. That’s literally it.

Look maybe I’m just projecting 😅 but when you criticize people for expressing reasonable doubt over something that is literally not confirmed, it’s just a little too religious fundamentalist for me! (This is why I was a bad Christian, because I always raised my hand and asked questions the Sunday school teacher didn’t like.)

Feel free to ignore me. I never want to come across as pushy or trying to stir up anything, it’s just a phrase that grinds my gears and I’m sort of hoping I’m not alone in that… but if I am, so be it! 🤣 would love to hear people’s thoughts because maybe I’m missing something.

(P.S. If you’re a troll who spams jikook blog inboxes this is not me defending you. You’re still annoying and you need a better hobby. Have you tried yoga? Snowboarding? Fly fishing? Filming food vlogs and/or painting? You should try cooking. You should stop being an anonymous internet troll stomping on everyone’s proverbial sandcastles and instead write a poem. K bye ✌️ )

[reidmarieprentiss]

Bridges to Belonging

Part One Part Two Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Summary: Penelope texts Y/n, Rossi has a dinner party, Y/n and Spencer meet

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: Fluff

Warnings/Includes: mentions of virginity and sex (16+), playing never have I ever, teasing from friends, consuming alcohol

Word count: 3.7k

a/n: i am cranking this story out it is going to be finished so fast dear goddd ,, hopefully y'all like it!!! probably like 5 ish more parts is my guess

main masterlist

Y/n was settling in for the night after a long shift at the hospital, kicking her feet up on her coffee table with a glass of wine in hand when her usually dead phone vibrated. 

Hey, Y/N! 😊 It's Penelope from the BAU. Hope you don't mind me texting! Just thought I'd check in and see how my favorite child psychologist is doing. 🌟

Hey, Penelope! Of course, I don't mind :) I’m doing well, just busy with work as usual. How about you?

Busy saving the world, one computer at a time! 🖥️💪 So, tell me, are you still too busy to date, or have you finally joined us mere mortals in the quest for love? 💘

Haha I guess we’re getting right into it. I suppose I am feeling ready to dip my toes back into the dating pool. But I’ve been avoiding it for a while 😅 Awkward first dates are terrifying!

Ooh, exciting! 🥳 But I totally get the fear. Blind dates can be the worst. You never know if you're going to meet Prince Charming or... well, not. 😬

Exactly! And I've been so focused on my career that I haven't really thought about dating in a while. Plus, all my undergrad flings made me a bit wary of anything serious.

Understandable. Sometimes you just need to have fun, right? But now that you’re settled, maybe it’s time for a change? 😉

Yeah, maybe you're right. I wouldn't mind meeting someone who shares my interests and gets my sense of humor.

OMG, that sounds like a dream. Let me know when you find them and send me one too. 💖

Ha! If I find one I will let you know. How does one even go about meeting new people nowadays?

Well… You remember Rossi, right? He’s having a pasta and wine night at his mansion this Friday at 8 pm!! 🎉

Pasta and wine?? Sounds perfect. Thanks, Penelope! I’ll be there, I appreciate you thinking of me :)

Anytime, Y/N! Can’t wait for you to meet the rest of the team. I’ve got a good feeling about this! 💖✨ 

—

The rest of the team? Y/n thought to herself. She had assumed she met everyone already when she went for drinks with Aaron and the team. Maybe they added a new member. Regardless, she's excited to do three of her favorite things, eat pasta, drink wine, and let rich people pay for everything. 

—

The evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a soft glow over David Rossi’s expansive estate. Nestled in the Virginia countryside, the elegant home exuded both charm and sophistication, a perfect reflection of its owner. The team arrived one by one, greeted by the welcoming scent of freshly baked bread and simmering marinara sauce that wafted through the air, promising a feast of Italian delights.

As Y/n stepped into the house, they were embraced by the warm ambiance of the living room, where a crackling fire in the stone fireplace added a cozy touch. The room was tastefully decorated with leather-bound books, framed photographs, and art pieces that told stories of Rossi’s travels and experiences. Soft jazz music played in the background, the soothing melodies mingling with the lively chatter of the guests.

The dining room was a vision of elegance, with a long mahogany table set for the evening's festivities. Flickering candlelight danced across the table, casting a gentle glow on the polished silverware and delicate china. Each place setting was thoughtfully arranged, complete with fine crystal wine glasses waiting to be filled with Rossi’s carefully curated selection of wines.

On the far side of the room, a sideboard displayed an array of antipasti: olives, cured meats, marinated vegetables, and various cheeses artfully arranged on rustic wooden boards. A large bouquet of fresh flowers served as the centerpiece, adding a splash of color and vibrancy to the room.

The kitchen bustled with activity as Rossi, ever the gracious host, put the finishing touches on a variety of homemade pasta dishes. Large pots simmered on the stove, the fragrant aroma of garlic and herbs filling the air. A pan of lasagna bubbled in the oven, its cheese topping perfectly golden brown. Fresh basil and parsley were sprinkled generously over platters of spaghetti aglio e olio and creamy fettuccine alfredo, each dish a testament to Rossi’s culinary skills and passion for Italian cuisine.

In the adjoining patio, strings of fairy lights twinkled overhead, providing a magical canopy under which the team could relax and unwind. Comfortable seating areas were arranged to encourage conversation, and a small fire pit offered warmth as the evening grew cooler. The gentle rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets added a serene backdrop to the lively gathering.

The evening at Rossi’s house was in full swing. The room was alive with laughter and conversation, and the clinking of glasses mingled with the soft strains of jazz music. The warm glow from the fireplace and the dim lighting created a cozy, inviting atmosphere that wrapped the team in a sense of comfort and camaraderie.

As the doorbell rang, David straightened his jacket and moved toward the entrance with a welcoming smile. He opened the door to reveal Y/N, who stood on the threshold, looking radiant in her deep green dress that highlighted her curves and complemented her confident demeanor.

“Y/N! Welcome!” Rossi exclaimed, stepping aside to usher her into the house. His voice was warm and genuine, filled with the kind of hospitality that made his guests feel immediately at home. “I’m so glad you could make it. We’ve been looking forward to this evening.”

Y/N’s face brightened with a warm smile as she stepped inside. “Thank you, David. I’m excited to be here. The house looks wonderful.”

Rossi gave a hearty laugh. “It’s all thanks to the amazing team I have. Let me introduce you to everyone.”

With a graceful wave of his hand, Rossi guided Y/N into the living room, where the BAU team had gathered. The room buzzed with the energy of friends reconnecting after a long day. Rossi’s arrival with Y/N caught the attention of the group, and they turned to greet her with friendly smiles and nods.

Spencer, who had been deep in a conversation with Derek about a recent case, felt a shift in the atmosphere. His gaze followed Rossi and Y/N as they entered, his attention abruptly captured.

Spencer’s breath hitched slightly as he took in Y/N’s presence. The warm lighting seemed to highlight her natural beauty, and the graceful way she moved across the room was both captivating and disorienting. The rest of the team offered her friendly waves and greetings, but Spencer was fixated on her, his curiosity piqued.

Hotch, noticing Spencer’s focused attention, decided it was time for introductions. He approached Spencer with a friendly, knowing smile and gestured toward Y/N.

“Spencer,” Hotch began, his tone calm and reassuring, “I’d like you to meet Y/N.”

Spencer turned to face Hotch, his heart racing a bit. Hotch continued, “Y/N, this is Spencer Reid. He’s one of our most brilliant team members here at the BAU.”

Y/N extended her hand with a warm, welcoming smile. “Hi, Spencer. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

God, even her voice is beautiful. 

Spencer, momentarily taken aback, felt a flutter of nerves as he took her hand. “Hi, Y/N. It’s, uh, nice to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot about you as well,” he replied, his voice tinged with both shyness and genuine interest.

Y/N’s gaze was kind and her smile reassuring, making Spencer feel more at ease. “I hope it’s all been good,” she said with a playful glint in her eye.

Spencer managed a small, tight lipped smile, as he tucked his hair behind one ear and his nerves started to settle. “Definitely,” he replied, feeling a warmth that contrasted with his usual social anxiety.

Y/N leaned in slightly, her eyes meeting Spencer’s with a genuine curiosity. “So, Spencer,” she began, her tone light and engaging, “what’s one thing you’re passionate about outside of work?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up as he considered her question. “Well, I’m really into chess,” he admitted. “I’ve been playing since I was a kid. It’s a great way to exercise the mind and challenge myself.”

Y/N’s smile widened. “I didn’t know that. I used to play chess with my grandfather when I was younger. It’s a fascinating game. Do you have a favorite opening strategy?”

Spencer’s face brightened, and he leaned in a bit more, his enthusiasm evident. “Yes! I’m a big fan of the Queen’s Gambit. It’s a classic and very versatile. What about you?”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled as she shared her own chess experiences. The conversation continued, the two finding common ground and enjoying each other’s company.

Hotch observed the interaction with a pleased expression, satisfied with the introduction. He stepped back, allowing Spencer and Y/N to continue their conversation. The team resumed their chatter, though the undercurrent of excitement about the new connection was palpable.

The evening had progressed into a more relaxed phase as the team retreated to Rossi’s lush backyard. The gentle clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversation blended with the soft rustling of leaves in the warm night breeze. The group had moved outside after enjoying a sumptuous Italian feast prepared by Rossi and Penelope, and now they were settling into comfortable chairs and sofas, each with a glass of wine in hand.

Spencer, still a bit on edge but feeling slightly more at ease, had decided to join in on the wine, especially since Y/N had done the same. The rich, full-bodied wine paired perfectly with the after-dinner atmosphere, adding to the relaxed ambiance of the evening.

Derek, always the instigator of fun, leaned back in his chair with a mischievous grin. “Alright, everyone, I think it’s time for a game. How about a round of ‘Never Have I Ever’?” He looked around the circle with a gleam in his eye, clearly excited about the prospect of the game.

Emily raised an eyebrow playfully. “Oh, this should be interesting. Let’s see who’s willing to spill some secrets tonight.”

Y/N looked intrigued but a bit hesitant. “Sounds fun. I’m game.”

The group settled into a comfortable rhythm as Derek began the game. “Okay, I’ll start. Never have I ever... gone skydiving.”

A few people sipped their wine, including Emily and Rossi. “Guilty as charged,” Rossi said with a chuckle. “Skydiving is quite the adrenaline rush.”

Y/N, who had taken a sip, smiled and said, “I’ve always wanted to try it, but never had the chance.”

Spencer, still holding his glass, observed the interactions with a mix of curiosity and caution. He had never played this game before, not having ever been invited to parties in high school or college, and while he was intrigued, he wasn’t sure how much he was ready to reveal about himself.

JJ leaned forward, looking at Y/N with a grin. “Okay, your turn. What’s something we’d never expect from you?”

Y/N thought for a moment, then laughed softly. “Alright, never have I ever... been to a strip club.”

This time, the whole team, including Penelope, sipped their wine. “Oh, I mean we all have been on multiple occasions for a case,” Penelope admitted with a grin. “It’s a rite of passage.”

Spencer watched Y/N closely, noticing how easily she blended with the group, her laughter and easy demeanor making her approachable. He found himself feeling more comfortable, the game serving as a welcome distraction from his usual reservations.

As the game continued, Derek took his turn. “Never have I ever... gone on a blind date.”

Spencer, who had been carefully sipping his wine, hesitated for a moment before taking a sip. He caught Y/N’s eye and saw her smile warmly. “Well, that’s a new one for me,” she said, clearly amused.

Hotch, enjoying the playful banter, decided to chime in. “I think it’s safe to say that a lot of us have had some interesting experiences with blind dates.”

The game continued with a mix of laughter, surprises, and the occasional sip of wine. As it came around to Spencer’s turn, he took a deep breath, deciding to take a small risk. “Never have I ever... read all the books in a series before the final book was released.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise, and she laughed. “Oh, I’m guilty of that too. I get too impatient for the next installment.”

Spencer felt a small spark of connection, his nerves easing as he realized they shared a common interest. “It’s the only way to avoid spoilers,” he said with a smile.

The conversation flowed easily as the game progressed, with everyone sharing stories and bonding over their revelations. Spencer found himself more relaxed, the warmth of the wine and the easygoing nature of the game creating an environment where he could be himself.

The group settled into their seats even more lubricated with wine, ready for the real revelations. Derek went first, his tone playful. “Never have I ever... been to a nightclub and partied until dawn.”

Y/N, Emily, Penelope and Derek took a sip, with Emily laughing. “Oh, I’ve done that more times than I can count. Nothing like a night out on the town to blow off some steam.”

Spencer seemed slightly more at ease with each revelation. “I’ve never been to one of those. It sounds like an experience.”

The game continued with more revealing questions. Emily, with a mischievous glint in her eye, asked, “Never have I ever... had a one-night stand.”

Spencer was visibly surprised when Y/N took a sip. Y/N gave a small, slightly embarrassed smile. “It’s a part of life’s experiences, but I guess I’ve been more focused on my career lately.”

Spencer nodded, a hint of understanding in his eyes. He was keenly aware of the fact that he was still a virgin, and while he wanted to connect with Y/N on a deeper level, he found himself struggling. She had undoubtedly had more romantic and physical experiences than he had. The thought that someone as stunning and sophisticated as Y/N would be interested in a novice like him seemed almost inconceivable. He was trying hard not to let his insecurities cloud his mood. The way she smelled—like a wet dream—was both intoxicating and overwhelming. Her laughter, so genuine and carefree, only accentuated the gulf between them. Spencer tried to shake off the discomfort, reminding himself to stay engaged.

Derek, sensing the shift in the conversation and relishing the opportunity to provoke more personal revelations, threw out another provocative prompt. “Never have I ever... gone on a vacation just for the sake of hooking up with someone.”

Penelope and Emily took a sip, with Penelope letting out a soft laugh. “Sometimes you just need to get away and see where the night takes you,” she said, a playful glint in her eye.

Y/N, now visibly more at ease and enjoying the shared camaraderie, leaned in slightly, her voice carrying a teasing edge. “I’ve always found travel is more about the sights than the romance. But I suppose the adventure can include a little... spontaneous connection,” she said, letting her words linger with a hint of allure. Her gaze flicked towards Spencer briefly, a subtle challenge in her eyes.

Spencer felt a slight flush creeping up his neck as he realized Y/N’s playful comment was not lost on him. The conversation had taken a decidedly more personal turn. “I’ve never really mixed vacation with... personal pursuits,” he admitted, his tone tinged with shyness. The idea of combining travel with romantic endeavors seemed foreign and somewhat intimidating.

As the game continued, the topics grew more intense and revealing. Rossi, with a knowing smile and a glint of mischief, asked, “Never have I ever... been in a relationship where both partners had different kinks.”

Everyone, even Hotch, took a sip, with Rossi adding, “Sometimes those differences can make things... particularly exciting.”

Y/N, engaging more openly with the group, nodded thoughtfully. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. “It’s definitely something that can add a layer of complexity to a relationship,” she said, her voice taking on a more intimate tone. “It’s all about finding that balance and exploring what truly works for both partners.”

Spencer, taking a sip and feeling the warmth of the wine begin to loosen his nerves, found himself caught between curiosity and shyness. “It sounds like navigating those differences can be... challenging,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze remained fixed on Y/N, trying to read the subtle nuances in her expressions. The vulnerability she displayed in her words made her even more intriguing.

Y/N’s smile widened slightly, a mix of empathy and flirtation in her gaze. “It can be, but it’s also part of what makes relationships interesting,” she said, her voice soft but laced with a suggestive undertone. She met Spencer’s eyes with a confident yet gentle look, as if inviting him to share more of his thoughts.

Spencer swallowed hard, feeling a blend of attraction and apprehension. The way Y/N spoke, her casual yet intimate revelations, made him want to know more about her and, perhaps, reveal more about himself. The game had opened a door to a new level of connection, one that both excited and intimidated him.

The night had drifted into a mellow haze as the stars began to twinkle in the sky. The soft hum of conversation and clinking of glasses had subsided into a relaxed murmur as the team lingered in Rossi’s backyard, enjoying the cool night air. The rich aroma of the evening’s wine lingered in the air, adding a heady undertone to the tranquil setting.

Spencer had been engaged in a conversation with Rossi, but his mind kept drifting back to the playful exchanges he’d shared with Y/N. She had been captivating throughout the evening, her laughter and teasing remarks sticking in his mind. He found himself drawn to her energy, even as he struggled with his own insecurities.

As the night wore on, guests began to trickle out, and the ambiance of the backyard shifted to a quieter, more intimate atmosphere. Spencer watched as Y/N, her cheeks flushed with the warmth of the wine, made her way towards him. Her movements were graceful, and there was a certain confident allure in her stride that made Spencer’s heart skip a beat.

Y/N approached Spencer with a mix of determination and vulnerability. She cleared her throat gently, her eyes locking with his in a gaze that was both direct and inviting. The faint glow from the string lights above cast a warm halo around her, highlighting her striking features and the subtle sheen of her skin.

“Hey, Spencer,” she said, her voice soft but laden with an undeniable edge of sincerity. “Can we talk for a minute?”

Spencer, caught off guard, nodded. “Of course, Y/N. What’s up?”

Y/N led him a little away from the remaining guests, her hand brushing lightly against his as she guided him to a more secluded corner of the backyard. Spencer found he didn’t mind the contact too much, he might still wash his hands after. The quiet of the night enveloped them, the sounds of the party fading into the background.

She took a deep breath, her eyes searching his with a mix of hesitation and resolve. “I’ve really enjoyed talking with you tonight,” she began, her voice a touch more vulnerable than usual. “And I have to admit, I’ve been thinking... I’d like to see you again. Maybe for a coffee or dinner sometime? I’d love to get to know you better.”

Spencer’s heart raced as he took in her words. He felt a rush of warmth at the idea of spending more time with her, but the reality of his inexperience and his nerves threatened to overwhelm him. He managed a small, nervous smile, his mind racing through a whirlwind of thoughts.

“I’d like that,” Spencer said, his voice trembling slightly. “I’d really like that. I... I didn’t expect this, but I’m glad you asked.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, and she reached out to touch his arm, her fingers lingering for a moment. “Good,” she said, her tone taking on a more intimate quality. 

Spencer felt a surge of excitement mixed with his usual apprehension. The way Y/N looked at him, with that blend of confidence and genuine interest, made him feel like he was worthy of her attention.

“Absolutely,” he said, feeling more confident. “Let’s definitely make plans. I’d like that very much.”

Y/N’s smile widened, a mix of relief and satisfaction crossing her face. “Great. I’m looking forward to it.”

With that, she gave him a warm, lingering smile and a light touch on his arm before heading back towards the group to say her goodbyes. Spencer watched her go, with a brand new phone number in his pocket, feeling a renewed sense of hope and excitement. The evening had taken an unexpected turn, and he couldn’t wait to see where this new connection with Y/N might lead.

[spinchip]

Just Don't Call Me Late For Dinner

transgirl Zane and picking out a new name.

“So,” Cole asks with an air of curated nonchalance, like asking the question he’s about to ask might be uncouth, “Do I still… call you Zane, or have you um, picked out a new name?”

She glances over at him, pausing the mental calculation she and Pixal had been working on to pin him with a soft smile. The question was meant in good faith, an effort to be supportive, but they were currently held prisoner in the dungeon of a madman, “Zane is fine. I have not had much time to think about my name, and considering our current situation I do not think it’s wise to split my attention.”

Cole chuckles a little at that which is good, she was trying to add a bit of levity to her words with the inflection of her voice, “That’s fair. Just let me know if anything changes, yeah?”

“Of course.” She goes back to work, the conversation sitting in the back of her mind for her to examine later.

I would be happy to take a break and consider the matter of your name, Pixal informs her in that familiar matter-of-fact way, It could prove a good mental reset, though i imagine that term does not accurately ascribe itself to AI.

Thank you, but really, I am okay. I would prefer not to pick out a new name while in captivity. She thinks back at her, a dungeon is not quite conducive to the process. I would prefer something so important not be sullied by this experience.

Understood. Pixal says simply, and they move on from the topic.

Later, after everything is over and done and mostly-processed, Cole glances up at her as she enters the living room with a curious smile, “how was the mall?” He asks her.

“Looks like you got a lot of stuff.” Lloyd comments from his spot on the carpet in front of the TV. He’s laying flat on his back and reading a comic book above his head casually.

“It was a total success!” Kai answers for her.

She supposes that is alright, considering he did most of the heavy lifting when it came to her new fashion choices. He had an eye for clothing- it was the main reason she’d brought him along. Before she’d rebuilt herself, everything she owned was bulky and big and picked out for how it hid her silhouette. With her new body, she found her old wardrobe… lacking character. Boring. But having been so ignorant to the fashion world, she’d enlisted the resident stylist for his help. Thank the first master for all those magazines he got every month. She’d done her homework before they went out and knew somewhat what was in style and what she liked (they didn’t always overlap) and Kai had helped her build outfits and pick out several cornerstone pieces in her new wardrobe.

“I am happy with our trip.” She says with a smile, setting down several bags. Kai took the liberty of showing off a few of her new things. Dresses, skirts, jeans and tops, sweaters and shoes. It had been a long day, but she felt exhilarated by the experience instead of exhausted and sad like she always had when shopping in the mens section.

“Speaking of new things, given any thought to your name?” Cole asks again, the question much more casual than the first time he’d asked.

She wasn’t completely unobservant to social cues, and she’d certainly noticed and appreciated that they were all somewhat avoiding the name Zane for her since she’d informed them of her new identity. Her life as of recently was full of a myriad of nicknames.

“I am… still thinking about it.” She admits a bit bashfully, “I’m not sure where to begin.”

“It’s a big decision. Do you need any help?” Jay says without looking away from the video game he was currently horribly losing at.

She takes a moment to ponder that before she sits down on the couch next to Cole, “I would be open to suggestions.” She says agreeably, “Are there any names you think would fit me?”

Cole humms and flips his sketch pad to a new page, scribbling Possible Names? On the top, “Well, that depends. What are you wanting? Something that starts with the same initial?” he thinks for a moment before he starts writing things down as he says them aloud, “Zinnia? Zoey? Zuri?”

“Zinnia sounds too similar to Nya,” She says with a shake of her head before shooting the girl a smile, “I mean no offense.”

“None taken,” Nya says with a shrug, “I get it. What about something more technology based? Perl? Ada? Siri? Maybe Julia or Ruby?”

Jay curses as his character dies on screen before throwing his two cents in, “Tera or Zetta, like the bytes?” He starts the level over again, “We could get weird with it. Circuit? Mimo? Variable?”

“Variable!?” Kai repeats, looking at Jay like he’s grown a second head.

“Var is a beautiful name for a girl!” Jay insists instantly, defensively huddling over the controller in his hands.

“I’m not sure about that one Frosty.” Kai says frankly before his eyes light up, “Hey, what about names having to do with ice? I’ll look some up.” He says excitedly, pulling out his phone.

While he’s doing that, she leans over to see what Cole has written down so far and to also stage whisper to him, “You do not have to write down Variable.”

“It’s not that outrageous!” Jay pouts.

“Okay, what about Winter? Neve? Noelle?” Kai's clicks over to another article, “This one says Frostine but that feels a little heavy handed to me. Ooh, I like Ivy and Holly if you want something more nature-y. Aurora is nice too.” He narrates as he scrolls through different lists.

“Neve feels like something my Father would have picked in another life,” She says wistfully, “But I am not certain it feels quite right for me in this one.”

“How about Lena?” Lloyd offers up, peeking over his comic.

“Isn’t that Fritz Donnegans love interest in starfarer?” Nya asks suspiciously.

“Actually she’s his twin sister.” Jay corrects, “Well they made her his sister in the third movie, before that it wasn’t canon.”

“I thought the third movie was about Fritz Donnegans dad turning evil.”

“No, those are the prequels. That’s the sixth movie they made.” Lloyd says as he flips his comic book back open.

Nya rolls her eyes, “If it’s a prequel then chronologically that is the third movie.”

“We’re getting off topic.” Cole interrupts before the conversation can devolve any further. He holds out his sketchpad for her to examine, “Do any of these speak to you?”

Zinnia Zoey Zuri Perl Ada Siri Julia Ruby Terra Zetta Circuit Mimo V Winter Neve Noelle Frostine? Ivy Holly Aurora Lena

“I like Perl?” She offers.

“That didn’t sound very confident.” Kai points out with a raised brow.

“Okay, so that’s the closest. What do you like about it?”

She rolls the name around her head for a long moment, trying to figure out why it stood out to her, “It is one syllable, like Zane. It does not end in an ‘a’ sound.”

“Short and to the point. I can work with that.” Nya tilts her head to think, “Sage. Elle? Skye?”

“Skylor.” She reminds Nya with a shake of her head.

“Jade?” Jay suggests, “Oh, too similar to Jay.”

“And Harumi. Jade princess?” Lloyd points out with a cringe.

“Oh, right.”

“Wynn? Oh, hey, Wren? You like birds.” Cole scribbles down the new names while she mulls over his options.

“Wren is closer.” She says slowly, “A high contender for sure.”

“Birds!” Kai says excitedly, “What are more one syllable birds?”

Lloyd closes his comic book again so he can think better, “Lark?”

Nya taps her fingers against her chin, “How about Dove?”

“Raven?”

“That’s two syllables Jay.” Kai groans.

Jay throws his hands up in defeat, “I’m not good at this!”

“Dove.” She repeats suddenly into the room, the name tasting sweet and comfortable on her tongue, “I think my name is Dove.”

“Nya you got it!” Kai whoops before he deflates, “Aw, I'm jealous she picked your suggestion.”

Nya sits back with a smile, preening at her choice.

Cole’s smiling ear to ear as he straightens up on the couch, “Alright, let’s try it out! A little role-play.” He turns his body to face her and pretends to hold a cup in one hand and a marker in the other, “Alright, Ma’am, i’ve got a Venti Oat milk latte with toffee nut and pumpkin.” He spins off the top of his head.

“I would not order that.” She interrupts, “I do not like toffee.”

“Can I get a name for your order?” Cole railroads on, giving her a meaningful look.

She doesn’t roll her eyes at his shenanigans because this whole thing has been incredibly sweet, “My name is Dove.” She tells him, the words fitting perfectly in her mouth. There’s a joy bubbling up her chest making her giggle as he pretends to scribble her name down on an invisible cup.

“It’s spelled D-O-V-E.” Jay explains slowly as Cole writes.

“Just in case you weren’t sure.” Lloyds plays into the bit.

“Shut up.” Cole rolls his eyes, but there’s no real heat to it before he offers her a genuine smile, “That’s a great name.”

“It suits you.” Kai adds and Nya nods along.

“Thank you.” Dove says, unable to hide her bright smile.

[milf--adjacent]

Something that convinced me that transmysoginy exists more than any other argument was how immediate and violent the reaction from TMEs and adjacent folks was. As soon as you bring up the very idea of queer groups having power dynamics it's a flood of "You're intersexist" "You're transandrophobic" "You have no idea what's going on" "you hate gnc people", etc. etc. without ever trying to debunk the argument, and often resorting to character assassinations.

To 'debunk' the argument would mean they would have to address it which means facing their possibly hidden biases upon which they build their own narrative of superiority. They wanna say "you're a bunch of baddel bigot transfem supremacists" when in reality we're chipping away at their own supremacist values simply by mentioning that we are whole people who are consistently forgotten and undervalued by queer communities at large. They think we "want on top" when all we want is an end to veiled hate and dismissal of our thoughts, feelings, and experiences because we were forced to walk through life with a big 'M' on our records and somehow that means we lived the good life until we started "pretending" to be women. All we want is to be considered and included.

Like there was this gushing outporing of support for that post that told trans women to stay alive then told trans men to stay alive, and a bunch of TME people were like "I've never heard it phrased for trans men before!" and while I can respect their experience 1. We curate our own experiences here, so maybe follow some more positive trans men and you'll see plenty of transmasc positivity (I see plenty and I'm not even looking for it!) and 2. Which part of the community has a long, lingering, often unreported suicide issue? Which types of trans people are ostracized from the groups and communities that are supposed to help them and care for them? Which group of trans people makes up the bulk of the trans suicide stats?

Trans women are dying of lonliness and despair every day, and some TME people want to turn it into a "both sides" issue of "balance" and "fairness." I think one side lacks proper balance and fairness since one side has entire stores and clothing lines dedicated to their needs, but when I want a bra or shoes in my size, I have to wade through listings labeled "CROSSDRESSER SISSY BOTTOM TRANSEXUAL CLOTHING FOR MEN" to find something. I go to the queer support group and I am the only transfem in the room and the whole organization is run by TME people. I go to pride and there's so much fanfare for the drag queens who live their lives as gay men and only adopt womanhood as a performance, but even for the fucking TRANS MARCH, only one transfem is given space to speak on stage, and she is quickly bustled from the stage so a TME DJ can spin a super mid remix of I Feel Love (should have just played the extended dance mix for fucks sake) and yet another drag queen can perform.

It's not just me noticing these things, and many transfems aren't half as brave as me because of histories of abuse and neglect.

To even validate the argument that transfems are overlooked and neglected would be to address one's role in making that happen so consistently, so it's easier for that type of TME person to cast individual trans women as some sort of monster than to address their own internalized transmisogyny. No one likes to be told they're hurting someone, but no one goes full hater as quickly as a white queer person who is told their lack of empathy empowers transmisogyny.

[laithraihan]

now i’m kinda curious to hear what you think of proshipping.. if you don’t mind of course

I'll share my thoughts, and if theres anything I say that doesnt make sense feel free to point it out to me because I mostly write with the help of a translator. Under the cut because I wrote too much stuff.

TLDR: proshippers hate me because I dont want to look at glorified depictions of pedophilia/incest/etc, antis hate me because my content isnt 100% sanitized. I stay around anti circles because I find it slightly easier for me to talk about my headcanons with them even though I think they can be insufferable.

So the thing about proshipping. From what I've seen it means being "anti-harassment" and being in support of curating your online experience, which sounds great on paper and that's practically what I do. I have over 3k accounts blocked on my personal twitter to navigate the website more easily and I also dont care if someone blocks me if they dont like my stuff.

Except proshippers never consider me a proshipper because I am uncomfortable with viewing glorified depictions of topics like pedophilia, incest, rape, all that stuff. The same way people are uncomfortable with excessive blood and gore (which I also can't really handle seeing). Whether or not it's always easy to tell if it's glorified is an entirely different topic, which is precisely why I stay away from all depictions in general to avoid being intrusive.

And what's interesting is that I do not label myself an "anti". Mainly because I don't even know what the term "anti" is supposed to mean ("anti-" what exactly. Genuinely please tell me because I actually dont know) But the ones who label themselves "proship" always call me an anti, because again I do not wish to engage with content related to pedophilia etc, and that alone apparently enough to be considered "a person who harasses others over fiction" even if I mind my own business and have no interest in forcing my personal tastes on others, especially if they make it clear that they wont change their mind. Which makes me believe that for a lot of self-identified proshippers, the definition of being "proship" would be more similar to "I love fucked up stuff and if you dont then youre lame and it obviously means you can't tell the difference between fiction and reality" which honestly seems like insecurity to me.

Forgive me for bringing up this up once again but I want to mention an example to make it easier for me to explain: yknow the whole thing with me drawing Minori and Reigen and labelling it "non-cp" which caused a wave of both self-identified antis and proshippers harassing me over that (I'll say that proshippers were more bold about it since the antis harassing me were all anonymous). Proshippers saw me saying "I dont ship that" and interpreted it as me being defensive and in denial, as if I said "guys I swear Im an anti !!! please dont think im a proshipper !!! ", when I meant "I dont want to discuss this with others in a shipping manner because thats not how I see it and I dont want to enter a space Im not comfortable with"

I admit I responded to this situation in a petty manner, but this was after several days of harassment done directly in my inbox and publicly (sometimes I wish yall remembered that group chats and priv accounts exist). My point is that simply saying you don't like seeing pedophilia in fiction is enough for proshippers to believe it's justified for them to harass you over it (and I'm fully aware they'll say it's not harassment, only when antis and "puriteens" do this to them then it's harassment)

Now about the anti side. Don't get me started on them either. If proshippers see me as an enemy then this must mean that I always get along with the ones who call themselves "antis" (I do not). Note that Im only talking about adults here, I dislike beefing with children and I think their feelings about this are entirely reasonable (I'll elaborate on this when talking about internet safety)

But anyways. I think a lot of adults are discourse-brained and do way too much. Im thinking of nonsense like "this ship is problematic because they are 'sibling-coded' so thats basically incest" "siblings giving each other a hug gives me proship vibes" things of that nature. And you're not allowed to do anything that even has the smallest possibility of being interpreted as "problematic", because then they'll harass you for it, and if you clarify your intentions, they expect you to apologize for "misleading" them because clearly they didnt do anything wrong by making assumptions about you.

There's almost no room allowed for creativity with them, everyone has to follow fanon because they consider it canon, if you ever want to try something other than the same boring domestic fluff then it's "too much" (and not even platonic affection is acceptable to draw in certain cases). Which is incredibly fucking boring to me who wants to see different types of content. People even said I was enjoying incest for drawing Reigen selfcest, and that I was "making others uncomfortable" by drawing it. Genuinely seems to me that they only care about moral superiority, that they never think about anything in depth, and I dont think they realize that it also shows in what they create: boring and repeated fanart and headcanons where the only thing you can say about it is "thats cute", nothing more because you saw it ten billion times already. You cant draw two people showing platonic affection that absolutely nobody would bat an eye if it happened in real life, you cant discuss something specific in more depth without people saying you have a fetish for it, and then they'll harass you based on their speculation that it's a fetish. I dont think many realize this, but fandoms are full of autistic people, so it's normal to see people who are interested in very specific things that dont make sense to others! I wish people were less judgmental, but at the same time I dont care if people think Im weird. I think what I mean is theres no reason to mistreat weird people who do no harm to others.

So yeah if you call yourself an "anti" I'll assume youre spend too much time engaging in fandom discourse and you're the type of person to believe that fanart where two people are holding hands is the equivalent to drawing them fucking each other. Which I think is a very childish mindset to have and it's worrying that many adults think this way. I also think that as an adult they should be capable of blocking stuff they hate instead of constantly arguing with people online because at this point it's just mental torture.

The thing about internet safety I mentioned earlier, I'd say this is the one thing that I'll always prioritize discussing whenever proship discourse comes up.... To put it simply: filter and limit the visibility of your content, do not put triggering stuff in the main tags, stay in your own circles. Whether or not you believe fictional rape/pedophilia/etc is bad is irrelevant, my point is that these are objectively triggering topics and should be filtered just like how there are warnings for violence and blood even if it's not real.

"But it's the parents' responsibility to control what kids look at online, this has nothing to do with me!" and I agree with the parents being the ones Primarily responsible. However the reality is that children are online and there's nothing you can do to stop it from happening. Kids will also enter spaces theyre not allowed in, theyre children and children are rebellious especially teenagers, I was like this as a teenager too. You'd be lying if you said you were always obedient since childhood and never did anything you were told Not to do. And you can't really expect teenagers to always block and not interact if they see something triggering. It's your responsibility to block them if they interact with you, because what I see most of the time is adults bickering with teenagers who are uncomfortable, calling them "puriteens", putting them on blast and allowing other adults including NSFW accounts to dunk on them.

Humiliating and degrading teenagers does not "teach them a lesson", it only makes the teenager more stubborn and reactive. Adults must accept that kids will always find their way in there even if your content isnt easily accessible. So I think it's stupid to feel offended at a child because they got upset when they found upsetting content like how any normal child would react. Which is why I wish more adults would keep blocking without saying anything petty to provoke teenagers.

Before someone pancake-waffles me and says "so youre fine with antis doxxing people" no I do not support doxxing. Ive been doxxed so I know it sucks. However the only times Ive seen it go this far is after continuous arguing because nobody knows when to stop. Im not saying this applies all the time nor am I saying doxxing is fine, but there are ways to minimize this sort of outcome as much as possible. Both sides have doxxed people over petty arguments that couldve easily been avoided if they just blocked each other and moved on.

The topic above (internet safety) is probably the only thing related to this where Im actively telling others what they should be doing. It's not only teenagers who are triggered by depictions of pedophilia etc but also adults like myself. In my case Im old enough to block content I dislike without saying a word, however I cant help but think that there's not enough being done about filtering especially when I do not search for this type of content and I still see it all the time.

I also think it's important for me to mention that I have a very poor sense of morality. I do not have a personal moral code that I adhere to, and I mostly stick to the basic universal ones that make sense to me. So I will not discuss the "morals" of consuming this stuff because I am not adequate to share an opinion on this, and I know the most popular topic of discussion related to proship discourse is morality which I frankly find counterproductive. I dont understand why people should care so much if I find something morally correct or not, unless it's to make themselves feel better about having a "superior opinion" to mine. Though I will say that if a man tells me he's into rape "but only in fiction!" then I dont think it will stop me of imagining myself bashing his skull repeatedly with large rocks. Maybe Im too mistrustful of men in general.

Final point I want to clarify is that I am not trying to assert some sort of superiority over people by disliking both sides, like saying "Im not an anti or a proshipper Im a Normal person" or something like that, and Im not expressing a "neutral" stance on the topic of fiction's influence on reality either. There are topics like racism and orientalism in fiction that Im vocal about (which is expected since Im Algerian). I genuinely believe there are many things that are interesting to discuss and should be prioritized, but too many people are chronically online, subjective and defensive, at this point I dont even think it's accurate to say that disliking one side automatically means you support the other side regarding fiction. To me, "proship discourse" is not about the debate of the effects of fiction on reality, censorship in media, etc. It's about everything I described earlier that happens online.

[imptwins]

ALRIGHT, no more messing around I suppose.

Over the last twelve months my close friend @kimberlyeab and myself have been the targets of sustained harassment by a series of "anti-ship" accounts, that may or may not be the same person, that I am not going to name up here because I do not want to give them any more traffic than necessary. This is over some of the content we make, 18+ fiction revolving around Undertale and Deltarune, and sometimes involving dark kinks. I'm going to ask you to put aside whether you think this is immoral for the moment.

Under the break below is what I wrote a few hours ago. Things have since escalated. Both myself and Kim have been targeted by email bombs on our business emails, services/bots that spam your email address with garbage signups, rendering your email address completely unusable. At worst, this can overwhelm your email service so much that your account is unable to process new emails and is eventually disabled by the provider. I'm still getting bursts of activity after over 200 emails, so I'm not sure if it's dying down, or if it's so backlogged that this is what's happening.

This is literally a crime, by the way. It's classified as cyber abuse.

On top of this, whoever has done this has access to personal information. A full legal name, first and last, was used in several of the signups, so they are either implicitly threatening to doxx us, or simply flexing that they could. Likewise a crime.

Additionally, this seems well coordinated, but there are no suspicious recent results for us in The Usual Places. This makes me believe this person is probably using some foul back-alley site like KF to organize this. I don't think the legal name in question could have been acquired by one person, it's extremely difficult to trace back.

tl;dr: whoever is doing this knows their way around the internet and is actively dangerous, they are severely impeding our lives and have the potential to become incredibly, incredibly dangerous.

Why am I posting this? Not really to get those accounts in trouble (although you should absolutely stay the hell away from them, and severely scrutinize anything they leave a mark on). I don't think they'll be punished, nor would it help since they constantly block evade, and at this point I don't think this recent online abuse crap is actually them, just someone attaching themself to their crusade. Though I'm not sure.

What I want to illustrate is how these kind of callout posts feed into targeted harassment of minorities. This is just another reason why things that make you uncomfortable should be dealt with by curating your experience using tags and blacklists and blocks, rather than trying to assign moral value to what people make. If my content makes you that uncomfortable I *actively encourage* you to block me.

It doesn't matter whether you personally dislike minorities or not, or whether you're subconsciously targeting them, or whatever. Someone else who does will latch on. That person who writes nothing but callout posts, yet they're always for small trans creators who make some 'icky stuff' and never for big-name bigots who parade their bigotry out in the open; is it because they're a sock puppet of an overt reactionary, or just because they want to feel some control over their life so they subconsciously focus on vulnerable people?

Simple: you can't know.

These people are the dangerous ones. Not people who just make content, properly tag it, and mind their own business. But these people, obsessed with ruining other people, with finding 'evil' in the world so that they can purge it? You can find their name below if you really want, and literally their entire blog is just constant callouts, broadcasting people doing callouts, trying to network with other people who do callouts. This is why these people were originally called 'antifans', their entire fandom presence is centered around tearing other people to shreds.

Do your due diligence and fact-check, before you broadcast that someone in your fandom did something awful. Make sure they actually hurt someone. I know mega-bastards will use 'you can't prove it' as an excuse, but actually analyze it a bit. It's almost always painfully obvious, I know, I spent years doing antifascism. And more than anything else, neither entertain, nor broadcast, nor embolden the kind of people who dedicate their entire existences on the internet to lateral abuse. Not just these particular ones, but ANYONE who dedicates their life to this online torch-waving garbage over fictional content. Whether they're a reactionary or just projecting trauma, whether they actually hate x y or z minority or they just happen to always go for the most vulnerable people, whether the person they're targeting makes content that makes you feel very icky and gross or not, these self-ordained Crusaders are consistently, unquestionably, dangerous.

That's one page out of 4. Also some of them have between 10 and 80 updates in the one email from the same address. There's about 300 emails all up. And there's zero reason they can't do this again.

===

Anyway. The accounts in question are @snowcollecter/@brieffamilycat/@krispy-chicken-shipping/@bonniehbunny. First two are definitely them, I highly suspect the latter two are their main, or at the very least someone who constantly signal boosts them. We have endured over 12 months of:

calling for brigades against us, and at least 4 other people

block dodging to constantly screenshot and reference our posts

literal libel by accusing us of grooming a child despite screenshots, as well as both statements and direct requests to stop by both the supposed groomed child and their actual friends who witnessed all interactions we had

spamming anon asks to literally every single person that they can find who we ever interact with

using tiktok cen)sor)ship nonsense to get past peoples' blacklists and force this stuff in front of them

using no less than 3 confirmed alts with about 5 more extremely suspicious accounts in attempts to artificially broadcast themself and again evade blocks (when the original account itself is transparently an alt too)

joining multiple random discords to try to shove this stuff in peoples' faces

now spamming Kim's business email at signup services

probably being behind the attempts to doxx and raid us last year on a certain hate-monger website, since the signup spam demonstrates they're cool with bog standard channer troll tactics

They also pretty tellingly refused to even talk to this minor we supposedly groomed, who attempted to tell them personally that we hadn't done the shit they claim we did. You'd think someone who is this caught up about the safety of minors in fandom spaces would jump at the chance to help this kid, to tell them not to talk to us and get them away from us, to convince them to stay away? No, they said 'I don't talk to minors' (this is demonstrably untrue: their discord accounts are in many all-ages spaces) and immediately blocked them.

Of course. Because this was never about the safety of minors. Flip a coin; if it's heads, they're a far-right sock puppet who just knows they can use the 'think of the children' angle to drive a wedge into queer communities. If it's tails, they're just a routine runt who's projecting their lack of ability to do anything about the ACTUAL assholes of this world onto other queer people, wailing and flailing and doing anything they can to have some influence despite getting 3 notes on almost everything they ever post. Hence the anon asks, and Discord spam, and blacklist/block evading. If they can't have a platform - because anyone who looks at their garbage for more than a month at most sees how absolutely deranged they are - they'll just force people to see it.

Do they ever attack actual transphobes, which this fandom is not at all short on? Well, sort of! They did one or two callout posts about a TERF who used to run in these spaces... But didn't say anything about the TERF shit. Just the porn. The porn constantly put behind age confirmations and thorough tags/content warnings. This person spouted generic 'all-powerful trans lobby' 'social contagion' 'please look at this study about desistance I found on a hard-right website' bullshit, but no, it was them drawing aged-up highschoolers (REMINDER: NOT EVEN CANONICALLY UNDERAGE, JUST VAGUE HIGHSCHOOLERS, *AND* THEY WERE EXPLICITLY OLDER IN THEIR CONTENT!) that was apparently the greater evil.

I'm not even really sharing this to call them specifically out or draw attention to them. Regardless of whether they're a chud in a mask or just someone who severely, *severely* needs psychological help about their obsession, they're not going to stop. They've made that plainly obvious. At this point I've basically just accepted I'm going to have this deranged stalker until I leave the fandom, which I don't plan to do anytime soon so buckle up I guess.

No, I just want people to see what these people are like. How they ignore the people they claim are victims. How they employ the same tactics as doxxing websites and old channer trolls, or even outright enlist them. How they only EVER put sustained effort into taking down queer people with small platforms because going after the in-plain-sight actual bigots and scumbags would just be too much effort, a reflection of how this is about feeling righteous and powerful, not actually making the world better. They create nothing, they contribute nothing, they bring nothing but arguing and drama and isolation to the spaces they inhabit.

These kind of people are blights on the fandoms they cling to. And any time you act like their *miserable* Hays Code, Jack Thompson With A Rainbow Flag, no kink at pride, BDSM is abuse, drag queens are indecent, cover those ankles *garbage* warrants any notice at all, you deal another blow to the fandom you are in, because nobody wants to be around these little goddamn nightmares. edit: I know how red-flag any grooming allegations are, if you want the full story to that I already addressed it here. tl;dr, no, we did not let a child look at our porn let alone show it to them, we in fact stopped them from doing so. We are not in some secret private 18+ server with them, we actively ensured they STOPPED making themself unsafe, and have strained extremely, extremely hard to keep our very limited interactions with them transparent, scrutinizable, and appropriate. The only reason we even stuck around was because it became rapidly apparent they were in an abusive living situation which we occasionally gave them advice to manage, eg helping them look up boarding options, unlike the torch-waving dipshits who did NOTHING to reach out to them or help them in any way. They're doing much better, both in their home life and in terms of not following or privately palling around with 18+ creators anymore, thanks to us, and at the expense of both our mental health and reputations. You're fucken' welcome.