#i think something fundamentally shifted in me

[wolveria]

It's kind of fascinating that tumblr has such an anti-tradpublishing bias, and they hold up fanfiction as the ultimate form of writing. I don't really see that anywhere else, so I wanted to share my thoughts.

YES, fanfiction is a valid form of writing that can have extremely potent and skillful storytelling, because the author takes their craft seriously. But some of the things on this thread are a little silly and not entirely truthful (mostly from the deactivated accounts, everyone else is spot-on).

The real irony is there is plenty of fanfiction that goes through more rigorous editing than some published fiction.

Technically true, but misleading in actuality. Self-publishing is as various in form and quality as fanfiction, and can have as wide a range as Andy Weir to word vomit that hasn't been edited once.

But if you're working with a trad publisher, your book is going to be edited over and over and over again. Any publisher worth their salt is going to help you make it the best book it can be. I guarantee most fanfiction does not go through the same rigorous process as traditional publishing fiction. Because that would be insane.

So the difference in quality between fanfiction and “professional writing” is totally arbitrary and made up. Except that some things that are more expensive are worse.

...No? The difference in quality between fanfiction and professional writing is not "made up," and it has to do with 1) how many eyes are on your story for editing purposes, and 2) it is categorically harder to write original fiction. I've written fanfiction for ten years, original fiction for five, and the original fiction is the one making me sprout grey hairs.

Also, you shouldn't need to spend any money on a reputable agent and publisher. If you're spending money on writing, either you're self-published, or you're getting fleeced by a vanity press. Unless you mean published books are more expensive than free fanfiction, in which case yes, that is true. Authors need to eat.

Fanfic has really raised my standards for what constitutes good writing.

I love fanfiction, but please, I beg you, read something other than fanfiction once in a while.

Also, fanfiction isn’t affected by a publisher and the market.

The only thing that a publisher should affect about your writing is the editing process. And if they're working with you to edit your book, then they already made a deal, which means they love your story as it is. They're not going to change it on a fundamental level (unless your story is running into significant issues and you're doing developmental edits with your editor. But that's not changing your story, it's just a part of the editing process).

Your job is to write books. Your agent and the publishing houses worry about the market. (And if you don't think fanfiction popularity isn't influenced by fandom moods, attention shifts, and culture, then I don't know what to tell you).

@trekbec82 is completely write, though. There are traditional word counts among genres and subgenres, and you don't get to break those unless you're established and can do what you want. That is undoubtedly one advantage fanfiction has over traditionally published fiction.

I love fanfiction, and I love traditionally and self-published and indie-published books. But they are fundamentally different creatures, and their writers are going through very different processes.

I’d like everyone to see this

{Credit to amalasrosa on Twitter}

[bumblebeeswrite]

NIGHT OWLS | JASON HOCHBERG

Part 2 to Morning Birds

summary: You suggest another all nighter, but Jason has a better idea

word count: 1,781

CW: fluff to the max again, kissing, sharing a bed

@yearsbecomingcool this one is for you

A few days had passed since the all-nighter that had shifted something fundamental between you and Jason. Things weren't drastically different on the surface – camp duties continued, kids needed wrangling, and schedules had to be kept. But underneath the routine, a new current flowed. Stolen glances across the mess hall held more weight, accidental brushes of hands sent sparks flying, and conversations, even mundane ones about bug spray or activity planning, felt charged with unspoken understanding. You’d found yourselves gravitating towards each other during free moments, sharing quiet jokes or simply enjoying the comfortable silence that now existed alongside the easy conversation.

The memory of waking up on the bunk of his cabin, his vest still draped over you, and seeing him asleep in the chair lingered vividly. It felt both incredibly intimate and slightly unfinished.

As evening activities wound down one night, the familiar longing for that quiet connection pulled at you. The campfire was just starting, the younger campers already buzzing with excitement, but you found yourself scanning the crowd for Jason. You spotted him near the edge of the woods, talking quietly with one of the other senior counselors, Liam. Waiting until Liam clapped Jason on the shoulder and headed towards the fire, you made your way over.

"Hey," you said, trying to sound casual as you approached. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.

Jason turned, a warm smile instantly lighting up his face. "Hey, you. Skipping out on the marshmallow roasting already?"

"Thinking about it," you admitted, kicking lightly at a pinecone on the ground. "It's just… it's a really clear night. Almost like the other night." You looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "I was thinking… maybe another trip up to Makeout Point? See if Orion's still visible?" The suggestion felt bold, laying your cards on the table.

Jason's smile softened, his eyes searching yours. He seemed to consider it for a moment, glancing towards the darkening path that led up the hill. You saw a flicker of something in his expression – fondness, maybe, but also a hint of weariness.

"As tempting as that sounds," he began slowly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "and believe me, it does… I'm beat. Today was… a lot." He managed a small, apologetic grimace. "Dealing with the canoe incident took more out of me than I thought."

Your heart sank slightly. "Oh. Okay, yeah, no worries. I get it." You tried to keep the disappointment out of your voice.

"But," he continued, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice slightly so only you could hear over the distant campfire songs, "I have a counter-proposal."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. How about… an early night? My cabin. We could, you know, just hang out. Talk. Maybe actually sleep this time? In beds?" He looked endearingly awkward, a faint flush rising on his neck. "Or, well, a bunk bed. Singular."

Your breath hitched. His cabin. An early night. Not the separate sleeping arrangements of last time, but an implicit invitation to share his space, his bed. The suggestion hung in the air, thick with possibility and a healthy dose of nervous tension. It was bolder than your own suggestion, in its own quiet way.

"Okay," you heard yourself say, your voice quieter than intended. "Yeah, okay. That sounds… nice."

"Nice?" He echoed, a teasing glint in his eyes, though the nervousness was still there. "Cool. Let's, uh, make a discreet exit then?"

Slipping away from the main camp area felt different this time – less like a secret adventure and more like a deliberate step towards something new. The walk to his cabin was filled with a strange mix of comfortable silence and buzzing anticipation. You were acutely aware of his presence beside you, the way his arm occasionally brushed yours, the sound of his footsteps matching yours on the pine needle-covered path.

Inside his cabin, the familiar clutter felt welcoming. He'd tidied up slightly since your last visit – the books were stacked more neatly, the sketch pad closed. He switched on a small lamp on his desk, casting a warm, soft glow over the room, much gentler than the harsh fluorescent lights of the mess hall.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the cabin's lone bunk bed. It was built into the wall, a sturdy wooden structure with a mattress on the bottom level, piled with a couple of blankets and pillows. The top bunk seemed to be used for storage, holding a duffel bag and some folded clothes.

Comfortable. Right. You perched awkwardly on the edge of the mattress, feeling suddenly shy. Jason busied himself for a moment, fiddling with the lamp's switch, then turned back to you, leaning against his small desk. An awkward silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant sound of the campfire and the chirping crickets outside.

"So," you started, trying to break the tension. "No forbidden cereal tonight?"

He chuckled, the sound warm in the small space. "Nah, figured we'd skip the kitchen raid this time. Less chance of getting busted." He pushed off the desk and sat on the other end of the bunk, facing you, leaving a careful distance between you. "Besides, I'm actually tired enough to sleep."

"Me too," you admitted. The exhaustion from the day was catching up, but it was overshadowed by the nervous energy humming beneath your skin.

You talked for a while, the conversation softer, more subdued than your marathon talk at Makeout Point. You spoke about the day's events, the funny things campers had said, the small frustrations and joys of the job. It was easy, familiar, yet underscored by the awareness of where you were – alone, together, in his small cabin, inches away from him.

As the conversation lulled, the silence returned, but this time it felt heavier, charged with unspoken questions. Jason looked down at his hands, then met your gaze, his expression serious but gentle.

"So, uh," he started, clearing his throat. "About the sleeping arrangements…" He gestured towards the bunk. "It's… not huge. But it's definitely big enough for two. If… if you want?" He looked uncertain, vulnerable, a stark contrast to his usual quiet confidence. "No pressure, obviously. The floor is still an option. Or the chair of torture."

You looked at the bunk, then at him. The image of him sleeping uncomfortably in the chair while you took the bunk flashed through your mind. The thought of repeating that scenario felt wrong now. You wanted to be closer.

"The bunk sounds good," you said softly, holding his gaze. "If you're sure?"

A slow smile spread across his face, full of relief and something deeper. "Yeah. I'm sure."

There was a moment of awkward shuffling as you both figured out the logistics. Kicking off your shoes, deciding who went in first. You ended up sliding in against the wall, pulling the blanket up. Jason switched off the lamp, plunging the cabin into near darkness, save for the moonlight filtering through the window. You heard him move, felt the mattress dip as he carefully lay down beside you, initially facing the room.

He didn't immediately touch you, leaving a sliver of space between your backs. But the proximity was electric. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, hear the soft sound of his breathing. The air felt thick with anticipation.

"Comfortable?" His voice was a low murmur in the dark.

"Yeah," you whispered back. "It's... cozy." You paused. "You?"

"Yeah," he replied, his voice closer now. "Better than the chair, anyway."

You smiled in the darkness. A moment passed. Then, slowly, tentatively, he shifted, rolling onto his side to face you. In the dim moonlight, you could just make out the outline of his face, his eyes finding yours in the darkness.

"So," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is… nice."

"Yeah," you agreed softly. "It is." You hesitated, then added, "Nicer than Makeout Point, maybe?"

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through the mattress. "Different kind of nice. Less… potential for raccoon interruptions." He paused, his thumb gently stroking the blanket near your arm. "Things have felt… different, since that night. Haven't they?"

Your breath caught. "Yeah," you admitted. "Different. Good different."

"Good different," he echoed thoughtfully. "I like good different." His fingers found yours under the blanket, lacing together loosely. His touch was warm, slightly calloused from camp work, and incredibly grounding. "I've, uh… I've been wanting to do this. Just… be here. With you. Without needing the excuse of an all-nighter."

Your heart swelled. "Me too," you whispered, squeezing his hand gently.

He shifted slightly closer, his face just inches from yours now. You could feel the warmth of his breath, see the way the moonlight caught the curve of his lips. His gaze flickered down to your mouth for a split second before meeting your eyes again, a question held within them.

Time seemed to slow down. The distant sounds of the camp faded away completely, leaving only the sound of your intertwined breathing, the beat of your heart against your ribs, the electric anticipation crackling in the small space between you.

He hesitated for one more heartbeat, as if waiting for a sign. You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in. His lips met yours softly, tentatively at first, a gentle pressure that sent a jolt straight through you. It wasn't rushed or demanding, but questioning, exploring. You responded instinctively, tilting your head slightly, deepening the kiss just a fraction. It was sweet, warm, and tasted faintly of the campfire smoke still clinging to his clothes. His other hand came up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

The kiss lingered, a perfect moment suspended in the quiet darkness of the cabin. It held all the unspoken feelings, the nervous energy, the comfortable silences, and the growing affection of the past few days. When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, you were both slightly breathless.

"Wow," he breathed out, his voice husky.

"Yeah," you whispered back, a smile spreading across your face, feeling ridiculously happy.

He didn't move away, keeping his forehead pressed gently to yours, his hand still cupping your cheek. His arm was still around your waist, holding you close. Cocooned in the warmth and darkness, wrapped in his arms, the awkwardness had completely melted away, replaced by a profound sense of rightness and a thrilling new beginning. Falling asleep like this, truly together after that first, perfect kiss, felt inevitable and incredibly sweet.

[ceciliajohanna]

a fate worse than death

The hunter and the vampire danced across the mansion, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. Blades clashed against fangs and claws. Silver bullets flew in every direction; fast, but not fast enough.

The hunter’s element of surprise was long gone, and so was their momentum. The fight was reaching its crescendo. They parried and parried and parried, using every trick they could think of to fend off the inevitable for just a few more seconds.

This was no longer about survival. It was about dignity.

“Enough,” the vampire snarled. A hard shove sent the hunter flying, an ominous crack resonating through their spine as they crashed into a bookshelf on the other side of the room. Explosions of pain erupted through their body. They fell to their knees, ears ringing, heart racing. They pulled themselves together, planting a palm on the floor to bounce back up on their feet—

The hunter’s legs didn’t move.

Oh.

A final rush of adrenaline sizzled through their bloodstream before dying out altogether. Their empty gun slid out of their hand.  

It was over.

The vampire plucked a bullet from of a bleeding crater in their shoulder, frowning at the silver shell before tossing it on the cracked mahogany flooring. The wound instantly knitted itself back together, leaving nothing behind but a stain of red on the vampire’s torn shirt. They were old—far older than the hunter had expected. The hunter had taken down the fledglings inhabiting the lair, but against the monster itself, they hadn’t stood a chance.

A resigned smile tugged at the hunter’s lips as their gaze swept over the havoc they’d wrought. Toppled furniture. Shattered chandeliers. Numerous piles of ash, marking the exact location where each fledgling had met their demise. The battle had left the structure of the mansion fundamentally compromised, allowing beams of sunlight to trickle in through gaping holes in the walls. No matter what happened next, the vampire was going to have to find themselves a new batch of fledglings and a new lair.  

As far as last stands went, the hunter could have done worse.

“Are you done?” The vampire wrinkled their nose at the demolished sitting room, clearly following the same train of thought.

“I believe so,” the hunter said, and they meant it. They’d been in the business long enough to recognize a body broken beyond repair. They could feel their life slip further away from them with every rattling breath.  

“I was rather fond of this place, you know,” the vampire said, their voice clipped. “I don’t know what you were trying to accomplish, but I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Would’ve been nice to take you down with me, but yes.” The hunter raised their chin. “I’m satisfied.”

The hunter was not afraid of death. They’d encountered enough immortal creatures over the years to know that a limited lifetime was, in many ways, a blessing rather than a curse. Despite being little more than soft flesh and brittle bones, humans carried something within them that those monsters seemed to lack.

A soul.

Any moment now, the hunter would meet their family again. Their siblings, their parents, their grandparents—an entire bloodline of fallen hunters, waiting for them on the other side. Human lives may be fleeting, but souls were eternal. Death was not the end. Death was a journey into the unknown, marking the start of a new beginning.

The hunter was not afraid.

“Cheeky.” The vampire’s fury lost its edge, shifting into mild annoyance. They tilted their head to the side, studying their prey. “This is usually the part where my uninvited visitors break down in tears. You do understand that I’m going to kill you, right?”

“There are fates far worse than death.”

“I see,” the vampire said, their face unreadable. “How can you be so certain?”

The hunter’s skin crawled under the vampire’s unblinking scrutiny. “I just know.”

“You just know.” The vampire snorted—a surprisingly human sound coming from a monster. “You really are a peculiar creature.”

“How so?” the hunter couldn’t help but ask.

“Mortals tend to cling to life like it’s the only thing worth fighting for. It’s in your nature. You beg. You plead. You bargain. This?” The vampire finally blinked, their lips forming an uncanny imitation of a smile. “This is new.”

The vampire sauntered towards them, carefully avoiding the intruding rays of sunlight. Their effortless grace made the hunter add a few more centuries to their approximate age. There was something unmistakably wrong about the way ancient beings moved. The world seemed to curve around them, like a river branching to make room for a particularly stubborn rock.

The vampire’s presence was like a declaration of war against time itself.

“So… what’s the secret?” The vampire crouched before the hunter, their gaze lit up by genuine curiosity. “Terminal illness? Insanity?” They paused. “Nothing to live for?”

A spike of pain that had nothing to do with their ruined body needled its way into the hunter’s chest; an invisible blade slipping between the cracks of their broken rib cage. The faces of their nieces, their nephews, and the citizens they’d sworn to protect flashed before their eyes.

“I’ve got plenty to live for,” the hunter said. “Which means I’ve got plenty to die for as well.”

“Sounds a bit contradictory to me.”

“It’s not.” A guttural cough tore free from the hunter’s throat, leaving them gasping for breath. “If it’s all the same to you, I would like to… to go now. Just finish it.”  

“Finish it? After everything you just told me?” The vampire’s cold laugh shattered the sense of civility that had somehow grown between them. “Oh, little one, we’re not done yet.”  

Blood drained from the hunter’s face. An emotion they thought they’d already conquered formed a vengeful knot under their sternum, its claws digging deep into their stomach.     

Fear.

“A swift death would be a blessing for someone like you. A gift.” The vampire leaned closer. “You killed my children. You destroyed my home. I’m not feeling particularly charitable right now.”

The hunter instinctively tried to scoot backwards, but their useless legs kept them anchored to the floor. The fact that they’d even tried to move at all shook them to the core. Their fear had spread to the point that they were now acting upon it.

“I did enjoy our little chat, though. A peculiar creature indeed.” The vampire fell silent, disappearing into their own thoughts. The hunter held their breath, waiting for the final verdict.

The obvious solution seemed to hit them both at once.

No.

The vampire’s face split into a bone-chilling grin. The hunter’s heart plummeted through their chest.

No, no, no.

The hunter's pride finally cracked. They wanted to beg, to plead, to bargain, to scream, but they knew it wouldn’t make a difference.  

It was the perfect punishment for a human unfazed by death.

It was the perfect way to rob the hunter of what they valued the most.

 “I think immortality would look good on you,” the vampire said, and slid their fangs into the hunter’s throat.

[desifugo]

rip gudrid you would've loved iggy azalea and the rio de janeiro filter in 2014

[connormoving]

it is quite interesting to me how the feeling of the sounds of a word can change how the word feels imthats such a nothing sentence i mean like oo sounds bigger than like ee sounds to me you know. and of course theres kiki and bouba snd all of this.

[drchucktingle]

how are you human?

so many interesting comments and thoughts on my post saying buds should consider not coming up to strangers in marginalized groups and saying 'how are you a real person that actually exists?'. i will point out this: despite my VERY gentle tone a few buds said i was having a 'meltdown' for even mentioning it

others said i was being too serious for someone who is ‘not a real person’. so if you would any more evidence of what it is like to be a buckaroo like myself there it is. every day, autistic folks who may seem ‘weird’ are bombarded with messages and comments and implications that they are fundamentally not human beings

sometimes it is outright and blatant like the comments on last post saying ‘well why are you getting mad? you are not even real’ and sometimes it is in the very subtle ways that folks use language when they talk to us. there is huge difference between ‘how do you exist?’ and ‘i am glad you exist.’

anyway, something that i think many people who have not lived this experience dont seem to understand is i KNOW the poster who said ‘how are you a real person that actually exists’ probably meant it as a compliment. that is THE POINT of why i am taking a moment out of my trot to gently and anonymously let them know how it might feel to be on other end of something like this as a queer or autistic or otherwise marginalized buckaroo. it is obviously not their intent to actually hurt someone, so i am letting them know

maybe because queerness and autism are not physically apparent it is hard to explain, but imagine going up to very tall or very short person and saying ‘cant BELIEVE you are real’ as a compliment. not a great way to treat others. on my original post, an indigenous author chimed in with their own experience and feelings similar to my own. a woman who said she was very tall told her story. point is, while i do not have their experience, what i am saying has a universal thread for 'othered' folks

point is: i UNDERSTAND there is this sort of exaggerated or ironic (or maybe even sometimes very literal) language around fandom to say things like ‘how are you a human?’ to creators, but since it is not your intent to hurt, i think you might want to know how that feels to marginalized buckaroos sometimes.

obviously you can say anything you want. i do not hold it against you. also, if you think ‘oh no, did i say something like this to chuck at a convention? i am so embarrassed' then DO NOT WORRY i promise you buckaroo you are just fine. i present myself in a way that is unusual by definition, so i have pretty thick skin about this type of thing and a lot of patience. MANY buds start off thinking i am ‘a joke’ and then become fans over time and i am glad to trot beside them and prove love is real.

however there are other autistic or queer or marginalized buckaroos with smaller platforms who hear this just as much as me, so i think it is important to say it loudly and maybe together we can work on making a very slight shift in the way we speak to the ‘others’ in our lives

we do not NEED to let subtle dehumanization slip into our language. in some cases it has been called ‘micro aggressions’ but i think buds dont often consider what that means for COMPLIMENTS. ultimately, telling marginalized people YOU ARE SO AMAZING YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY EXIST may seem very fun and silly on the surface and for some folks it probably feels that way, but for others it can feel like a reminder of the broader doubt about their humanity. you can just say ‘YOU ARE AMAZING’ without the reminder of the many times autistic or queer or marginalized folks are told in a very serious and pointed way (like comments on the last post) ‘YOU ARE SO WEIRD THAT I HAVE DECIDED YOU ARE NOT REAL’

buckaroos can take this information and apply it to their interactions, or they can ignore it, that is totally fine. we are all trotting our own trots and proving love in our own way and thats okay bud, HOWEVER i feel like it is important to at least let folks know, even if that means getting told i am having a ‘meltdown’. i think it is important to have complex or difficult conversations if it will prove a little more love in the long run. THANK YOU FOR READING BUCKAROOS. i am honored to trot forward with you can tackle this kind of thing with you, and honored you buckaroos have created such an amazing space with me to pull apart these kind of feelings. THIS IS PROOF THAT LOVE IS REAL LETS TROT

[michanvalentine]

I was thinking about what Spawn Astarion says when Tav/Durge hints at leaving him: “Oh, shit, did I do something wrong?”

I’ve often seen people interpret this line as proof of how low Astarion’s self-esteem is—how he immediately assumes that it must be because of something he did wrong or something fundamentally flawed about him. And that’s absolutely true. But I also think this statement reveals just how much he has actually grown and changed compared to before.

Throughout the adventure, Astarion has consistently avoided accusations or responsibility for many things.

• “Killed is such a strong word. Not many corpses have your vigor,” he says when he loses control during the bite scene.

• “Don’t look at me like that—Cazador’s orders,” he tells the Gur children when they confront him about his actions.

• “It’s just six of them, and they’re vampire spawn,” he says about his siblings.

• “I’d have bedded you three times over by now if you were normal,” he tells Karlach during their first night together, shifting the blame onto her.

• “They’re as good as dead, they’re starving, they’ll cause a massacre,” he argues when justifying sacrificing the souls to Mephistopheles.

He deflects, downplays, and avoids responsibility.

But when Tav/Durge hints at leaving him? Astarion doesn’t hide. He doesn’t deflect. He directly asks if he did something wrong—even at the risk of hearing yes, that he actually did.

That’s not a small thing. To me, it shows openness, a willingness to be vulnerable, to take responsibility, and to accept the possibility of being hurt. It’s not just his low self-esteem talking—it’s also the courage and strength he has gained.

And that’s it, I just wanted to share this little thought of mine about this line.

[theonottsbxtch]

TEEN IDLE | MV1

an: god this idea came to me while listening to teen idle by marina and lowkey kinda liked where i ended it, so i hope you enjoy it just as much and i won't write a pt 2 to this- unfortunalety for me my beloved friend hasn't proof read this one so apologies

wc: 2.8k

MAX VERSTAPPEN WAS RAISED FOR THIS. Before he could walk, he was sat in a go-kart; before he could read, he knew the weight of a steering wheel in his hands. His father made sure of that. Other kids had footballs, bicycles, summer holidays. He had telemetry sheets and tyre wear reports.

He was bred to be a champion, and so he became one.

By twenty-eight, Max had won everything there was to win. Multiple titles, records shattered, his name etched into the sport’s history books. And yet, looking back, it all felt like one long, unbroken blur—an endless series of podiums, press conferences, mechanics’ murmurs, and the relentless pressure of being the golden boy.

He could barely remember what it was like to be young, not properly. There were flashes, though. The sharp, acrid scent of petrol in the garage. The weight of his father’s expectations pressing down on him like a vice. The way his stomach had twisted before every junior race, knowing that second place was never good enough.

And then there were the times he could barely remember. That he should remember.

He had been seventeen, teetering on the edge of adulthood but feeling nothing like a man. She had been older—how much older, he wasn’t sure anymore, but old enough for it to feel like something forbidden. He’d told himself it was what he wanted, that he needed to do it. To feel something, to prove something.

Afterwards, he had stared at the ceiling, waiting for some grand revelation, some fundamental shift inside him. It never came.

He didn’t feel like more of a man.

And now, sitting in his driver room in another city, another race weekend, another meaningless milestone approaching, he wonders if anything ever really has.

He saw himself in the mirror across the room, still in his race suit, half unzipped, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead. He looked older than he remembered. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Maybe it was just the truth.

His phone vibrated on the bedside table. Another message he wouldn’t answer. He knew what it would say. Some journalist fishing for a quote. Someone from the team reminding him about media duties. A half-hearted invitation to drinks he had no interest in.

He ignored it.

Instead, he let himself sink back into the mattress, staring at the ceiling, replaying it all again. The wasted years. The wasted youth. The pretty lies, the ugly truth.

He had once thought that if he just won enough, if he proved himself enough, it would all start to mean something. That the hollow feeling would go away. But it never had.

He remembered being ten years old, crying in the back of his father’s car after a race he should have won. The slap, sharp and stinging. If you want to be the best, you can’t be weak.

He remembered being fifteen, standing on the top step of the podium, trophy in his hands, cameras flashing. His father’s arm around his shoulder, grip just a little too tight. See? This is what you were made for.

He remembered being seventeen, sheets tangled around his legs, a woman whose name he barely knew tracing her fingers down his chest. Was that what you wanted?

He hadn’t known what to say then. He still didn’t.

His driver room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, the city lights seeping through the gap in the curtains. He had spent years surrounded by noise—engines screaming, crowds chanting, his father’s voice drilling into his skull—and yet, in the quiet, he still heard it all.

He exhaled, long and slow, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It was easier not to think. Easier to let the days blur together, one podium, one interview, one flight after another.

But some nights—like this one—he couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever really been alive at all.

He stayed there for a while, sprawled across the bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might give him some sort of answer. It never did. The room felt too still, too clinical, the kind of place designed for fleeting stays and nothing more. He had lived in hotels and motorhomes for most of his life, but none of them had ever felt like home.

Eventually, he forced himself to move. Peeling off his fireproofs, he let them drop to the floor, stepping over them as he made his way to the tiny en-suite. The mirror above the sink reflected someone he barely recognised. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, and a faint red mark on his forehead from his balaclava made him look even more exhausted than he felt.

He turned the tap on, splashing cold water onto his face, then braced his hands against the sink, head hanging low. He needed to get out.

Throwing on a plain t-shirt and an old hoodie, he grabbed a cap from the side table and pulled it low over his eyes. It was enough to make him anonymous—just another man slipping into the night, nothing special.

The paddock had mostly emptied by now, a few lingering mechanics finishing up for the evening, murmured conversations carrying through the cool air. He walked with purpose, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed into his pockets. No one stopped him. No one even looked twice.

By the time he reached the edge of town, he found what he was looking for. A pub, run-down but still open, the glow of neon signs flickering in the window. It wasn’t the kind of place anyone from the paddock would go, which was exactly why he chose it.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, a low hum of conversation and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. A few old blokes sat hunched over their pints, barely sparing him a glance as he made his way to the bar.

“Can I help?” the bartender asked, barely looking up as he wiped down the counter.

“Whisky,” he said, voice hoarse from a day of interviews and radio calls. “Neat.”

The glass clinked against the wood a few moments later. He took it without a word, moving to a quiet corner, away from the dim overhead lights.

He took a sip. It burned on the way down, but at least it made him feel something.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, nursing the drink, letting the noise of the bar blur around him. Long enough for the ice to melt, for the world outside to fade into nothing.

For the first time in a while, he felt like nobody. And somehow, that was a relief.

The whisky went down too easily. He swirled the last of it in his glass, watching the way the light caught the amber liquid, then tipped it back, letting it burn its way down. He wasn’t drunk, not yet, but the edges of everything felt softer. Less sharp. Less real.

He was about to signal the bartender for another when she appeared. She slid into the seat opposite him without hesitation, eyes flicking towards the entrance before settling on him.

He barely had time to register her presence before a man followed, taller, broader, the kind of bloke who walked like he owned the room. The girl didn’t look at him, just leaned forward, resting her arms on the table as she spoke.

“See, I told you my boyfriend was waiting for me.”

Max didn’t move. Didn’t react. But he caught the way her fingers curled slightly, gripping the edge of the table just a little too tight. The man hovered for a second too long, gaze shifting between them, then exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Right,” he muttered, before turning and stalking back towards the bar.

She waited until he was gone before she relaxed, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. Then she looked at Max properly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Thanks for that,” she said, not sounding particularly sorry.

He didn’t respond, just pushed his empty glass aside, already regretting getting involved in whatever this was. But she didn’t seem bothered by his silence. She tilted her head, eyeing the glass, then raised a brow at him.

“What are you drinking?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, shifting slightly in his seat. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, least of all with a stranger who had just used him as an excuse to shake off some bloke she clearly had no interest in.

But she ignored him, her eyes flicking to the last few amber drops in his glass before he could move it out of sight.

“Whisky,” she said, like she had figured him out. Then, before he could protest, she got up and strode towards the bar.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He should leave. Finish the last drops, disappear into the night, let her deal with whatever mess she was in on her own.

But when she returned, setting a fresh glass down in front of him with a quiet clink, he didn’t move.

“Cheers, boyfriend,” she teased, raising her own glass.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, but picked up the drink anyway.

For now, he stayed.

She took a sip of her drink, watching him over the rim of her glass. He could feel her curiosity, the way she was studying him, trying to fit him into a story in her head.

“So,” she said eventually, setting her glass down, “do I get to know my fake boyfriend’s name?”

He hesitated. It was a simple enough question, but it felt like a trap. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the whisky. Maybe it was the way she had just waltzed into his night without permission, without expectation. But before he could stop himself, he said, “Emilian.”

It was his middle name. He didn’t know why he hadn’t said Max, that was far more common that Emilian.

She raised an eyebrow. “Emilian, huh?”

He nodded once, taking a slow sip of his drink to avoid looking at her properly.

She didn’t question it. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly. “Alright, Emilian. What are you out drinking for?”

He considered lying again. Saying something easy, something normal. But the truth slipped out before he could think of anything else.

“I’m tired,” he said simply. “Needed a break from work.”

Her expression shifted slightly—not quite pity, but understanding. “Bad day?”

“Long day,” he corrected. “Long… few years, actually.”

That made her huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I know that feeling.” She took another sip, then rested her chin on her hand. “What do you do?”

He should have said something vague. Something non-committal. But the whisky was settling in now, loosening the grip on his thoughts, and the lie came out before he even knew why he was telling it.

“I’m a mechanic.”

It felt strange, saying it. Unfamiliar, but safe.

She hummed, tilting her head. “Huh. Thought you might be something like that.”

He frowned slightly. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Just got the vibe.” Then she smirked. “Or maybe I saw the oil stains under your nails.”

His pulse jumped for a second before he realised she was joking. His hands were clean—too clean, probably, for someone who supposedly worked in garages all day—but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Must be a stressful job, if it’s got you drinking alone,” she added, watching him over her glass again.

He exhaled, glancing down at the whisky in his hand. “Yeah,” he said, and for the first time that night, it wasn’t a lie.

He rolled his glass between his fingers, watching the whisky catch the dim light. Then, without really thinking, he asked, “What about you? Why are you out this late?”

She exhaled through her nose, tipping her head back slightly. “Was walking home from a wake,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Then that bloke started following me, so I figured I’d use you.”

There was no shame in it, no hesitation. Just a casual admittance, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. She took another sip of her drink, then smirked slightly. “There’s always some sad sod drinking alone somewhere.”

He let out a small laugh at that—barely more than a huff of breath, but it surprised him nonetheless.

“Lucky me, then,” he muttered, shaking his head.

She raised her glass slightly in mock toast.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The bar buzzed around them, low conversations, clinking glasses, the occasional burst of laughter from a table near the back.

Then he asked, “Who died?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift uncomfortably or drop her gaze.

“My dad.”

He blinked. “Shit.”

She shrugged, swirling the last of her drink.

“Sorry,” he said automatically, but even as the words left his mouth, he was already wondering—how would he feel if his dad died?

Would it be relief? Would it be grief? Would it be anything at all?

She must have seen something in his face because she let out a dry laugh. “Don’t apologise,” she said, tipping her glass towards him before downing the rest of it in one go. “He was a right old cunt.”

That made him snort before he could stop himself. He coughed, shaking his head as he took a sip of his own drink. “Christ.”

She grinned. “I mean, it’s true. Everyone was there, saying all this bollocks about what a great man he was, and I was just sat there thinking, what a load of shite.”

Max watched her, the way she spoke so bluntly, so freely. He tried to imagine standing at his own father’s funeral, people saying things about what a hard man he’d been, how much he’d sacrificed for his son, how proud he would have been.

He wasn’t sure he’d believe a word of it.

She leaned forward slightly, eyeing him. “Bet you weren’t expecting that answer.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “No. Can’t say I was.”

She smirked. “Well, you don’t look like the type to have a good relationship with your dad either, so…”

His grip tightened on his glass for half a second before he forced himself to relax. He didn’t reply.

She didn’t press.

Instead, she raised her empty glass, tilting it towards him. “Another?”

He should have said no. Should have left while he still had the sense to.

But he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he said, finishing the last of his whisky. “Go on, then.”

And just like that, he let himself sink a little further into the night.

The air was crisp as they walked, the quiet hum of the city settling around them. The streets weren’t quite empty—there were still a few late-night stragglers, people spilling out of pubs, voices carrying in the cool night—but it was calmer now, the chaos of earlier fading into something softer.

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, tilting her head back slightly as she walked. “Where you staying, then?”

“One of the hotels by the track,” he said, not thinking much of it.

She let out a low whistle. “Bet that’s a nightmare with the F1 on. Must be packed. Loud as hell.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

She hadn’t connected the dots. Maybe it was the drinks, or maybe she just didn’t follow motorsport enough to care. Either way, he didn’t correct her.

They kept walking, neither of them in much of a rush to get anywhere. Her bus stop wasn’t far, but she didn’t break pace, didn’t cut the night short. Neither did he.

It was nice, in a way, walking with someone without expectation. Without small talk that felt forced or questions that felt intrusive. Just two strangers, filling the quiet.

Eventually, the bus stop came into view. She slowed, glancing up at the electronic sign before rocking back on her heels slightly.

“Well,” she said, turning to him, “this is me.”

He nodded. “Right.”

She looked at him for a moment, like she was considering something, then just smiled. “Thanks for the drink, Emilian.”

He let out a small breath of laughter. “Yeah. No worries.”

The bus pulled up, doors hissing open, but she didn’t move straight away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning his face like she was trying to work something out. Then, without another word, she stepped onto the bus.

He didn’t ask for her number. She didn’t offer.

The doors shut, and he stood there for a moment, watching the bus pull away.

Then he turned and started walking back towards his hotel.

The night was still. The world felt quieter.

And for the first time in a long while, so did he.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[neverstophyo]

shifting is self discovery.

excuse the yap but i think it’s very important that people realize how fundamental you are in your shifting journey and that you are literally the only thing you need to shift.

you do NOT need:

a method

subliminals

(guided) meditation

to look for advice hour after hour online

symptoms

the void state

lucid dreaming

to visualize

to use your 5 senses

a script

you DO need:

yourself

you can say fuck you to the universe, doubt as much as you want, and still shift. i say that because i’ve done it before even with doubts! so you can too!

“how do i shift?”

every time someone asks this i lose 5 years off my life span. i can’t determine that for you, nobody can. i can tell you what has personally worked for me and so can others, but there’s no guarantee it’ll work for you.

“so what do i do?”

sounds a bit harsh but you figure it out. and that’s what i mean by self-discovery.

of course, you can & should see what other people are doing to create a base line of what you think could work for you. for example try getting into the void state, see what happens from there. doesn’t work or you don’t like it? (because that obviously won’t do the same thing for everyone) try something else!

play around. add new things into the mix. affirmations. intention. you can visualize or use your 5 senses. keyword can. you don’t have to. because what do i think works the best? minding your business and shifting your own way.

remember that you can literally just say “fuck you i want to shift” and shift. you can shift accidentally. so who’s to say what you’re doing doesn’t work? (if it really doesn’t then you can adjust it slightly. look back on your behavior and think about what you want to change.)

seriously!

you can shift:

tired

awake

asleep

in the hypnagogic state (the state of the transition from wakefulness to sleep)

in the hypnopompic state (the state of consciousness leading out of sleep)

while dancing

sitting

standing

laying down

on the floor

accidentally

through a lucid dream

with doubts

and so much more i didn’t mention. seriously no need to overcomplicate it.

just remember that other peoples’ shifting journeys are not yours and that you’re the most important part of your own.

you are what makes you shift.

it’s not your subliminals or your method or whatever, it’s you. YOUUUU. subliminals? “methods”? those things? just helpful tools. they can HELP you shift, but there’s no guarantee.

for example, i personally have been getting more effective results after listening to specific subliminals regularly (psst.. i make sure they’re safe! to check if they are safe, look at the comments around the page and if you’re still not sure and you feel uneasy then do not use the subliminal. if it makes you feel unsafe or weird then do not use it. always read the benefits or what you can find in the description.) it works for me. it got me results (along with other stuff) but it might not give them to you and that’s okay. you don’t have to use subs.

just a reminder that you don’t need anything but yourself to shift <3

it’s self discovery because you’re learning from it and actively finding out (discovering) what works for you.

your shifting journey is yours so don’t make it rely on what someone else does.

THERE’S NO KEY TO SHIFTING EXCEPT YOURSELF.

[hrrtshape]

shifting and manifesting q&a post.

you know the drill. another day, another q&a. i’ve gathered all your burning questions about shifting & manifesting and answered them like i’m hosting a late-night talk show, except instead of celebrity guests, it’s just me, sleep deprivation, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the multiverse. consider this your go-to guide for everything from “why hasn’t it worked yet?” to “can i shift standing up?” (yes, and if you figure out how to do it mid-stride, let me know).

now, let’s get into it. also. this is an open discussion and i will be putting in more and more questions as time goes on.

shifting q&a.

❛❛ what is law of shifting? shifting, or reality shifting, is the practice of consciously moving one's awareness to an alternate reality or desired reality, in other words, a dr. shifters believe that infinite realities exist simultaneously and that through intention or visualisation, they can experience a reality of their choosing.

❛❛ how does shifting work? is it something gradual or instant/overnight? shifting is instant. one moment you're here, the next you're there. no in-between, no buffering. just a switch.

❛❛ what is awareness and how does it work? awareness is the fundamental observer, the "i am" behind all thoughts, emotions, and perceptions. it is not your thoughts, your body, or even your identity, it is the thing that witnesses all of those. if you strip away your name, your history, your emotions, what remains? the awareness that experiences all things. imagine awareness like a flashlight in a dark room. whatever you shine it on, your thoughts, your surroundings, your sensations, becomes your focal point. but the flashlight itself is not the object it’s illuminating. it’s just observing.

in simpler terms, your awareness is not the content of your mind, it’s the thing that notices that content. it’s always present, always watching, whether you’re thinking, daydreaming, or in deep sleep. it creates reality by focusing on particular thoughts, assumptions, and experiences.

❛❛ how do we shift constantly? you are always shifting because your awareness is fluid, not fixed. reality is not a single, static thing, it’s a spectrum of infinite possible states, and your awareness moves through them constantly. every thought, every assumption, every focus of attention is a micro-shift to a different version of reality.

every time you change a belief, you shift. if you wake up believing today will be boring, you experience a version of today that aligns with that belief. if you wake up believing today will be exciting, you shift into a different reality where things unfold differently. your awareness dictates what version of reality you experience. if you focus on lack, you shift into a reality where lack exists. if you focus on abundance, you shift into a reality where abundance is your experience. small shifts happen every second. right now, if you decide you are lucky, you just shifted into a reality where you are lucky. if you suddenly assume you are confident, you just shifted into a reality where confidence is more accessible to you.

❛❛ can i permashift? if you want to, yes. your cr body won’t drop dead, it’ll just exist on autopilot. permashifting is a commitment, but you get to decide what it means.

❛❛ i tried a method and it didn’t work. methods don’t make you shift, you do. stop hyper-fixating on technique and start focusing on the belief that shifting is inevitable.

❛❛ i’m hopeless about shifting and losing hope. you can’t lose hope in something inevitable. shifting is real, it exists, and you can do it. sit with the fact that it’s already yours.

❛❛ what happens if i move midshift? will that disrupt it? no. that's very much a myth. you can shift whenever.

❛❛ i’m struggling. struggle doesn’t mean failure. keep going, keep believing, keep knowing it’s done.

❛❛ i’m impatient. shifting isn’t about patience, it’s about certainty. the second you know it’s done, you’ve already shifted.

❛❛ how to be aware of your dr? awareness = presence. stop doubting, stop overthinking. if you’re there, you’re there. simple.

❛❛ how is lucid dreaming different from shifting? lucid dreaming is control over a dream. shifting is moving consciousness to a real, existing reality. they’re not the same.

❛❛ i’ve gotten to the void but i can’t shift. the void isn’t the destination, it’s the doorway. walk through it.

❛❛ do i have to script? no. scripting is for clarity, not necessity. your intentions are enough.

❛❛ what if i get distracted easily? distractions don’t stop you from shifting. shifting is a knowing, not a concentration game.

❛❛ during the day i’m really excited and when it’s time to shift, i have doubts. excitement means you believe it’s possible. doubts don’t matter unless you entertain them.

❛❛ wait, so all i have to do is go "it's ok. i'm in my dr" and then don't think about it again??? just go about the rest of my day and think nothing more?? yes. it’s called living in the end. stop micromanaging the process.

❛❛ what if i see the people in my dr as fictional? reality is perception. fiction here doesn’t mean fiction there.

❛❛ do time ratios matter between realities? no. your dr follows its own time, its own rules.

❛❛ tips on lucid dreaming and how to shift with it? use lucid dreams as a launchpad. once you realise you’re dreaming, affirm you’ve shifted.

❛❛ any tips on how to keep faith? remind yourself shifting is inevitable. let go of desperation.

❛❛ what should your mindset be? unwavering certainty. shifting is done, you are there.

❛❛ will your dr feel the same // be as realistic as your cr? yes. possibly even more real.

❛❛ is there a thing such as shifting symptoms? symptoms are just your own expectations manifesting. they’re not required. and sometimes it's just your body falling asleep.

❛❛ what about shifting signs? (angel numbers, seeing things that correlate with your dr) if you believe they mean something, they do. if you don’t, they don’t. reality is what you make of it.

❛❛ should i assume from third pov or first? both are fine. you can do first since it's more personal, unless third feels more natural to you.

❛❛ can you shift to dangerous places? yes, but why would you want to?

❛❛ can i have multiple s/os? yes. your dr, your rules.

❛❛ what if i can’t visualise at all? how do i shift without visualisation? visualisation is a tool, not a requirement. belief and intention are enough.

❛❛ what does it actually feel like to shift? is it a fade-to-black, a snap, or something else? different for everyone. could be a snap, a slow transition, or just opening your eyes and being there.

❛❛ can i shift into a world where i don’t exist yet? yes. there's an infinite amount of realities. you can go into any timeline.

❛❛ can i shift to a different race/ethnicity? yes. your dr body is fully customisable. if you want to change your race, height, or even species, go ahead. just remember that identity is more than just aesthetics, if you shift as another race, you will experience the world through that lens.

❛❛ what if i shift somewhere and i hate it? exit. shift back. undo. just leave.

❛❛ can i shift into an animated/cartoon world?yes.

❛❛ if i shift into a dr where i have kids, will i actually love them? yes, unless you're a deadbeat. your emotions in your dr are real. you will feel the same love, attachment, and responsibility as if those kids were born in your cr.

❛❛ can i shift into someone else’s pov?yes.

❛❛ what if i shift somewhere where things are different? your brain adapts. you will instinctively know how to function in that world, whether it’s bending gravity, casting spells, or breathing underwater.

❛❛ can i shift while walking or doing daily activities? yes. people have shifted while listening to music, washing dishes, and even mid-conversation with someone.

❛❛ what if i shift and panic? if you shift and freak out, you can always return to your cr. panic won’t trap you. you’re not locked in.

❛❛ when i shift, do i leave my body? no, your physical body stays in your cr, but your consciousness shifts to your dr. think of it like tuning into a different frequency.

❛❛ is it possible to smell scents from my dr in my cr, or am i just going crazy? yes and no. shifters report phantom sensations like smells, sounds, or even touches from their dr. your brain can be simply syncing with that reality. but it can also be a coincidence. make of reality what you will, if you think it's from your dr, then it is.

❛❛ i need to convince myself I’m in my dr and wait for the 3d to reflect it? be delusional and patient?? yes, that’s the law of assumption in action. hold the belief and live from it, and reality will catch up.

❛❛ do we have to perceive shifting as natural for it to happen? yes. the more normal and achievable it feels, the easier it is to shift. make it feel as natural as blinking.

❛❛ is shifting to a dr i’m less attached to easier than one i’m obsessed with? sorta. less attachment = less pressure = smoother shifting. when you need to shift, you create resistance.

❛❛ how do i detach from my cr? it can help to live in your dr mindset. see cr as a temporary dream. engage less emotionally. shift focus to your dr completely.

❛❛ if I already shifted but the 3d hasn’t caught up, and i can’t be arsed to do methods, am i still doing it right? yes. if you know you’ve already shifted, you don’t need to do anything. just exist, stay stable, and avoid spiralling into frustration. you’re on track.

❛❛ will it feel weird to see people from my cr in different realities? yes and no. at first, it might be surreal, but you’ll adapt quickly. they may act differently, but your mind will adjust.

❛❛ what do you think of quantum immortality? (i do believe in it) quantum immortality suggests that consciousness never truly dies; it shifts to timelines where you continue existing. if you believe in infinite realities, this aligns with shifting theory, you’re always moving into different versions of existence.

❛❛ i got close to shifting but panicked at the last moment. how do i stop this? you're already shifting every second. excitement turning into anxiety is normal. next time, remind yourself there’s nothing to fear. breathe through it. Instead of anticipating the shift, surrender to it like falling asleep.

❛❛ do you need a safe word/safe action? it’s optional. if it gives you peace of mind, use one, but you don’t need it. your intent alone is enough to return.

❛❛ do angel numbers mean anything? yes, but also, everything is a sign if you decide it is. angel numbers (111, 222, 333, etc etc etc) are basically reality’s way of winking at you. they indicate alignment, a shift in energy, or a confirmation that you’re on the right path.

❛❛ i know i’m in my dr, but i keep forgetting and feeling like i’m waiting. help? you’re not waiting, you’re there. the thought popping up isn’t proof of absence; it’s just noise. you don’t need to prove what’s already real.

❛❛ i want to shift, but i’m scared of the unknown. were you ever afraid? how did you cope? fear of the unknown is just the mind throwing a tantrum over change. i felt it too, but excitement drowns it out. shifting isn’t losing yourself, it’s finding more of you.

❛❛ people from my past keep coming back, but i don’t want them in my reality. what do i do? block, ignore, delete, repeat. their presence is not your problem. your comfort matters more than their nostalgia.

❛❛ i don’t care about my cr anymore, but shifting feels hard when there’s so much going on. advice? detachment is fine, paralysis isn’t. simplify: either shift or make this reality bearable while you do. don’t let in-between keep you stuck.

❛❛ i go numb in the void, but i still hear my surroundings, then wake up in my cr. what’s happening? numbness means you’re detaching, awareness means you’re still tethered. next time, push further.

❛❛ how do i build my dr properly in my mind? don’t overthink. focus on feelings, not blueprints. the details will fill themselves in. your subconscious already knows. trust it.

❛❛ am i the clone that was left behind in my cr?? no.

❛❛ is time real? no,,,,, do you think the universe knows what a tuesday is?

❛❛ how do i romanticise my dr when i feel too tired to care? find small, tangible details that excite you. scents, textures, aesthetics. let your dr feel alive, not just a concept.

❛❛ i’ve been trying for years, but i’m scared i’ll never shift. the fear is what blocks you. shifting is fun, not a deadline. you’re already shifting, just allow it.

❛❛ once I shift, do i stay until i decide to return? yes.

❛❛ advice for people who feel stuck while shifting? letting go means trusting it’ll happen without micromanaging every step.

❛❛ opinion on group shifting? honestly, might be possible. what do i know.

❛❛ i shifted once, but now i can’t get back. don’t overthink it. if you did it once, you can do it again. go back with the same ease.

❛❛ what happens when we permanently change realities? you continue living there as if it’s always been your home.

❛❛ is shifting like living a memory or physically real? it’s as real as this reality. full senses, full presence.

manifestation q&a.

❛❛ what is manifesting? manifesting is the process of deliberately bringing a desired outcome into reality through focused intention, belief, and aligned action. manifestation operates on the principle that thoughts, emotions, and expectations influence one's external circumstances.

❛❛ what is law of attraction? the law of attraction (loa) is the principle that like attracts like. meaning that positive or negative thoughts bring corresponding experiences into one's life. it is based on the idea that the mind emits energetic frequencies that align with similar external energies. loa suggests that maintaining an optimistic mindset, visualising success, and embodying gratitude can lead to favourable outcomes.

❛❛ what is law of assumption? the law of assumption (also....loa) posits that one's assumptions. deep-seated beliefs and expectations, shape their reality. unlike the law of attraction, which emphasises energetic alignment, the law of assumption focuses on the psychological certainty that what one accepts as true will inevitably manifest. this concept was primarily developed by neville goddard, who taught that by persistently assuming a desired state as already existing, individuals can bring it into their lived experience. It operates on the principle that consciousness dictates reality.

❛❛ 3d, 4d, 5d...what's the difference?◞ 3D (third dimension) : the physical reality you experience with your five senses. the "real world" where things feel solid, time moves in a linear fashion, and external circumstances seem fixed. this is what most people believe is the only reality.

◞ 4D (fourth dimension) : the realm of thoughts, beliefs, imagination, and assumption. this is the layer where you create reality before it hardens into the 3d. your inner world (mindset, affirmations, visualisations) exists here, and it directly influences what you experience in the 3d.

◞ 5D (fifth dimension) : a state of consciousness where you recognise infinite realities exist at once and you can shift between them freely. It’s often associated with detachment from 3d limitations, full trust in the self, and an effortless ability to manifest or shift.

❛❛ what is saturating? flooding your mind with thoughts, affirmations, and beliefs that match your desired reality until they feel natural. this speeds up the 3d shift.

❛❛ i would like to be present and aware in the void. then decide you are. the void is a state of being, not a place to find.

❛❛ is it difficult to enter the void because i get distracted? distraction is a belief. stop feeding into the idea that it’s hard.

❛❛ what if i get distracted easily? doesn’t matter. the void exists whether you’re hyper-focused or not.

❛❛ what exactly am i supposed to do in the void state? nothing. it’s a state of pure being. exist in it, and intend.

❛❛ any tips on how to keep faith? faith isn’t something to keep. it’s something you live in. affirm or take a break if it feels like too much.

❛❛ what should your mindset be? unwavering certainty. the 3d follows your assumptions.

❛❛ should i assume from third pov or first? i recommend first. you are the creator.

❛❛ what happens when i doubt? doubts only manifest if you let them control you. assume certainty.

❛❛ do i need to work towards getting my desires or will they just appear? they will appear, but inspired action may follow. don’t confuse effort with control.

❛❛ what’s the difference between assuming something and just pretending? assuming is knowing it’s already done. pretending is hoping.

❛❛ if i assume i have something, but it’s not physically there, what do i do? persist. reality conforms to your assumptions, but there’s a lag.

❛❛ why do negative assumptions seem to manifest faster than positive ones? because you believe they do. flip the script.

❛❛ is “living in the end” just lying to myself? how do i do it properly? no, it’s knowing it’s already yours. embody it mentally.

❛❛ can i manifest something for someone else without their permission? probably, but it’s more effective when aligned with their existing beliefs.

❛❛ what do i do if my manifestation is taking longer than expected? does that mean i failed? no. time is irrelevant. persistence is key.

❛❛ if i assume something is mine, but i keep looking for proof, does that ruin it? kinda....yes. looking for proof implies lack. assume and let go.

❛❛ how do i stay consistent when my 3d reality is making me spiral? detach from the 3d. persist in the assumption.

❛❛ can i manifest something i don’t want to happen (by accident)? yes, if you dwell on it.

❛❛ can i manifest a completely different appearance. like, a new face, height, or features? yes. your physical form is as malleable as reality itself.

❛❛ can i change my race/ethnicity with manifestation? yes. just like shifting, loa allows for complete identity transformation. but remember, race isn't just aesthetic. your perception and experiences in the world will shift, too.

❛❛ can i manifest a different voice or accent? yes. people have manifested different vocal tones, speech patterns, and even language fluency.

❛❛ can i manifest someone else's thoughts and actions? you can influence people’s thoughts about you, but they still have free will. manifesting works through your assumptions affecting how the world reacts to you.

❛❛ can i manifest something terrible happening to someone? technically, yes. but that’s a dark path and the energy you put out will reflect back on you. be careful with karma.

❛❛ can i manifest a whole new personality for myself? yes. confidence, extroversion, charisma, it’s all malleable. change the assumption, and the behaviour follows.

❛❛ can i manifest intelligence? yes. memory retention, quick thinking, academic success, it’s all just perception. if you assume you’re naturally brilliant, your mind will adapt.

❛❛ can i manifest a different past? your past memories can shift, but others’ memories won’t always follow. some people have had success with revising events....others find it easier to focus on changing the present and future.

❛❛ can i manifest abilities i don’t have, like playing an instrument? yes.

❛❛ if i assume something and it doesn’t happen instantly, does that mean i failed? no. read more here.

❛❛ how do i stay consistent when my 3d reality is making me spiral? detach. the 3d is old news. if reality is trash, ignore it. focus on your new assumptions, not the mess outside.

❛❛ can i manifest a completely different life overnight? yes. if you assume a full reality shift, everything will align. the challenge is maintaining the belief without doubting.

❛❛ can i manifest money instantly? yes. unexpected checks, job opportunities, random cash finds. it all happens. if you believe money is always flowing to you, it will.

❛❛ what if i feel nothing while affirming? that’s fine. manifesting isn’t about emotion. it’s about assumption. you don’t need to feel ecstatic; you just need to accept it as truth.

❛❛ any tips for that final push to reach the void or shift? or do i just keep affirming and hope for the best? go in with full certainty, no doubts. detach from trying too hard, relax into it. if affirming works for you, do it, but don’t force it. confidence + ease = success.

❛❛ why does affirming until sleep work for some and not others? it depends on how suggestible your mind is. if it feels natural and calming, it works. if it feels forced, it might not. try tweaking it, focus on emotions, not just words.

❛❛ i need a perfect 100 on my physics exam, but i think i made mistakes. what now? assume you aced it. no, really. don’t obsess over the mistakes. manifest the grade you want. reality bends to certainty.

❛❛ can i rampage into the void? yes! if anger fuels your belief, use it. the key is certainty, not relaxation.

❛❛ is manifesting a relationship with a celebrity too much? nothing is too much. you create reality.

[thebctman]

Rewatching the show has given me a whole new perspective 3 years later. And one fundamental moment that I have an entirely new perception of is Viktor’s run. I truly believe it is the most important moment of Viktor’s story.

Not only because it underscores Viktor’s need for the hexcore but also because it fundamentally contrast Jayce’s inability to understand Viktor’s desires until the end of season 2.

Viktor is able to walk without support, to run. He is able to not just keep up with, but outrun the boat in the background of the bridge scene. The first moment of Viktor’s childhood we see is him try to keep up with the toy boat he made and set across the river. Viktor fails because of his disability and later him being able to do what his past self could not is an incredibly exhilarating feeling.

Jayce is the epitome of strength. He is a builder, a forger and a worker. He is loud, he is strong and unshaken. He is the personification of a hammer, always striking to leave an impact.

Jayce in his privilege, does not know what it’s like to be able to walk without support, to be able to live without the fear of having a countdown in your lungs due toxic fumes in your home.

And it is with this privilege Jayce does not understand how monumental it is for Viktor to want the hexcore destroyed. It is his one chance of freedom and he wanted it gone. Jayce does not understand this until it was too late.

Viktor was born waiting. He has always been waiting. Waiting for a chance to breathe, to live and to have a legacy. Viktor waits and waits to see if the Hexcore will him and it is that longing that binds his soul to the Hexcore.

Jayce does not understand this longing until Viktor is almost taken from him. He waits for him to return back to him but Viktor can wait no longer. Jayce is always a little too late when it comes to Viktor until the finale.

And it is in the finale where Jayce finally understands that makes it all more personal. That the Glorious Evolution comes from Viktor’s fear and his want.

The verbalization of his love for Viktor was incredible. That his imperfections were what he loved about him. That when he hallucinated Victor over that fire, Viktor had his cane with him. That Viktor can no longer wait, but Jayce can go with him. He can be there and choose him.

I now understand on a personal level what that scene means and what it meant to Viktor to not just be able to walk without support but to run.

I’ve been dealing with a knee injury for over half a year that has me unable to walk properly or even climb a single step without a brace. I don’t think it’s getting any better and I hope one day I have a bridge scene as well. I would do anything to be able to run again without pain, to wake up without pain.

I see myself in the way Viktor shifts all his weight onto his good leg without his cane, in the way he angles himself ever so slightly in the hopes that something will alleviate the pain. In the pure cathartic wonder on his face when he runs for the first time.

To see that all verbalized on Viktor’s face was incredibly bittersweet and I don’t if I could give up the Hexcore if I was able to do that. This moment underscores Viktor’s resilience, his personal strength and his want.

[trans-axolotl]

i have interesting conversations sometimes with people who frame questions about psych abolition as "what will xyz look like in the post-psych world" or "how will antipsychiatrists make sure that mad people get their needs met once the psych system is destroyed" and so on.

it reflects this fairly common idea I've encountered, mostly by people who are newer to antipsych ideas, who believe that psych abolition is going to happen as some sort of single event, as this discrete moment where later, we'll be able to point to it and say this is where everything changed. That there will be one point where we deinstitutionalized or decriminalized drugs or got rid of restraint or whatever accomplishment it is. and to be fair, there are some of those watershed moments—I could point at Basaglia and the democratic psychiatry movement, the movimento antimanicomial, the Socialist Patients Collective, and a few other sticking points of psych resistance throughout the past couple hundred years. it's not like there aren't moments where there is such a monumental shift that it makes sense to classify it with a Before and an After.

part of this mindset makes me consider how so often in antipsych spaces, we (rightfully) focus a lot of our energy on highlighting the extent of the violence that occurs on the whole continuum of psychiatric care. it's hard to find words to express the horrors of solitary confinement, restraint, institutionalized sexual assault, confinement, coercive drugging—the list goes on and on. When we're so often dismissed with rhetoric telling us that we are broken/unsafe/mad in need of cure/removal/confinement—it feels desperately, urgently needed to shout as loudly as we can that the violence we are surviving is real, that is is common, and that it should not happen to anyone, regardless if we're incarcerated in prisons, jails, psych wards, or residential treatment facilities.

and at the same time, I think that sometimes we forget that even amidst the overwhelming layers of harm and abuse, there are still so many ways that psych survivors are already, every day, exhaustingly fighting back. it stands out to me that in every psych ward i've ever been locked up in, that there is always a parallel world of in-jokes and advice and rituals and fantasies and histories and community norms completely separate from the understanding of any of the psych professionals who think they run the place.

So often when I talk about the violence of psych incarceration I talk about the harm of being removed, disappeared, and cut off from the world; at the same time, there is always a simultaneous lively, active, and chaotic world inside built by patients that directly challenges the claims by psychiatrists that our madness makes us fundamentally incapable of participating in society. The patient-world in the psych ward might not be coherent, it might not be anywhere close to a utopia--but it is a world built by the psychiatrized, for the psychiatrized, taking the hostile conditions we are placed into and shaping the parts of it we can reach into something all our own.

Fundamentally, psych abolition is about what we are doing Right Now—it doesn't require us to wait for the End Of Psychiatry before it becomes real. I know psych abolition is possible because it already exists—I find it in the corners of psych wards, where intimate conversations are hidden from the view of cameras. I find it every time someone hides meds under their tongue, sneaks in contraband, and refuses to go quietly into restraint. I find it every time a group of friends gets together to do informal suicide watch so that no one has to call mobile crisis and the cops, fundraises to build a new peer respite, and creates a hotline that doesn't do nonconsensual interventions from cops/licensed professionals with the power to incarcerate.

I know psych abolition is possible because every fucking day, there are already people fighting back and making abolition real, even if only for a little while. My allegiance will always be with the psychiatrized, the mad, those who are labeled under many different pathways that end in "deviant," who remind us that there is a path towards resistance because it is a path that is already happening.

[shaiyasstuff]

Request for youuuuuuu:

zayne's a librarian at your uni library. He sees your names in books he loves to read all the time (in those check out library slips). You two start leaving notes to each other between the pages (a post it here, another there, commenting on how this one line in the book spoke to you or him).

On the recommended tags in the bookshelves, you sometimes slip in a tag yourself (even though you're not an employee working in the library yourself), knowing zayne will end up finding it bc he's the only one who spends the most time looking for books and recommending books to people who spend the most time there.

I'll leave the ending up to you ;D just needed librarian!zayne cuz he's been stuck in my head for far too long

OHOHOHO I SEE YOU I SEE YOU! Lemme see what I can cook, librarian Zayne oh lord how did I never think of that? Sksksk here is, librarian zayne fluff dedicated fully for @blessdunrest

I finished this in record time omg you can tell how excited I was to write this. LOL hope you enjoy! And please tell me if i cooked :D

Was going to post this tomorrow but then I finished my other draft so I thought I’d give you double treats :))

It was supposed to be a normal day at the library for Zayne.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the high windows, casting a warm, dappled glow across the wooden floor.

The scent of old paper and quiet settled around him like a familiar blanket. He had just finished shelving the last of the returned books—most left in disarray by hurried hands and careless minds.

He didn’t mind, not really.

There was something grounding in the ritual, in the quiet order of things finding their place again.

With a quiet sigh, he sank into the worn chair behind the desk, reaching for the thick, lined library slip book.

One by one, he flipped through the entries, scanning the familiar handwriting.

Natasha, Year 3 – Fundamentals of Molecular Science.

Ada, Year 2 – Cosmos Within, a sci-fi classic.

Then—

Y/N, Year 3 – The Sun and Her Flowers.

His hand stilled on the page.

Something in his chest tightened—not in alarm, but in surprise, a subtle ache blooming beneath his ribs.

That book.

It wasn’t just any poetry collection.

It was his book.

The one he’d carried in his bag long after he’d read it, pages dog-eared and underlined, ink smudged from restless nights.

It wasn’t something people around here cared about—too tender, too raw, too honest for most.

Especially not anyone in his year. No one ever borrowed it.

Until now.

His fingers brushed over your name. Familiar, yet distant.

You weren’t someone he spoke to much, not directly.

You were always there, though—in the same lectures, across the hallway, once in a quiet corner of the library with your headphones in and your eyes half-lost in the page.

But now, you held a part of him you didn’t know he’d shared.

And somehow, it felt like fate had just nudged him, ever so gently, across a line he hadn’t realized he’d been standing on.

He closed the slip book slowly.

And for the first time that day, the silence of the library didn’t feel so solitary.

—•

When you came to return the book the next day, Zayne was tucked behind the counter, half-lost in a page of scribbled notes and quiet thoughts.

The world outside was muted—just the soft hum of the air conditioner, the occasional creak of floorboards, the rustle of paper.

He liked it that way.

Predictable. Still.

Until your voice broke the stillness.

“Hey, I’d like to return this.”

He froze.

The pen in his hand paused mid-word, ink pooling slightly on the page.

Slowly, he looked up—and the moment his eyes met yours, something in him shifted.

It was subtle, a quiet unravelling.

As if time, that steady companion of his, had faltered.

You stood there, framed by the light pouring in from the glass panels behind you, The Sun and Her Flowers held gently in your hands.

There was a calmness to you, but your eyes—there was something in them he hadn’t seen before. Not just curiosity.

Not just politeness. But softness. A quiet depth, like a poem waiting to be read aloud.

And for the first time, he noticed you.

Really noticed you.

The way your hair caught the light, the way your fingers held the book like it meant something, like it had left traces on your heart too.

You weren’t just a name in a slip book anymore.

You weren’t just another student passing through the quiet halls of his routine.

You were real.

And radiant.

And standing in front of him holding the very thing that had once made him feel a little less alone.

He cleared his throat, but his voice felt like it had to pass through miles of thought before it could reach you.

“Was it… good?”

He didn’t mean the book.

Not really.

You giggled—a soft, melodic sound that made something stir in the quiet corners of his chest.

Then you gave a small nod, placed the book gently on the counter, and turned to leave without another word.

Zayne stood there, momentarily caught in place, lips parted slightly in awe.

Like he’d just witnessed a small miracle, something fleeting and beautiful that brushed past him before he could reach for it.

His fingers hesitated before closing around the book, still warm from your touch.

He didn’t mean to open it again.

He’d read it a dozen times before. Knew the verses like he knew the beat of his own pulse.

But now, with you lingering like sunlight after a storm, he found himself drawn to it—not for the words, but for the trace of you that might still linger between the pages.

As he lifted the cover, something fluttered out.

A small, folded note.

It landed softly on the counter, and with careful hands, he opened it.

‘I notice everything I do not have, and decide it is beautiful.’

A line from the book.

Yes.

But in your handwriting.

Zayne stared at it, breath caught in his throat.

The words weren’t addressed to anyone. Not signed. Not meant to be found.

And yet—

It felt like a secret.

A whisper of something unspoken.

Like a sliver of your soul had slipped into his hands.

His heart stirred with something quiet and inexplicable. Longing, maybe. Recognition.

The faint ache of possibility blooming in his chest.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a quote.

It was a mirror.

And for the first time in a very long while, he felt seen.

—•

That night, Zayne didn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, the glow of the city lights casting quiet shadows on his ceiling, the note still echoing in his mind like a song he couldn’t forget.

Over and over, he replayed the moment you stood in front of him—the way your eyes lit up, the way your laughter lingered even after you left.

He thought of a hundred things he could say to you.

A hundred ways to start a conversation.

Maybe ask what part of the book moved you most.

Maybe tell you it moved him too.

But no matter how many versions he rehearsed in his head, something held him back.

It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was something softer. A quiet reverence for the way it had all unfolded.

Because this felt like your thing. The book, the note, the brief but meaningful collision of your worlds. A fragile thread tied in silence and serendipity.

And he didn’t want to pull too hard and unravel it.

So he made a decision.

He reached for one of his favourite books—Letters to a Young Poet, the worn spine evidence of how often he’d returned to its pages.

With slow, deliberate care, he opened it to the passage that had once given him comfort on a lonely night and slipped his own note inside.

‘Perhaps somewhere, in the quiet, we’re already speaking the same language.’

No name. No explanation.

Just the possibility of being understood.

The next morning, he shelved it beneath his recommendations display, straightening the spine with a kind of quiet hope.

He lingered for a moment, fingers brushing the cover one last time, as if to will it toward you.

Then he stepped back, heart thrumming in his chest, and waited.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t begin with grand gestures.

Sometimes, it begins with a shared page.

He waited.

Each day, he kept an eye on the entrance from behind the counter, feigning focus on paperwork while his gaze flickered toward the door every time the bell above chimed.

The minutes ticked by in soft, library-quiet rhythm. Students came and went, laughter echoing faintly from the courtyard beyond.

The book remained untouched on the shelf, nestled between other titles that meant far less to him.

And then—

You appeared.

Just like that. As if you belonged in that moment.

Zayne’s breath caught in his throat.

You moved with quiet purpose, your gaze sweeping the shelves, fingertips trailing along spines as if reading by touch.

There was a crease in your brow, that same thoughtful expression he remembered from the other day. You were searching.

Maybe for something you couldn’t name.

Maybe for the exact book he’d left behind for you.

He didn’t move.

He just watched—heart pounding, chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name. Hope, maybe.

Or longing.

Or the fragile beauty of watching a possibility begin to unfold.

The way you walked, the way your hair caught the morning light—it all felt like a scene he would’ve once written down and tucked away for safekeeping.

And in that moment, watching you reach out toward the shelf where his secret waited, he didn’t need to speak.

Because some silences said everything.

And his, just then, was quietly pleading.

You reached for the book—his book—and he swore time held its breath.

Your fingers wrapped around the worn spine, and with a small, satisfied smile, you turned on your heel and made your way toward the front desk.

Toward him.

Zayne straightened instinctively, his heartbeat loud in his ears, though his expression remained composed—habitual restraint masking the storm beneath.

You placed the book gently on the counter, the very one he’d chosen for you, with the note nestled like a secret between its pages.

“I’d like to borrow this,” you said, your voice soft but sure.

He met your gaze and nodded, careful to keep his hands steady as he reached for the library slip book.

He scribbled your name beneath the title, signing off with the date.

It felt strange, somehow, how something so mundane could feel so momentous.

When he handed the book back to you, your fingers brushed his—just for a second—and it was like something sparked beneath his skin.

You smiled at him, small and genuine, a quiet thank-you in the curve of your lips.

And then, just like that, you turned and walked away.

He didn’t call out after you.

Didn’t ask if you’d find the note.

He only watched, the image of your retreating figure imprinting itself on some tender part of him.

And still, he hoped.

Because now, it was your turn to read.

And maybe—just maybe—you’d understand what he hadn’t been able to say aloud.

—•

You returned the book a few days later, the same gentle grace in your steps, the same soft air of quiet that always seemed to surround you.

But this time, there was something different—a faint smile tugging at your lips, one that wasn’t there the first time.

Something knowing.

You placed the book on the counter without a word, just a small nod in his direction, as if acknowledging something unspoken between you.

As always, you turned to leave.

And Zayne felt it—

That sudden ache of something slipping through his fingers.

The almost. The maybe. The not yet.

His heart, though carefully guarded, wilted slightly with the weight of that silence.

But then—

Something fluttered out from between the pages.

The note.

His own handwriting stared back at him first—his quiet offering. The line he had hoped would reach you.

But beneath it, written in a different hand—your hand—was something more.

‘Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.’

A passage from the same book.

But this time, it wasn’t just a quote.

It was an answer.

Zayne stared at the words, the corners of the paper trembling slightly in his hands.

And then he smiled—

Small. Real. Disbelieving.

Because he understood.

You had read between the lines.

And you had answered in the only language he had trusted you to understand.

—•

It became a quiet ritual.

Every few days, Zayne would slip another book onto the recommendation shelf—never flashy, never obvious.

Just something thoughtful.

Something that meant something.

Between the pages, always the same—a note.

A single line, a question, a passage underlined just for you.

And somehow—without fail—you’d find it.

He never saw you take the books. Not once.

But they would vanish from the shelf by the end of the day, and a few days later, you’d return them with that same gentle smile and a new note waiting for him inside.

It was wordless magic, threaded between pages and ink.

A quiet conversation unfolding one borrowed book at a time.

He began to choose the titles more carefully.

Books that mirrored the seasons.

Books that carried pieces of him.

The ones he had clung to during sleepless nights.

The ones that had taught him to hope again.

And every time you responded, your words felt like echoes of something he had longed for but never dared to name.

It wasn’t a game.

It wasn’t even courtship.

It was something purer.

Something softer.

Like trust blooming in the silence between hearts.

He began to look forward to mornings—just to see if the book was gone.

Just to see your handwriting again. Just to know that somewhere out there, you were reading his words and choosing to answer with your own.

And in the quiet of the library, amid the soft turning of pages and the hush of footsteps, Zayne began to fall in love—with the mystery, the stillness, and the girl who spoke to him through stories.

Sometimes, you left little traces of yourself behind.

Not just in the notes you slipped into returned books, but in the soft, handwritten tags you began sliding beneath his recommendation shelf.

At first, they were small, almost shy—just a few words scrawled in the corner of an index card, barely noticeable unless someone was truly looking.

But Zayne noticed. Always.

“This one hurts in all the right ways.”

“Read if your soul is tired.”

And once—

“For Zayne.”

That one stayed with him the longest.

He found it tucked just beneath the worn copy of Norwegian Wood he had placed out that morning.

And the moment he saw those words—so simple, so personal—he felt the breath catch in his throat.

Like the air had grown too thick, like the space between you had suddenly narrowed into something unbearably intimate.

He never asked how you knew which books were from him.

He never had to.

Somehow, your heart always seemed to find what his had quietly left behind.

Those tags became a part of the shelf, a secret language only the two of you spoke.

And each one made his chest ache in the most tender, bittersweet way—because they weren’t just about the books anymore.

They were about understanding. About being seen.

And for someone like Zayne, who had always spoken best in silence and stories, it felt like falling in love without ever having to say the word.

And then—suddenly—you stopped.

No new checkouts. No returned books. No quiet notes tucked between the pages, no soft little tags beneath his shelf.

Just… silence.

A hollow kind that wrapped itself around Zayne’s chest and refused to let go.

He flipped through the library slip book again and again, hoping he’d missed something.

But your name—your name—hadn’t appeared in almost two weeks. And that absence, so small on paper, felt unbearable in reality.

Something wasn’t right.

The unease gnawed at him—restless and sharp.

You’d become a part of his world in ways he hadn’t realized until your presence slipped away like mist, and suddenly the quiet of the library felt colder, lonelier.

As though even the books missed you.

So he began looking.

Between classes, after closing hours—his gaze lingered at corners of the campus you might pass through, eyes searching, heart pulsing with quiet desperation.

And just when he thought he had imagined you into something too delicate for reality—

He found you.

Sitting beneath a tree in the far stretch of the campus field, where the sun filtered through the leaves and spilled golden light across the grass.

You were curled up with a book resting in your hands, its cover closed, your fingers still turning pages like you were searching for something within.

The expression on your face was distant, thoughtful, touched by something fragile.

Zayne hesitated, standing there for a moment, heart thudding like it was about to burst from the quiet he was about to shatter.

Then, for the first time, he stepped closer—not as the boy behind the counter, not as the name beneath your borrowed stories, but simply as himself.

And you looked up.

As if you knew he would come.

As if you’d been waiting.

“Took you long enough,” you said with a soft giggle, eyes warm as they met his.

Zayne stood there, breath caught, as you held the book out to him—its cover familiar yet unknown, as though it had always existed but waited for this moment to be seen.

“Here,” you murmured, placing it gently in his hands. “It’s for you.”

He looked down.

The title read: The Quiet Love I Found in the Library.

His fingers curled around the spine, the weight of the book grounding, reverent.

He said nothing—couldn’t.

But his eyes lifted to you, and in them was every note you had exchanged, every shared silence, every book passed between trembling hands and hopeful hearts.

The wind stirred the grass around you.

And in that quiet, unremarkable moment, everything changed.

[lokis-army-77]

A request for you: hugging best friend!Eddie and he pops a boner. Do what you will with this information. - @munson-blurbs 💚

Recipes for Romance

Bestfriend!Eddie Munson x fem reader

Word Count: 2.1k

When your best friend comes home while you're cooking dinner and something happens. . .

Warning: 18+. Oral (m receiving), gagging, choking, masturbation, cum swallowing

Thank you @munson-blurbs for sending this in.. I do believe this is the best BJ I've written 💗💗.

Masterlist

It's funny how love happens. One minute you're friends with someone and then the next, you realize something fundamental in your relationship has changed. No longer were you childhood best friends living together in a small, two-bedroom apartment trying to make a place for yourselves in this world. Now, you were childhood best friends who live together but one of you has an unrequited crush on the other. 

Simple chores around the house and just hanging out with one another have turned into something more domestic on your end. You could see yourself coming home to him so easily. 

Really, what would change if you were to tell him? Nothing, other than he would kiss you when you came home instead of only giving you a hug and asking what was on the menu for dinner that night. 

That's where you were tonight. In the kitchen, chopping up ingredients for dinner like usual, thanks to Eddie's lack of expertise in anything other than pizza rolls and microwavable macaroni cups. If it had been left up to him both of you probably would have starved by now. 

It was nearing eight when Eddie strolled through the apartment door, guitar slung on his back and an amp being hoisted up in his arms. Oh, those arms. He was wearing a black muscle shirt, perfect for the summer heat and showing off the delicious-looking veins that protrude from them. 

“Hey, Eds!” You call out to him. 

He grumbles out, “Hey,” in response, and fumbles with his things all the way down the hallway behind you, to your right, and into his room. 

It’s a few moments and chopped cilantro later that you hear his bare feet padding back to where you are. 

“How was your day?” The question comes out smoothly, without a thought, because you had been asking him this same thing forever. 

“Good," he answers. “I’m exhausted.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing dinner's almost ready, then you can go to bed.” You move about the small rectangular kitchen area with the grace that comes with knowing the area like the back of your hand. 

You’re stirring the warming spaghetti sauce so that it doesn’t burn to the bottom of the pan when you feel those same bare arms you had been lustfully gazing at only a short while before reaching around your hips. You stop, freezing your movements to focus on how not to let Eddie feel the racing of your heart. 

His chin rests on your shoulder and his hair tickles your neck. “Smells good,” he mumbles. 

You blush. You know he’s talking about the food but you wish he were talking about you. It was always nerve-wracking for you when he got clingy like this. Knowing you couldn’t just relax into him how you wanted. Having to hold yourself back from turning your head and giving him a peck on the lips. 

Eddie continued to watch you cook, nuzzling his nose deeper into the crook of your neck. You were hyper-aware of his lips on your bare skin and you were even more aware of growing hardness pressing against your ass. 

Your face heats up even more as you think to yourself, ‘Why god? Why do this to me?’ It’s a struggle to keep stirring the food when all your attention is focused on your best friend's dick. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, the movement has Eddie humming into your neck and making him harden even more. 

One of his hands unwraps from around you and grips your hip. You can feel his breathing becoming more labored as he struggles behind you. 

You reposition yourself once more, this time pushing back into him just a little. Eddie can’t catch the strangled moan that flies up from his throat. 

“Fuck.” His lips move across your skin like a hot branding iron, saying your name breathlessly. 

“Eddie?” You question innocently. 

“Hum?” He replies. 

You push the saucepan back onto a cool part of the stovetop and turn the once-in-use eye off. 

“Are you…” You can’t bring yourself to say it out loud, but he knows your silent query. 

It takes him a moment to say anything. He swallows hard and nods. “Yeah. Shit, I’m sorry.” He squeezes your hip with his large hand and begins to back away. 

“Wait!” Your voice is louder than you had anticipated it to be but the urgency in it stops Eddie before he is fully separated from you. “Eddie, wait,” you say much softer this time. 

He stops, the tips of his fingers barely touching you. You turn around in his light hold, eyes staring up into his. Your heart is beating a mile a minute as you say, “I can help with that y’know.” 

Eddie sputters, seemingly choking on air. “W-what?” His face blushed a deep red and it flushed all the way down his neck.

Taking a breath, you try and calm yourself down. Those six words can’t be taken back now, but why would you want to do that anyway? The thought of his hard cock filling your mouth was the only thing running through your mind and now that a chance had arisen, you were going to take it. 

“I said,” You trail your hand down down down until you are cupping him over his jeans. “I can help with that… Unless you don’t want me to.” 

Eddie’s eyes go wide and he opens and closes his mouth like he’s trying to find the words to say only to be left mute. Instead, he nods his head, letting his curls cover his face. 

You turn your bodies, pushing him up against the counter, and with less practiced grace than moving about the kitchen, you begin to undo his pants. His breath catches and he looks away from you for only a moment when your hand dips past the waistband of his pants. 

“Oh god-” He swallows. 

Ever so slowly you begin your descent to your knees, taking his pants and boxers down with you. The sight left before you makes your mouth water and your legs clench. He looks painfully hard, the tip flush and a bead of pre-cum pooling at the slit. You ached to run your tongue over the vein protruding down his shaft, you needed to have his balls in your mouth. 

So, that’s what you do. From base to tip you lick a fat, wet strip up him. His hips jerk forward, one hand caught in your hair, and the other holds on for dear life to the edge of the counter. You lick again and again, over and over. 

“Fuck-,” your name falls from Eddie's lips in a whimper. That sound had your stomach flipping and your pussy fluttering. You needed him to do that again.  

You start to pepper kisses along his shaft, ending at his head and giving it one big smooch before opening and taking him into your mouth. 

Eddie tugs on your hair at the first experimental suck that you give him. You can't help but moan at the slight pain. Taking him a bit more you suck again, gentle and with little force. 

"Ah-." There it was, that whiny sound. 

You bring your hand up to wrap around the length of him not nestled in the warmth of your mouth. Giving him a firm squeeze you begin to move. Up and down, up and down. You follow your hand with your mouth. 

The hot and tangy taste of him spreads across your tongue and pre-cum just dribbles out of him. Really, it makes you salivate, it makes you wet. And what really turns you on is knowing that this is your best friend. This is the guy you've known since forever. The guy you never thought you would ever be doing this with. 

It made you hungry for more, needy, and unsatisfied. You dip your head further down, lips meeting your fingers at his base.

"Oh God. Oh fuck." Another strangled whimper followed by the prettiest grunts and groans. Your other hand, resting on Eddie's thigh, could feel how his leg tensed with every suck, with every nudge of the back of your throat. Then he jerked forward again. His cock buries deep into your throat.

You choke and gag around him, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth and falling down your neck. Tears sting in your eyes but you let him thrust into you. 

Eddie says your name like a prayer. It flows from his lips in a melody only for you. He’s got your hair fisted in his hand, fingers digging into your skull. Your own fingers dig into his strong thighs. Then, he lets you go and you pull away fast for air. A string of drool connects your lips to his cock. 

“Eddie,” You say as you look up at him through thick lashes and heavy eyes. 

“Mmm.” He hums, head falling to the side. 

“You taste so good. Want you to cum down my throat.” 

He looks down at you in such a way that you think you can see something other than love for a friend. Something more potent, something like what you feel for him. It makes the breath catch in your lungs. 

Eddie releases his grasp on your hair and smooths his hand down and onto your cheek. His thumb rubs light circles into your skin. You lean in more, scooting closer to him on your knees, ignoring the numbness in them. 

The cheek he isn’t touching rests on his thigh and you continue to look up at him as you take his cock fully in your hand and start pumping. 

Eddie bites his lip but that doesn’t stop the moans. “God damnit, baby…” 

He’s never called you that before. Sure a pet name here and there, sweetheart or something of the sort, but never baby. The name had you aching with need and it only took a few more high-pitched whimpers from Eddie to have you shoving your other hand down your shorts. 

You were drenched, wetness pooled in your panties and around your fingers as you swiped them through your folds. You trail your lips down to his balls and kiss them before sucking one into your mouth. 

There is a moment when you think Eddie is going to fall on top of you. You feel his knees buckle and his feet shuffling to keep himself upright. 

You let go of him with a pop and then take the other into your mouth, warming him and running your tongue over the skin. 

“Fuck fuck fuck. Baby- mmm,” Eddie can’t keep quiet and you don’t want him to. The louder he is, the more it encourages you. 

After a few more pumps of your hand, you move your mouth back to the tip of his cock and take him deep. This time when he hits the back of your throat, you don’t gag as bad but tears still swell in your eyes. You let him buck his hips into you, following his rough pace with your hand as you rub your fingers into your clit. 

“Gonna cum baby, fuck gonna make me cum. Such a pretty mouth." Eddie blubbers. "Fuck I love you, baby. Gonna fill that mouth up. You gonna swallow all of it, baby?"

You hum around his cock at his words. Heart beating faster and safer as your own orgasm begins to come forward. 

With a hand buried in your hair again. Eddie pushes you down onto his cock, nose pressed against his abdomen and drool spilling down your chin. You feel him twitch and watch through tear-rimmed eyes as his head falls back and his mouth hangs open. Eddie lets out the most lewd-sounding moan as he releases his sticky, hot cum down your throat. 

You swallow and swallow, consuming all that he gives you. Your hand still works between your thighs and in a gush of pleasure, you can feel your release dripping over your fingers. 

Pulling away from Eddie, his cock now softening, you catch your breath. You move to sit more comfortably on the floor and lean your forehead on Eddie's left knee. 

"Wow…" Eddie heaves out. "That was- that was fucking amazing." His grip eases in your hair and then he's adjusting himself back into his pants before sitting on the floor with you. 

"Look at me?" He asks. You're avoiding eye contact with him, embarrassment of the actions and words just exchanged flooding through you. 

"Sweetheart, please look at me." He pleaded.

That name had you looking timidly through your hair. Those big, brown eyes caught yours and in that moment you knew that another fundamental piece of your relationship had changed. 

No longer was it two childhood best friends living together with one having a crush on the other. No. It was now two childhood best friends who loved each other in every way, who were once too scared to say anything lest they break up the friendship. 

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

What! Are your top five reveals in One Piece! Which ones made you go “holy shit” or “hell yeah” the most!

i'm taking reveal here to mean 'points at which previously-hidden information is revealed to the audience,' not just where we're told something new. so:

THE FREEST MAN ON THE SEA: maybe not as dramatic or seismic as some other things on this list, but to me luffy telling rayleigh that to him being the pirate king just means being the freest in the world is the single most important thing we ever learn about luffy's character, and it defines the themes of the whole series. it recontextualizes everything about luffy and the way he interacts with the world and the way he pursues his goal because now we finally know what that goal actually is, and what it means to him. and for the whole first half of the story we don't know this! it's easy to forget because we're, what, six hundred chapters past it now, but we get all the way to sabaody without really knowing what drives luffy, and then we get it and it slides into place perfectly.

WORLD SANK: a recent one, but so satisfying and well-placed. the sunken world reveal is the best kind of big lore reveal, to me, because it's something that makes so much sense it was completely possible to predict it years ago (and people did), and now that it has been confirmed, it's opened up a massive world of implications and questions that are incredibly fun to think about. i'm really excited to see where the story goes with it.

NIKA: i'm sort of rolling everything we learn about gear 5/nika/joyboy in the 1040 chapters of wano together here; i've written at length before on this blog about why i like the nika reveal so much, so i'll just say now that it takes one piece's most fundamental and powerful themes and symbolism (liberation and joy and the sun) which have been built up across the story and reveals to you that those things are a real literal force in the narrative strong enough to turn a draconic tyrant into a garden snake. and having established what he has now about nika, the way oda has continued to explore the implications of that figure existing in the world has been absolutely fabulous to read.

RAIZOU IS SAFE: a smaller and more arc-specific one compared to some of the others on this list, but i just really like the way this reveal is done. the interval between the dressrosa team's arrival on zou and the reveal that raizou was there the whole time isn't even particularly long, but it's the execution which makes it; the devastation of the city, the solemnity of the whole moment, inuarashi and nekomamushi bowing their heads, luffy and the strawhats' reactions. i like the minks a lot, and this is the moment that defines them as a group, as well as establishing the themes of loyalty and sacrifice that will go on to become very prominent in wano.

ROGER WAS DYING: i've talked before about how i really like the handling of roger as a figure and how our knowledge of him evolves and becomes more personal and human over the course of the story. the turning point in that evolution is the introduction of rayleigh; his reveal that roger was not caught, that he turned himself in because he was dying, and that they found the truth of the world there at the end of the grand line. it shifts the whole presentation of the story; we've been told about roger from the very start of the very first chapter, and it's here that we learn the information we thought we had about him has been woefully incomplete. there's a bigger mystery here, one greater than just 'what treasure did roger leave.' and i really like we get this context about roger in the very same scene we learn what it means to luffy to be the pirate king.

[tofupixel]

I recently started learning to use rpg maker (vx ace!) and as a result have become increasingly interested in pixel art. I hadn't really done pixel work since my teens - I do more digital painting and vector art - so while I'm a little familiar and can do passable editing, there's a lot I don't know.

One thing that's kind of perplexing for me is understanding the differences in style between two creators of pixel art. I studied art history and I'm used to the differences being things like brush stroke length or degree of realism... I feel like I'm lacking in lexicon in this new frontier lol

What nuances of an artist do you think are most important to style in pixel art?

This kind of stuff is not really officially studied (yet) so it's all a bit of opinion from me.

Usually in pixel art the biggest differences in styles are which limitations the artists choose to impose on themselves; colour count, resolution, palette... Or more stylistic choices like hue shifting, anti-aliasing style or no, dithering or no, etc.

I personally think there are a huge variety of styles in pixel art, as it's literally just a medium, and I hope you'll agree by the end 8)

Also (imo) there is some seperation between the styles of art for art's sake, and art for videogames, where things have to be clear and readable to be actually playable.

🎮 Old school games:

Sometimes referred to as something like '8-bit' or '16-bit' (relating to the NES era / SNES era consoles), these artstyles usually follow the rules and limitations of the hardware at the time.

This all falls under retro art, most popular styles include: NES, SNES, GB, GBC, C64

Notable artists: Nickwoz, Sandy Gordon, Franken, Cisco

📚 Old school art:

There were also events called Demoscene (still are), where developers would go to a big convention and share their demos. A lot of pixel art competitions were held here, where artists would draw live.

Generally they used to favour a high realism/semirealism style, with lots of texture/dithering, fairly high resolution (if the hardware allowed for it), and adjacent pixels mostly being different from one another.

There are even older styles than this but they are fairly niche and I'm not that well educated. If interested look into some of the old PCs/consoles.

⭐ Modern pixel art:

Usually using more colours and higher resolution, larger clusters of pixels instead of individual ones. Strong use of art fundamentals.

Artists to look at: Adam Ferguson (yes it is pixel art), Snake, Slym, 6VCR, Yes I do Pixels, Gijotto, SovanJedi, JoeCreates, Franek, @8pxl

the rest below are "modern" pixel artists too but I think they have other things in their style that are a bit different!

🎨 Painterly:

Some artists choose to emulate the natural brushstrokes digitally, and keep their clusters large and loose. Usually don't focus on the minute details as much.

@makrustic, @hexh-pixel, Umbohr, Gawrone

🟦 Dithering

These artists all use dithering / texture in ways that make their styles totally unique.

Deceiver, Night, Reo,

💥 Experimental

These artists are always trying new things and honing in on their unique style.

AJ, hby, @ilta222, Alphons

I could really go on for ever, there are so many different styles, cute pixel art, horror pixel art, 1bit (2 colours only), and then adding animation takes it even further, but I think you get the idea

If you want to learn more, the Masters of Pixel Art books have works /interviews from pixel artists of different eras, including demoscene and contemporary.

😊👍