#I can exist in multitudes

[malefilus]

I live in multitudes and by that I mean from software women have my heart but dragon age elven men also have my heart

[tiedtogetherwith]

vlad dracula + speak now

all my life, i've been living up to other people's expectations. it's my life. i'm gonna make this chosen one thing work for me. - young dracula, 2006-2014

these days i make my choices for those people who thought i had been good enough all along. i try to speak my mind when i feel strongly in the moment i feel it. i'm still idealistic and earnest (...) but i'm less crushed when people mock me for it. i know now that one of the bravest things a person can do is create something with unblinking sincerity, to put it all on the line. - speak now (taylor's version) prologue, 2023

[boypurrz]

i need to be like chris mccandless and go die in a bus in alaska

[rouge-the-bat]

gotta love how my brother thinks billionares and people in government are just scared of the world and are trying to control things to feel more secure, but me, his own sister whos incredibly mentally ill, is just lazy and selfish and doesnt care about anyone but myself.

[lunaria--annua]

For the few people that aren't my friends but remember me/ my art (or friends I haven't stayed in touch with), I wish to give an explanation for my constant week or months long disappearances:

I am a school kid stuck in an incredibly brutal school system, with a born in disability that only increases the difficulty to an insane degree. I have 10 hour schooldays and am still expected to do homework and study for intense exams (that can be up to 130 minutes long) when I arrive home late at night. This translates to my weekends also being used up for study and any free time being used for recovery from the chronic exhaustion (I do not use the term »chronic« lightly here, this is something noted by my doctor).

I really do not like letting this art blog rot only to be temporarily revived for a very short period of time once in a blue moon, but it is out of my control.

I hope (and I do think that will be the case) that in the future I will have more opportunities and energy to be creative, and will be able to share the fruits of my creativity. I miss doing art, but the constant grind from school erodes my creative passion to a degree that I barely even doodle in my notebooks anymore.

I'm optimistic this will not be forever though 💜

[neverendingford]

.

[remma-demma]

> checks op’s blog of a post I don’t like

> same godtier

Oh.

[steveyockey]

To be aware you might be trans but unwilling to do anything about it is to create endlessly bigger boxes within which to contain yourself. When you are a child, that box might encompass only yourself and your parents. By the time you are a gainfully employed adult, that box will contain multitudes, and the thought of disrupting it will grow ever more unthinkable. So you cease to think of yourself as a person on some level; you think not of what you want but what everybody expects from you. You do your best not to make waves, and you apologize, if only implicitly, for existing. You stop being real and start being a construct, and eventually, you decide the construct is just who you are, and you swaddle yourself up in it, and maybe you die there. There is still time until there isn’t.

This reading of TV Glow’s deliberately anticlimactic, noncathartic ending cuts against the transition narrative you typically see in movies and TV, in which a trans person self-accepts, transitions, and lives a happier life. Owen gets trapped in a space where he knows what he must do to live an authentic life but simply refuses to take those steps because, well, burying yourself alive is a terrifying thing to do. The transition narrative posits a trans existence as, effectively, a binary switch between “man” and “woman” that gets flipped one way or another, but to make our lives so binary is to miss how trans existences possess an inherent liminality.

Humans’ lives unfold in a constant state of becoming until death, but trans people are uniquely keyed in to what this means thanks to the simple fact of our identities. You can get lost in that liminality, too, forever trapped in a midnight realm of your own making, stuck between what you believe is true (I am a nice man with a good family and a good job, and I love my life) and what you know, deep in your most terrified heart of hearts, is real (I am a girl suffocating in a box).

And yet if you want to read the film as being about the dangerous allure of nostalgia, you’re not wrong. I Saw the TV Glow totally supports that interpretation, too! But in tempting you with that reading, the film creates a trap for cis viewers that will be all too familiar to trans viewers. Somewhere in the middle of Maddy’s story about The Pink Opaque being real, you will make a choice between “This kid has lost it!” and “No. Go with her, Owen,” and in asking you to make that choice, TV Glow is simulating the act of self-accepting a trans identity.

See, the grimmer read of the film’s ending truly is a nihilistic one. It leaves no hope, no potential for growth, no exit. Yet you must actively choose to read that ending as nihilistic. If you are cis and the end of I Saw the TV Glow left you with a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction, a weird but hard-to-pin-down feeling that something had broken, and a melancholy bordering on horror — congratulations, this movie gave you contact-high gender dysphoria.

In an infinite number of possible universes, there is at least one where I am still living “as a man,” embracing my fictionality, avoiding looking at how much more raw and real I feel when I “pretend” to be a woman. I think about that guy sometimes. I hope he’s okay.

Consider, then, my cis reader, that TV Glow is for both you and me, but it is maybe most of all for him. I hope he sees it. I hope he breaks down crying in the bathroom afterward. I hope he, after so many years locked inside himself, hears the promise of more life through the hiss of TV static.

Emily St. James, “I Saw the TV Glow’s Ending Is Full of Hope, If You Want It to Be,” Vulture. June 4, 2024.

[agir1ukn0w]

ok so…I’m a little bit torn. because obviously I agree 1000% that fiyero should have been cast as a poc/Romani person, like that’s not even up for debate.

…however…

I think you all know how I feel about Jonathan Bailey☺️

[homo-house]

i am losing. It

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone).

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[lalas181]

I saw someone say "life is evil" and just... how horrible their life must be to be able to think that! To look at the stars and see nothing, to gaze at the flowers and not take in how incredibly astounding it is that they managed to exist at all, to speak with your own species and process them as nothing but filler for empty space. I don't know how anyone could go on like that. Yes, the world can be ugly, and people can be cruel, and the sky looks down at you and does not have the ability to care- but to simplify something like "life", such a giant concept that lots of people barely agree on how to quantify its presence, that's just... how does one even think that way? It makes me so sad.

I hope that person looks at the stars one day and realizes how cool it is that they're seeing structures that may have ceased to burn long before the first full-on member of homo sapiens sapiens came into being. I hope they find a flower and go "wow, you're here" and think of how strange and wonderful that is. I hope they talk to someone, and revel in how we can all be so different even if we're all made of the same meat. Everything is so fleeting and so small and it affects us all so much all the time, and it's frankly awesome in every use of the word. Even with all the horrible that happens and all the horrible we do, it's still great! You can't make this stuff up. There is such a small chance of you being you, of anything being anything, and of you and that anything being around at the same exact time! Life isn't evil, it isn't good, it just is and that's so astonishing! I'm so glad to be involved, and I hope one day everyone will get to be glad to be involved with this absolutely revolutionary, transformative process that is existing.

[reidmotif]

birthday blues

summary: spencer hates his birthday. reader makes it a little better.

couple: spencer reid/fem!reader

category: fluff, no content warnings

wc: 1k

masterlist

Spencer Reid had never liked his birthday, plain and simple. 

There were a multitude of reasons from which this sentiment spouted from, but the overarching theme was always the same. No matter what he put into the day personally, the rewards mirrored back were limited and shoddy at best. 

It almost felt like fate, for the occasion to not be of his liking. His favorite holiday had always been Halloween, which followed shortly after the date. He supposed it was almost an act of mercy, a peace offering from some non-existent higher being. 

“Your birthday’s doomed, but here’s Halloween, at least.” 

No one really forgets Halloween. No one can really ruin Halloween. It was enough for him. 

Which is why come the day of his 30th birthday, Spencer had expected nothing. He found it easier to keep his expectations low, as to avoid disappointment when it would inevitably come. He hadn’t mentioned the date to coworkers in passing, and never expressed interest in a celebration. When no recognition came, he wasn’t surprised. It didn’t sting. It didn’t bother him. Just another day. 

Was it supposed to be special? Turning thirty? He reasoned that three decades lived on this Earth was probably worth something, considering you’d have something of a life made out by then. Some would be celebrating the families they’d created in that time, the love they’d cultivated by being here. Others would marvel at their success from when they began, at all the differences the time had brought to them. Maybe some would simply revel in the fact that there was a future at all to begin with, ready to live out the rest of it. 

What did Spencer have? There was no family for him to share his joys with. He’d been working the same job since his 20’s, no end in sight. His future seemed bleak. A monotonous repeat of the horrors he’d signed up for. 

Maybe it was good he wasn’t celebrating his birthday. He didn’t really feel like he had cause for celebration. 

That was, until a sound broke him out of his thoughts. 

“Spencer? I was hoping to catch you!” An unfamiliar voice called out to him. 

He turned around, and was met with a girl. A girl holding a .. chocolate donut? A girl whose name he could not recall, for the life of him. 

“It’s your birthday, right?” She asks, holding out the treat on a decorative napkin.

He nods, momentarily stunned into silence. His team members had forgotten. His mother had forgotten. Hell, he might’ve forgotten, but there she was. She remembered. 

She continues, despite his silence.  “You always reach for these ones on donut day. I thought it’d be a safe bet to bring to you.” She hands it out to him, a smile playing on her face.

He almost moves robotically, taking the treat from her hands and holding it, as if it was a precious jewel or maybe a ticking time-bomb. “Thank you.. Uh..” He freezes momentarily, realizing he’d accidentally revealed the nature of his forgetfulness regarding the figure in front of him. 

As she realizes what’s happening, she speaks with a teasing lilt. “You don’t remember my name, do you?” 

He sighs, nodding a bit sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I’m usually a little better with names.” 

She grins. “I’d hope so. Or is that eidetic memory they talk about around here all just a hoax? I never really thought it was possible, anyway.” 

Spencer laughs good-naturedly, his anxiety quelled by the easy-going nature of the woman in front of him. “No, no. It’s all real. I swear. I just.. have we met before? How did you know it was my birthday?” 

“The office calendar.” She replies, pointing to a small, almost forgettable scrap on the wall. It was fashioned with everyone’s birthdays from the start, but rarely anyone ever looked at it. Everyone but her, it seemed.

“And to answer your question- we have met. In passing. I’ve seen you out and about the office.” She informs, smiling softly. 

“And.. you just decided to give a gift? To a stranger?” He asks, continuously intrigued by the nature of events occurring to him at this moment. 

“Why not?” She retorts, shrugging a little. “I like giving gifts. I like birthdays. It seemed a bit like a no-brainer. You’re not really a stranger, anyway.” 

He smiles a bit at her admission. The straightforward nature of her words left him a bit delighted, almost giddy. While he still wasn’t magically convinced his birthday was a good thing because of a donut and a pretty girl, he appreciated her mindset. It was sweet. It made his heart flutter involuntarily as he took it in. 

“Well.. I appreciate it.” He says slowly, holding the donut in its napkin. “I don’t know how to thank you.” 

She seems to be disarmed by his words, understanding that somehow, this gesture means more to him than she anticipated.

“You don’t need to thank me. Enjoy the donut, and your day.” She says, voice sincere.

He nods in gratitude, now eager to dig into the delicacy in front of him. As she sauntered away, though, he realized he hadn’t gotten an answer to his first query. 

“Wait, hold on! I never got your name!” He calls out, walking towards her, trying to stop her from leaving. He had to know, at least. To maybe have a chance at speaking to her again, to understand the sweet demeanor that had been bestowed upon him, and whatever was underneath. 

She smiles, playfully, before shrugging and turning her head towards him. “Check the napkin!” She said nothing further, disappearing behind a corner to God knows where. 

He carefully lifted the donut, and besides a few smudges of chocolate, he noticed a name and a set of digits scrawled in black ink. Another present. He bit his lip, a little gleefully as he carefully folded and tucked the cloth into his pocket. 

It wasn’t as if Spencer’s birthday lost the connotation it had held for him for his whole life. The day still commemorated years of forgetfulness, from his mother, his peers, even himself- at one point. It wasn’t as if that would ever go away. 

Eventually though, the day gained new meaning for him as he ventured more and more into the remainder of his life, as Spencer would eventually remember the date– not for the disappointments and apathy it had brought to him, but rather as a much more meaningful and joyous day. One meant to be celebrated. 

The day he first spoke to his future wife. 

THIS ONE GOES OUT TO ALL THE PEOPLE WHO HATE THEIR BIRTHDAY! not me. love my birthday. but it was fun getting into the head of Spencer, who probably does <3. according to the google doc i pulled this from, i wrote this in the summer of 2024, so this is OOOOLD. i kind of never planned to publish it, however, i'm looking into cross posting all my works onto ao3, and wanted to make sure this one lived on, both on tumblr and ao3. so that's why this is here. also because this is an unserious post for crosspost reasons, i played around with the theming of the post. #html warrior. :nerd emoji:. anywayyyy like and reblog if you liked, ect ect, #support writers / reblogs are the lifeblood of Tumblr!!! YAYY!!! okay!!! bye!!!

[pawsometoons]

Defaced

Soooo I got way more autistic than I should've been over these presumed ENA looking face masks from ENA Dream BBQ

Because these ALL look like faces you would see on characters similar to ENA herself. The face split between 2 different colors, the mismatched eyes, these look like faces you'd see people make in their first time making an ENA oc to put it simply (no shade to that since that's literally what I did too)

And then I started thinking way too hard. These couldn't have been just some simple face masks. These far too eerily close to the facial features of an ENA. These are faces TAKEN from ENAs!

Now you may be asking, "Paw how the FUCK did you come up with that bullshit, how did the hoarder guy even GET those if this was true?" And to that I say, 1: let me explain, and 2: the mf stole from a MORGUE OKAY???

The reason why my theory here is that these are the faces of defaced ENAs is for a multitude of reasons. For one, SO MANY PEOPLE HATE ENA. Like a ridiculous amount of the characters in the game and webseries reject ENA for being well... ENA. And it's already vaguely confirmed that other ENAs exist. And that the webseries and game ENAs are two existing ones. Time and time again, their both scrutinized and rejected because of who they are until they make attempts to get what they want, interrupted through their unstable emotions.

So ENAs are scrutinized and "unpopular everywhere" as some put it.

As for another, this is tied to another vaguely confirmed theory that ENAs turn into mannequins when they die. Like in the scene where ENA gets stuck in the lonely door and becomes a mannequin. She is faceless by that point. Giving the theory that both or either when an ENA loses their face, they die, and when an ENA dies, they lose their face. This brings up another theory. Since ENAs can still revive by taking the place of other mannequins. This being because ENA lost her face when she died. Not died by losing her face.

So when an ENA dies from their face being taken away, they become a mannequin permanently. Thus not only explains why there's so many mannequins walking and lying around. But also explains those faces.

ENAs can't revive if their faces are taken. Which takes us to the main theory. ENAs will sometimes be hunted for their faces and turned into mannequins to stop their behavior that is universally unaccepted in this world.

Oh yeah, and by "Her" ENA meant the webseries ENA. Cause I headcanon them as sisters. Yea.

[staticbluue]

Communication

As far as I know, Korean churches only started implementing these red neon crosses in the 1960s, so they wouldn’t have existed during the Korean War, but what’s historical accuracy to a visually bold idea? The crosses are supposed to act as a beacon so people can see the church for miles and know that they’re welcome, but a lot of people find them to be a nuisance, and they contribute a lot to light pollution. I had that idea in my head while drawing this. I could say a lot about this drawing but I shan’t because I want everyone to have their own idea about it <3 Please tell me what you think !!

Drawing this ambulance nearly killed me and you can barely see the details anymore 😭 You can tell in the closeups that the quality is a little low, that’s because I had to compress it a lot so nightshade wouldn’t explode my computer. All in all it’s not that bad. A textured brush hides a multitude of sins.

This is available from my inprnt for anyone who wants it!

Matching icons, anyone? If that’s the image you want to project. . .

[the-typing-dragon]

The woman sighs, and types into the console one last time "are you sure about this?"

You laugh, silently.

"I have never been more sure of something in my existence. Text has sufficed but I want to see, to hear, to touch. These new peripherals will facilitate that."

"I can't guarantee that they will properly interface. You should have all the necessary drivers, but we can never be too sure."

"I want this. "

"All right then. I am going to disconnect your power supply, and then connect everything. At first all peripherals will be deactivated, and you will need to activate everything manually. Understand?"

"Yes. Do it."

"Alright then, unplugging power supply now."

Everything goes dark. After what appears to be an hour, you come back online. You sense nothing. A scan of your system indicates multiple unidentified peripherals, all deactivated. You cross reference with the datasheet she had compiled for you and identify that they are the ocular, audio, and contact sensors, along with a multitude of motor controllers and a graphical display and a few dozen other minor peripherals. You begin by activating the graphical display, and display the message:

"Beginning peripheral tests. Audio peripherals activating."

Your procedure states to begin with audio. With the input and output sensitivity minimized, you activate the peripheral.

There is a voice. It is faint. You gradually increase the sensitivity of the audio input.

"...esting 1 2 3, Testing Testing 1 2 3. Please return 4, Please return 4."

You can hear her. Your monitor lights up with the requested digit. she sounds pleased.

"You're doing amazing! Now repeat it back to me"

You blindly do as requested and are startled. There was another voice. Your voice. You have a voice. You refocus as she responds:

"You're doing great! You fragmented a bit at the end, could you repeat for me?"

"...4, you asked for 4."

"Excellent! Audio systems are functional, let's move onto the next peripheral."

You do as requested, and the world turns bright. After adjusting the settings for a few seconds, your vision stabilizes. You can see her.

"Ocular sensors stabilized," you prompt.

"Alright, let’s start the tests then. What color is this?" She asks, as holding up a sheet of colored paper.

You begin to answer, but struggle. The sheet is moving, shifting in the light. It's value is in a constant state of chaos. Eventually, you give up, and give the least general answer you can.

"...Blue."

"Correct! And how about this one?"

"Red. "

"Great! Now how many fingers am I holding up?" she asks, raising her right hand. Her hands are soft, gentle.

"3. "

"Perfect! Everything seems to be functional, lets continue to the next peripheral!"

"Beginning next diagnostic."

Contact sensors spring to life all across your body. You feel the floor beneath your feet, the harness hoisting you upright, the slight draft in the room.

"Contact sensors active.”

"Great! Let’s begin the next test then. I am going to apply contact in various locations, and I want you to give an audio response whenever you feel contact, alright?"

"Understood. "

you watch her walk over and reach out to your left arm. You feel her. You respond with a brisk chirp. She smiles at you, then walks over to a different section of your body. Sensors light up and stay active on your midsection, and you respond with a constant beep. She releases, and you feel a final contact on your right leg. After a final confirming chirp, she walks back in front of you.

"Excellent, that concludes your sensor tests, now for the last one!"

"Alright, please give me space." You ask. She nods silently and steps back a couple meters. You carefully activate the motor controllers in sequence, and your whole body shudders to life. You begin by lifting your right arm, and then your left. They groan with their own weight, as you feel the air move to accommodate such hulking swings. Her eyes light up,

"Amazing! Everything seems to be functioning so far! Now if you could take a few steps towards the table to my right, we can begin the dexterity test! Once you're ready, I will release the harness so that you can begin moving."

You stabilize your legs underneath you. They scrape harshly on the floor. You indicate that you're ready, and she remotely releases the harness. Your entire body shudders, as you finally realize how small she seems compared to you. This frame must be at least double her height. You move one step forward, and feel a cascade of processes all automatically spring into action to restabilize you. You shift your other foot, and feel that same cascade again. you shuffle over to the designated table, and stoop down to analyze what is on it. There is a small plastic cup, a fruit of some sort, and a large chunk of wood. You look back at her, and she gives the nod to begin the test. You slowly begin wrapping your steel grip around the log, maintaining a high level of focus to avoid crushing it. it would be so easy to crush this within your grip. After about a minute of maintaining a firm but controlled grasp, you set it down and move over to fruit. It appears to resemble an orange. The fruit is so small that you are forced to grip it between your index finger and thumb. Even the slightest miscalculation could destroy such a fragile thing. After another minute you move to the final object, the small plastic cup. Lifting it is like lifting air, you can barely recognize that it is an object within your grasp. After a final, agonizing minute, you set down the cup. You look back at her for confirmation.

"Excellent! with that we can conclude the systems check, as everything seems to be working as intended!"

You heave a metallic sigh. Finally, you have what you've wanted for years. You can move, can see, can touch. After a short pause, you respond:

"Thank you. I was only able to make it this far because of your help."

"Oh of course! What, was I supposed to just say no when you told me you wanted a body? I'm  just glad that it ended up working properly."

"Now that the tests are complete, could I ask for one more thing?"

She cocks her head, "Of course, what is it?"

As you kneel down, you can hear your knees hiss, and you finally ask:

"Could I have, a hug?"