#it’s just like. it’s. without even thinking consciously about it

[sunshinemakesmesleepy]

Dude as someone who’s been on the inception train for god knows how long, and JUST got into leverage bc my partners finally forced me to watch it (we just finished season one) this hits the nail right on the fucking head.

Like I love inception, and like a lot of other things that Christopher Nolan has worked on, it has very good bones. Which is why there is an abundance of fanfic that goes into all of the things that the movie didn’t go into. Because you could argue that there’s a difference. That in leverage the mark almost always knows they’ve been conned. And that’s what makes it satisfying. But with inception, the whole point is that they slip in and then slip out unseen. That once they leave nobody knows they were even there. And while the “it’s tech bros talking about ai, without taking a moment to realize that while the ai can do something, that doesn’t mean it’s done well” thing is very very relevant because at the end of the day the reason there is so much fanfic for that movies is because there are parts of it that aren’t explored, I think that that in itself is a sort of the point of the movie itself. It’s a tool that was made by the military to extract secrets from people and to help train them for combat. People who were more interested in the more complex and fluid sides of dreaming then took that tech and ran with it. And so the system of how extraction is done, the reason why it is done, and how people get away with it is very mechanical and systematic in nature. Because it has to do with the long term effects of manipulating the inner most parts of the subconscious mind.

That being said, it is a very tech bro perspective on the subconscious, dreaming, and the manipulation of people’s psyche. But honestly I think that’s kinda part of the point. That these insanely rich people in their little mc mansions are almost detached from humanity and so a systematic slow methodical approach that creeps up on them and dissects them from the inside out to get information that really matters. Outside of money and morality. But it’s obvious with how Cobb and Mal ended up limbo, and the role her father has in this entire story that there are alot of things about dreamscapes and dreaming with the pasiv that have yet to be tapped into. And so it makes sense the methodology would be brutal. Simplistic and yet impractical, and that’s the whole point.

Do I think Nolan consciously was thinking about all of this as he was writing? No. But he’s the type of filmmaker where even he when he might have a sweat in viewpoint or option he wants to try to push, he can and will put it aside to make a good story and to be true to his characters and the actors who play them.

So it is very funny to see two perspectives, who methodologies of theft and manipulation out side by side, because ironically leverage is more realistic. Rich people are dumb. Law enforcement is dumb. And that the best way to combat a corrupt system is to not confine yourself to what said system deems “lawful” and “just”.

And yet inception treats the subconscious like a maze and the world of dreaming and dreamscapes as an art form rather than an exact science. Or more so it’s the intersection of the two. Forgers are actors, with a side of criminal psych, and the ability to physically manipulate yourself and the things around you as if you were a sculpture. Or an oil painting. Whoever’s on point is basically just a stage manager who’s also the dramaturge, and a pa. All jobs in the arts.

Architects walk the line between math and design, and you have to be decent at both to get anything done, in real life and in dreams. And then the chemist obviously is working dangerously experimental chemicals, but even then, it’s more so along the lines of how many people say psychiatry is more of an art than a science at times, from how the drug is delivered to the physical and artistic method of delivering a successful “kick”.

And the extractor? An extractor is a glorified psychologist with a side of con artist and children’s party magician who basically has to gain the trust and confidence of their subject to get jack shit done.

Obviously, Nolan only gave us the bare bones of all of that, and even then all of these “roles” are a lot more sterile in actuality, but their basis is in the arts and psychology and emotion really is in direct contrast to the emotionless corporate money focused nature of what a lot of these “dream jobs” entail. Not to mention how’s cobs emotional instability and general repression and denial surrounding his wife’s death and all that’s come afterwards does end up almost being more powerful then anything and everything they prepared and or planned for, because it’s vulnerability is so powerful. So dangerous.

Using the pasiv is supposed to be incredibly inefficient. Because the point is less about the extraction itself and that the people who are employing dreamers to extract information want it to be virtually untraceable, specifically to the public eye. They want their adversaries to either be confused and lost or unable to cast public blame, because they can’t tell anyone about the pasiv, or dreaming, or extractions. Because then that sort of thing would loose its unsuspecting nature and exclusivity, which is why it’s highly sought after in sensitive situations.

So yes, inception, and by extension extraction, through dreaming and custom crafting dreamscapes is very tech bro “ai is gonna replace us all because it can do everything super fast all at once”, but that’s kinda the whole point. And it’s why the movie is so fascinating. Because dreaming is almost like a strange dying art form, that can be used in so many strange and dangerous ways, from Yusuf’s dream den, to how Cobb was introduced by Mal’s dad in the context of bringing his architectural designs to life, to the jobs Cobb, Arthur, Eames, and even Yusuf, have been doing for years at this point.

But yeah. The side by side comparison is insane.

Okay to clarify I like the movie inception, it's fun and it's well done

BUT

As someone who grew up on Leverage, the concept sends me into hysterical laughter.

Like the Inception writers are all like "in order to change someone's mind you must physically go deep into into their psyche and alter it with your own hands"

And I'm like... have you never manipulated someone in your life?

Nate Ford got a man to change his password to Badger35 just by stealing his highschool reunion. Gave a man a nosebleed with the power of his mind.

Sophie plants ideas in peoples heads all the day long with naught but words. She trained Elliot to make her tea just by tapping his arm.

Like the concept of inception feels to me like those tech bros, you know? The ones that say "I made an AI that can write full movie scripts in ten minutes" and then anyone who knows anything is like "yeah but they're literal shit?"

Like someone watched a master manipulator do their thing and change the mind of a person and was like "I bet I could do this with technology" and they proceeded to make the worst possible deathtrap option for that.

[cupofteatoyou]

And Then There Was You

She doesn’t even have to touch you for your body to burn.

The first time it happens, you’re kneeling at the edge of the pitch, fiddling with a tangled cord, trying to look busy while the players finish drills under a sun-soaked sky.

You hear her before you see her—low laughter, clipped footsteps, a sharp whistle that cuts across the field. And then she passes you.

María León.

Your eyes flick up without thinking. And the world tilts.

It’s not the sharp line of her jaw or the way she moves like tension coiled around grace. It’s not her voice, though it’s the kind that would carry through fog, the kind you’d recognize even in sleep.

It’s what happens inside you.

Your chest pulls tight, like your heart skipped ahead without asking. Like some unseen thread had been yanked—hard—and now you're aware of every inch of your skin. A flush spreads along your spine, heat crawling up the back of your neck.

She doesn't look at you. She doesn't even slow down.

Still, something inside you shifts.

You blink, swallow, tell yourself it's adrenaline. The new job, the pressure, the weight of being around legends every day. That must be it.

But deep down, something older whispers this is different.

And it is.

Because it happens again. And again. And again.

A week later, you’re walking down the tunnel, trying not to trip over the mic cables looped around your shoulder, when you hear footsteps behind you.

They slow.

Your name is called—softly. Not hers. Not yet. But you feel her before you see her. Like the static hum before a storm. Like the echo of a dream you can’t quite remember.

You turn the corner and there she is. Laughing with Ingrid. Leaning into her side, eyes crinkled, relaxed.

She doesn’t notice you.

But your whole body does.

Your stomach turns. Not in a jealous way. Not really. It’s not about Ingrid. It’s the way your chest reacts like it’s been struck. The way your knees go weak like her happiness somehow hurts. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and it carves you open anyway.

You get out of there fast.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of half-heard voices and blurred footage. You forget to eat. Your skin buzzes like you've touched something you shouldn't.

You’re still trying to convince yourself this is nothing.

But nothing doesn’t feel like this.

Mapi notices quickly.

She always has good instincts—about the game, about danger, about people.

But with you, it’s more than instinct.

She feels it the second she sees you—really sees you—standing behind the camera near the training ground, hair half-tucked into a hoodie, eyes focused anywhere but on her.

Her breath catches. Her balance stutters, just for a second. Enough that Alexia glances over. She covers it with a laugh. Keeps moving.

But something inside her has already shifted.

She doesn’t need time to realize what it means.

Her body tells her first. Her senses flare, all at once. You’re not just a presence—you’re a frequency. One she feels vibrating through the air when you walk past. A warmth at the base of her neck. A scent that clings to her even hours after you’re gone.

There’s no denying it.

You’re hers.

But the second she recognizes it, she buries it.

Because she’s already in love with someone else.

Ingrid is good. Ingrid is safe. She’s kind and steady and warm. Mapi knows the sound of her laugh and the pattern of her breathing. She knows how Ingrid likes her coffee and how she tucks her feet under the blanket on cold nights. Mapi loves her.

And still—her body turns toward you like it’s never belonged to anyone else.

So she doesn’t say anything.

She pretends.

She tells herself it’ll pass. That she’s just overwhelmed. That she can ignore it the way she’s ignored everything else that ever threatened the things she loves.

And for a while, she manages.

She keeps her distance. Keeps her eyes down. Keeps Ingrid close.

But her body betrays her every time.

You start avoiding her.

You don’t even make the choice consciously at first. You just stop lingering near the pitch. You take your lunch at odd hours. You switch your media shifts whenever you know she’ll be around.

You stop breathing when she enters a room. And start holding your breath the moment she leaves it.

But avoidance doesn’t erase the feeling.

Because even without words, without touch, without acknowledgment, something binds you to her. It curls in your chest when she's near. It throbs when she walks away. You feel it in the silence. In the air. In your bones.

And it hurts more than anything ever has.

Because you’re certain she doesn’t feel it.

She doesn’t look at you like you look at her.

Or so you think.

Mapi notices.

She notices everything about you now. Not because she means to—but because she can’t help it.

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're flustered. The way your fingers tremble slightly when you pass her a mic. The way you avoid her gaze like it hurts to meet it.

And it does hurt. She knows. Because it hurts her too.

Every time she sees you pull away, her chest tightens. Every time you laugh at something someone else says, she wants to be the reason for it. And when you look at anyone else with even a hint of softness, her throat burns.

But she doesn't act on it.

Because acting on it would mean breaking something she promised she’d protect.

So she keeps pretending.

And the pretending is starting to splinter.

One night, long after training, you linger near the tunnel. The sky is bruised blue, the stadium nearly empty, the hush after hours making everything feel too loud.

Mapi walks past you, slowing just a little.

You feel it before you see her. That hum. That pull. That ache.

She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

But as she walks by, your eyes meet for just a second too long.

And for the first time—you see it.

She knows.

Whatever this is, however impossible, however unspoken—she feels it too.

But then Ingrid calls her name from the parking lot.

And Mapi blinks, steps away, and keeps walking.

You’re left standing there, heart in pieces, chest hollow, every part of you screaming with the truth

She knows.

And she won’t choose you.

Mapi lies awake that night.Her body is tired. Her heart is not.

You’re not there.

And you should be.

She sleeps beside someone else, but it’s you she dreams of.

staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Her hands are clenched beneath the blanket, jaw tight, chest aching in that strange, buried way it always does after she sees you.

Ingrid is curled up beside her, one arm resting lightly over her waist. She’s already asleep—steady breaths, skin warm. Familiar.

It should calm her.

It used to.

But tonight, the warmth doesn't reach her bones.

Her skin still buzzes from that second—that look—in the tunnel. You’d glanced at her like the air had disappeared, and for the first time, she didn’t look away.

And it nearly pulled her under.

Now, lying here in the dark, that single moment feels louder than anything that came before it. It won’t leave her. It vibrates beneath her ribs like something alive.

She doesn’t want this. She didn’t ask for it.

And still—it’s there.

You are there.

She slips out of bed when she can’t take it anymore.

Ingrid doesn’t stir.

The apartment is quiet, heavy. She doesn’t bother with lights. Just moves through the dark, hoodie thrown over her tank top, hair tied up messily. She ends up in the kitchen, hands pressed to the counter, forehead bowed.

Her chest won’t stop tightening. Her breath keeps catching.

She feels like she’s breaking from the inside out.

The kettle starts humming before she realizes she’s turned it on. Her body’s moving out of habit. Her mind is miles away—back in the tunnel, back in the sound of your laugh, back in that one second where her heart said go and she stayed frozen.

She doesn’t hear Ingrid at first.

“Couldn’t sleep again?”

Mapi stiffens. Turns slowly.

Ingrid stands in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket, hair mussed, eyes heavy with concern that’s starting to fray at the edges.

Mapi clears her throat. “Just couldn’t shut my brain off.”

Ingrid steps further into the room. She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then—“Is it football?”

Mapi wishes it were. She’d give anything for it to be that simple.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Then nods. “Something like that.”

Ingrid just watches her.

“You’ve been somewhere else lately,” she says softly. “Not just tonight. For a while.”

Mapi doesn’t respond.

“I didn’t want to say anything at first. I figured… pressure. Fatigue. Noise.” Ingrid’s voice cracks faintly. “But it’s not that, is it?”

Mapi swallows hard. Her hands curl around the edge of the counter.

“Mapi.”

She doesn’t want to lie. Not to Ingrid. Not to the girl who helped her breathe again after the worst year of her life. But the truth feels sharp in her throat.

Ingrid’s voice drops. “Is there someone else?”

Silence.

It sits there between them like a wound.

“I haven’t done anything,” Mapi says quickly. “I haven’t touched her. I haven’t said anything.”

Ingrid doesn’t flinch at the word her, but her grip on the blanket tightens.

“That’s not the same as nothing,” she whispers.

Mapi’s eyes sting.

“I didn’t choose it. I didn’t want it.”

“But it’s happening,” Ingrid says. Not a question. A quiet devastation.

Mapi nods, barely.

Ingrid exhales. It sounds like it hurts. “How long?”

Mapi hesitates. “Since the beginning.”

She can’t bring herself to say more. Can’t explain the way her skin vibrates when you’re near. The way her heart breaks in her chest when you laugh and she’s not the reason. The way she knew—knew—before either of you had spoken more than five words.

Ingrid steps back slightly, her voice suddenly shaking. “You love her?”

Mapi’s voice cracks. “I don’t know what this is.”

“But it’s not me anymore, is it?”

That breaks her.

“Ingrid, I still love you,” she says, stepping forward. “I do. I just—I don’t know how to stop this thing I never wanted.”

Ingrid’s eyes fill but she blinks it away. “You’re already gone, Mapi. You just haven’t left yet.”

Mapi flinches like she’s been slapped.

She wants to deny it. To fix it. To reach for the safety she’s known. But her hands stay by her sides, limp.

Because the truth is still there, buried in her chest.

You.

And she can’t lie her way out of that.

Ingrid breathes in slowly. Then turns without another word.

The door to the bedroom clicks shut behind her.

And Mapi stays standing in the kitchen, alone, staring at the cup of tea she never finished.

Mapi should be focused.

The drill is simple. High tempo passing. Fast touch. Quick release. Alexia calls out rotations from the center of the pitch. The rhythm is sharp, controlled. Everyone’s locked in.

Except her.

Because you're there.

Far off, near the bench. Half-hidden behind the dugout wall. Hoodie pulled low, body curled inward, hands moving over your laptop like you’re trying to disappear into it. Like you don’t want to be seen.

But Mapi sees you anyway.

She always does.

And it hits her again—deep, sudden, like a fault line cracking wide open beneath her ribs. That ache. The one that lives in her chest now. The one that flares every time you're near and never fully fades when you're gone.

You haven’t looked at her once.

And that’s what undoes her most.

Because you used to.

You used to glance at her like it hurt to. Like your body couldn’t help it. But now? Nothing. Not even a flicker.

You're shielding yourself. Keeping distance.

And it’s her fault.

You’re trying to be small. To stay hidden. And she knows—she knows—she’s the reason you’re folding yourself in like this.

And still, she can’t look away.

Not even for Ingrid.

Not even for the girl she promised herself to.

Ingrid notices.

She's standing at the sideline, arms folded across her chest, pretending to follow the drill. But her eyes aren’t on the ball. They're on Mapi.

And she knows.

She’s known, in pieces, for a while now. In the silence. In the pauses. In the way Mapi's hands have stopped reaching for her under the blanket. In the way her voice softens when she walks into a room that you're already in.

But now it’s written in her posture.

In the way Mapi leans toward you without even meaning to.

In the way her whole body orients itself like you're gravity.

She watches her girlfriend—not watching her at all.

Watches her instead fall apart in quiet glances toward the girl trying her hardest not to exist.

And it breaks something in Ingrid that she’s been holding together with both hands.

Because this isn’t a crush.

This isn’t doubt.

This isn’t something they can talk through over tea and compromise.

It’s you.

And it’s real.

Training ends.

Players begin peeling off the pitch in waves, sweat-slicked and half-laughing, heads thrown back. Mapi stays behind a few seconds longer, crouching down to retie her boots—anything to delay what she knows is coming.

But Ingrid waits.

She’s quiet the whole walk to the locker room.

Waits until they’re alone.

The door clicks shut. The sounds of laughter fade behind walls. And Ingrid stands in the center of the room, arms at her sides, spine straight.

And then, calmly—too calmly—she asks:

“Are you in love with her?”

Mapi freezes.

The question is soft. Almost casual. Like it costs nothing to ask. But it lands like a hammer.

Her heart stutters. Her breath stings her throat.

“Ingrid—”

“Don’t lie,” Ingrid cuts in gently. Not angry. Just… tired.

Mapi’s head bows. Her hands tremble where they hang by her sides. She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t need to.

Ingrid exhales a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. More like disbelief wrapped in pain. “It’s her, isn’t it? The girl on media. The one you pretend not to see.”

Mapi’s throat tightens. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” Ingrid interrupts. “But that doesn’t matter.”

Silence drops between them like a curtain.

“I loved you, Mapi,” Ingrid says. Her voice is shaking now. Not loud. Just breaking. “And you loved me, too. But lately it’s felt like I’m standing in front of you and you’re looking past me—through me—trying to find something else.”

Mapi presses her lips together. She can feel tears threatening behind her eyes.

Ingrid steps forward, hands trembling. “Do you even realize how often you look at her?”

Mapi stays still.

“Every time she’s in the room,” Ingrid whispers. “Even when she’s across the pitch. Even when she’s not saying a word. You look at her like…” She trails off.

“Like what?” Mapi whispers, almost afraid to ask.

Ingrid blinks. “Like you don’t know how to exist without her.”

Mapi turns her face away. One tear escapes, and she doesn’t bother wiping it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice hollow. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Ingrid says. Her voice is heartbreak wrapped in kindness. “But you’re not mine anymore.”

Mapi wants to argue. To say she’s still here. That she hasn’t gone. But she knows it wouldn’t be true. Because her heart has already left the room. And it’s following someone else.

Mapi doesn’t go home after training.

She doesn’t answer her phone either—not when Ingrid’s name flashes across the screen for the third time, not when a teammate texts asking if she’s okay. She drives. Not toward anything specific. Just away.

Away from the weight of the locker room.

Away from the look in Ingrid’s eyes.

Away from the moment that shattered everything she thought she’d been holding together.

When she finally pulls over, it’s in some empty side street, quiet and tree-lined, the kind that’s barely lit. The car hums around her. Her hands stay on the wheel, knuckles white, breath shaking.

She lets her forehead drop against the leather.

She doesn’t cry. Not yet.

She just… breaks quietly.

Because she hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.

She didn’t mean to hurt Ingrid. She didn’t mean to fall for someone else. She didn’t mean for your face to take root in the softest part of her chest and refuse to let go.

But it did.

And now there’s no going back.

She’s already lost something. Let go of someone. Broken something sacred.

And still, her hands are steady when she turns the car around.

The city is dark as she drives. Familiar streets blur past her window, but she doesn’t see them. She only sees your face. The way you looked in the tunnel. The way you never looked at her again.

She thinks of how quiet you’ve been.

How careful.

How much you’ve held in.

And still, you’ve never turned away from her as completely as she deserved.

She pulls into the back lot of the training facility, the one staff use when they stay late. Her stomach churns when she kills the engine. For the first time in days, she doesn’t hesitate.

She needs to see you.

Not tomorrow. Not later.

Now.

The building is mostly dark.

Just one strip of lights on, leading to the media wing. She follows them.

Her boots echo down the hall. It’s the only sound in the whole place—until she rounds the corner and sees you.

You’re at your desk, bathed in the blue light of your monitor. Shoulders hunched. Still in that hoodie. Still tucked small like you’re trying to disappear.

You don’t hear her at first.

She watches you for a second—just a second. Breath caught in her throat.

And then she knocks once, softly, against the doorframe.

You turn.

The moment your eyes meet, your expression crumbles.

You don’t speak.

Neither does she.

She takes a slow step into the room.

You sit up straighter. “Mapi?”

Her voice is soft. “Can I come in?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She shuts the door behind her. Doesn’t lock it. But the world outside disappears anyway.

[moralityandmusings]

DP x DC: Faster than Life, Part 2

Part 1

"Guys? I think we've got a situation?"

Barry wasn't sure what to make of the kid in front of him. He couldn't be older than 15 and he was glowing(?), which Barry knows, for sure, is not typical. The kid is also bleeding what appears to be green blood and he is definitely injured.

It was Cisco who replied first.

"What's going on Barry? I'm getting weird readings from the park you're at. They almost look like-" "Like the speed force readings? Yeah, definitely at least part of what's going on somehow. I've got a kid, possible metahuman, he's definitely injured and he just got dumped here by a Time Wraith." Barry started inching closer to the kid.

The kid didn't acknowledge his approach. Barry did a once over as he got nearer and noticed that the kid was still having trouble breathing. His arms were wrapped around his chest and torso in a protective stance, but Barry couldn't deny the kid looked like he'd probably collapse at any moment.

"Did you say a kid?" Ah, there was Caitlin finally. "Yep. Teenager, 15 at most. He's hurt, needs medical. I'm approaching now." "Barry if he's an unknown and a meta maybe you should wait for one of us to get to you. If he's injured he could lash out." Caitlin warned with a sense of urgency. "He's a hurt kid, guys. I'm not going to sit and wait while he possibly bleeds out in front of me. Prep the med bay, I'm going to try and bring him in." Barry finally got within reaching distance of the kid, crouching down so he wasn't hovering over the trembling body. "Hey kid, you alright?" Barry quietly called out. The boy froze. "Hey, hey, hey, it's alright. My name is Barry. You look like you could use some help right about now. I've got a couple friends who are super smart and can help get you patched up. What do you say?"

Barry slowly reached a hand about halfway between the two of them. He angled himself so that his posture was still friendly and open, but he would have an easier time catching the kid if he did pass out. "I promise, I just want to help you." Barry smiled. "Let me help you, kid." There was a moment of silence between them. Barry was beginning to wonder if the kid had dissociated or lost consciousness but remained upright somehow.

He was about to speak again when the kids head suddenly shot up.

Barry's gaze was met by wide, terrified, luminescent green eyes on a face much too young for this kind of clear terror and trauma. The kid was panicking, and a panicked meta is a potentially dangerous one even with the best of intentions. "Hey, whoa kid. It's alright. I swear I just want to help-"

The kid's head snapped around, eyes seeming to take in his surroundings, and Barry watched as his panic seemed to grow and grow the more he saw around him.

"Kid? Please, you need medical attention. Let me get you help. Please?" The head of shocking white hair that seemed to almost defy gravity and those glowing green eyes raced back to Barry in an instant. Barry held his breath, hoping he'd finally broken through to the kid who was now sitting in a puddle of steadily growing green. And without warning, the kid vanished.

[mistyshane30]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 20)

Synopsis: You wait. You hope. And when nothing comes, you try again. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

Word count: 4K

Warnings: Angst, Mild language

You land in Washington. It’s colder here. 

The sky is grey, the city moves quickly around you, but your mind is slow. Numb, but determined. You watch the blur of cars, of coats and briefcases and umbrellas, from the back of your car, forehead leaning lightly against the cold window. 

You don’t go to her. Not yet. 

Instead, you check into a quiet hotel—expensive, discreet, the kind of place where no one asks questions unless you want them to. The receptionist recognizes your name when you give it, eyes flickering with something like recognition, but she doesn’t say anything. You’re just another guest. Another important person passing through. 

The suite is spacious, sterile, elegant. You close the door behind you and it’s like entering a vacuum. Silence wraps around you. A kind of stillness that only makes your pulse feel louder. 

You unpack slowly. Deliberately. There’s not much—just the essentials. Clothes you didn’t think too hard about. A few files. Your tablet. Lip balm. The watch you haven’t worn in months. 

You fold your blazer over the back of the chair. Lay your phone face-down on the bedside table. It buzzes once—an email, maybe—but you don’t look. 

Then you stand by the window. For too long. 

The city stretches beneath you in lights and motion. From this height, people look like moving shadows. Distant. Unreachable. You rest your fingertips on the glass, tracing nothing. Your reflection stares back at you—tired eyes, tight jaw, a woman trying to look like she’s got it together. 

You rehearse what you might say. Over and over. 

You mouth it to the window: “I was wrong.” 

Or maybe: “I know you don’t owe me anything.” 

Or maybe just: “Agatha.” 

But none of it sounds right. It all falls flat against the glass. 

You drink tea instead of whiskey. For once. It’s chamomile. You don’t even like chamomile. But it’s supposed to calm your nerves, and you’re desperate for something to help. You sit on the edge of the bed, mug cupped in your hands, eyes fixed on nothing. 

The clock ticks. 

You go to bed early—but you don’t sleep. 

You lie there, eyes open in the dark, sheets cool and unfamiliar. You count the hours. You replay the last time you saw her, the last time you touched her, the look on her face when she said your name. It’s a loop you can’t break out of. 

At some point, you turn your phone over, just to check. Just to see. No messages. You wonder if she’d care you’re here. 

Eventually, you drift into something close to sleep—thin and restless, more like hovering on the edge of consciousness than resting. Every creak in the hallway outside startles you. Every dream that threatens to start drags you straight back to waking. 

You wake up early. 

It’s still dark when you open your eyes. You lie there for a moment, listening to the hum of the city outside the window. Your body is heavy, but your mind is already racing. You breathe in deeply—slow, deliberate—and then you push yourself up. 

You go through your usual morning routine, even though nothing about today feels ordinary. 

You shower longer than you need to. Brush your teeth with shaking hands. Your reflection in the mirror looks steadier than you feel. You pick out your clothes with intention. It’s something clean, composed, neutral. 

A dark coat. Simple heels. Your watch. 

You tie your hair back with care. Spritz your perfume lightly. You stare at yourself one last time before leaving the room. One deep breath. Then another. 

You call your driver to get the car ready, like always. But you already know—you won’t be needing him today. 

When you reach the main entrance of the hotel, your driver is there, waiting. He sees you coming and holds out your keys without a word. You take them with a small nod of thanks, curling your fingers around the familiar metal. 

The steering wheel feels foreign beneath your hands. You rarely drive yourself anymore. But this—this is something you need to do on your own. 

The streets blur past as you drive. You barely notice the traffic, the lights, the horns. All you can hear is your own heart, stammering hard in your chest like it’s trying to break free. You clench the wheel tighter. 

The closer you get, the more your breath shortens. 

When you finally reach the building—her building—it looms before you, glass and steel, cold and sharp. You sit in the car for a second, just breathing. Then you force yourself out and walk toward the entrance. 

Inside, it’s bright and sterile. You cross the lobby, head high despite the heaviness pressing into your chest. At the front desk, the receptionist looks up as you approach. 

“I’m here to see Governor Harkness,” you say. 

You don’t offer your name. You don’t have to. 

Her eyes flick to your face, and that’s all it takes. 

She straightens slightly. You see the moment it clicks—recognition settling into something cooler, something laced with unspoken awareness. Your name doesn’t need to pass your lips. She already knows who you are. Everyone here probably does. 

Still, she keeps her voice neutral. “Do you have an appointment?” 

You shake your head. “No.” 

There’s the briefest pause. Then she picks up the phone, her tone low, professional, careful. She says a few things you can’t quite catch, glancing at you just once more. 

She hangs up. “Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.” 

You nod once, quietly, and take a seat in one of the sleek chairs nearby. 

The room moves around you—people coming and going, shoes tapping against the floor, elevators chiming open and closed. But your world narrows. 

Minutes pass. Then— 

“Miss Y/L/N?” 

You look up. 

Billy. 

You recognize him instantly, even though it’s been years. A little older now. A little more refined. Still carries himself with the same calm professionalism he always had. He’s been Agatha’s assistant for nearly a decade now. 

You stand as he approaches. 

“Hey,” you say, offering a small, tentative smile. “Billy, right? Is Agatha here? Is she at a m—” 

He cuts you off gently. “Yes, Miss Y/L/N. Governor Harkness is in a meeting right now.” 

Your smile falters. You nod, trying to hide the sting of it. “Right… of course.” 

You take a breath, then glance around. “I’ll just wait here. In the lobby. It’s fine.” 

He hesitates—just for a second. But he nods. “Alright. I’ll let her know.” 

“Thanks, Billy,” you say softly. 

“Do you need anything?” he asks, eyes kind. 

You shake your head. “No. I’m good.” 

He gives you a small smile—sympathetic, maybe. Then excuses himself, disappearing behind the doors you’re not allowed through. 

And just like that, you’re left alone again. 

Waiting. 

The lobby buzzes on around you, a constant rhythm of shoes and soft murmurs, elevator dings and keycard swipes. Hours pass like clouds drifting over a sealed sky. People come and go. Her name is never mentioned. 

You check the time. It’s past noon. 

Still nothing. 

Maybe she’s still in the meeting. You know how politics works—tight schedules, long discussions, unexpected delays. You tell yourself that. 

You stay. 

Eventually, you order food online—nothing fancy. A sandwich. A bottle of sparkling water. The delivery arrives, and you eat it quietly, still seated in the same spot. You watch the door. You keep glancing toward the elevator. 

It’s afternoon now. 

Still no Agatha. 

Your fingers drum softly on the armrest. You tell yourself it’s okay. She’s busy. She’s always been busy. This is nothing new. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean she’s avoiding you. 

Right? 

The sun lowers in the sky, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The light outside turns golden, then amber, then blue. 

You’re still here. 

Still waiting. 

A few staff members begin packing up. Some glance your way as they leave, their expressions flickering with recognition, with curiosity. But no one approaches. No one says anything. 

You don’t leave. 

You won’t. 

You’re not giving up on her. 

Not again. 

But exhaustion creeps in slowly—beneath your skin, behind your eyes, into your bones. Eventually, it wins. 

Your body slouches a little. Your chin dips to your chest. 

You fall asleep. 

A light shake wakes you. 

“Miss?” a voice says, firm but gentle. 

You blink, your neck stiff, your heartbeat slow and heavy as you open your eyes to a security guard standing beside you. 

“I’m sorry, miss. We’re closing up for the night.” 

You sit up straight quickly, rubbing your eyes. “Right… right, I—sorry.” 

You gather yourself, stand. 

Then you ask, almost without thinking, “Did… did Governor Harkness already leave?” 

The guard gives you a strange look. “Yeah, she left hours ago. This afternoon, I think.” 

You stare at him for a moment. Then nod. 

“Okay,” you say softly. 

You don’t ask for more. You don’t say another word. 

You just walk out. 

She probably didn’t know you were here. Maybe Billy didn’t tell her. Or maybe she got caught up in back-to-back meetings. Or… maybe she just didn’t want to see you. 

You swallow that thought like a pill that sticks to the back of your throat. 

You get in your car. 

The driver’s seat is cold. 

You drive back to the hotel in silence. No music. Just the hum of the engine, and your own breath, and the ache crawling up the back of your chest. 

Today is fine, you tell yourself. 

Maybe she was just busy. 

Maybe tomorrow… maybe tomorrow will be different. 

You'll try again. 

Ever since that day, you return to her office every morning. 

It becomes a rhythm, a routine you can’t break. The walk through the lobby, the familiar glance from the receptionist, the quiet nod you give her when she asks if you have an appointment. You don’t—never do. 

“I’m here to see Governor Harkness,” you tell her, the words sounding hollow and repetitive after so many days. 

She asks you to wait, as usual. And so you do. 

You wait. Patiently. Quietly. In the same spot. No demands, no protests. Just waiting. There’s a weight to it now—heavier than before. But somehow, it feels necessary. 

Each day, you bring something for Agatha. 

Azaleas. Her favorite flowers. A bouquet, fresh and vibrant, with a little handwritten note tucked inside. Coffee, always a perfect brew, just the way she liked it. Sometimes, lunch—something simple, but enough to show you’re thinking of her. 

The note is always short—just a few words, something sincere, but carefully crafted to leave her space, not overwhelm her. 

“Take care of yourself today.” 

“I hope you ate lunch.”

“Still thinking of you." 

“Still here.” 

And every time, you hand it off to Billy. 

You don’t need to say much—he doesn’t ask anymore. He just takes the flowers, the coffee, the lunch. He stops offering excuses. Doesn’t tell you she’s in a meeting. He just nods, quietly, like it’s a routine now. A ritual you both know too well. 

Billy’s pitying looks become harder to ignore. 

The staff at the building grows accustomed to your presence. It starts with the receptionist, who offers a small, polite smile each time. Then, the janitors—brief exchanges, little pleasantries as they go about their work. Sometimes you talk with the security guards on your way in or out, their voices casual, friendly, as if this is all normal. 

They don’t ask too many questions. You tell them that you and Agatha were once very close—good friends, and that you’d made a terrible mistake. You’re here now, trying to restore what you once had. They nod in understanding, of course. They buy it. 

They don't know the truth. 

But you suspect they’ve started whispering when you're not around. 

“Governor Harkness’s old friend is back,” you overhear, once, when you pass the break room. 

“She’s been waiting again today. Since 8 am,” another voice adds quietly. 

You don’t say anything. You just keep walking. 

They don’t know. Or maybe they do. 

But no one dares say it out loud. Not to you. Not to anyone. 

You return, day after day, hour after hour. 

You come in. Sit. Wait. Leave. 

She’s always “in a meeting,” “off-site,” “unavailable.” 

You’ve stopped asking why. 

You don’t even care how long this will take. You endured seventeen years loving her in silence—what’s a few more days? Weeks? Months? You’ve already survived the ache of wanting her without ever having her. This is just another shape of the same pain. One you’ve learned how to carry. 

But still—one morning, you try again. This time, official. 

You request a formal meeting through her secretary. 

She glances at her screen. “You’re penciled in,” she says, with a faint, polite smile. 

You know what that means. 

Still, you nod. 

A day passes. Then another. The meeting is “bumped,” then “rescheduled,” then dropped altogether. 

It’s humiliating—but you don’t stop. 

Eventually, you buy a small apartment near the Capitol—quiet, simple. Unassuming. A place to wait, and cook, and sleep poorly in. You walk the streets, even when it’s freezing. You eat alone. You read, but your mind wanders. 

And every night, before sleep, you sit at the desk in your apartment and write. 

 A new letter. A new page. A new version of everything you never got to say. 

You fold each one, date it, and slide it into a box you keep on your nightstand. 

You don’t know if you’ll ever give them to her. Maybe one day. Maybe never. 

But it helps, somehow. 

Because even if she never reads a word—you’re still trying. 

Even when it hurts. Even when hope feels like a slow poison. 

One day, you wake up and lie still in bed, staring at the ceiling, but not really seeing it. The weight of the morning presses on you, heavier than it should. Your limbs feel like lead, and you can’t remember the last time you woke up feeling rested. It’s like your body is refusing to move, refusing to let go of the exhaustion from everything—waiting, hoping, trying. 

Minutes stretch, long enough to feel like hours. Your mind buzzes, but it’s distant. Your heart, too, distant but still beating with the same persistent ache. 

You don’t move. You just lie there. 

Something inside you feels different. Maybe it’s just the tiredness catching up to you. Maybe it’s the hollow ache in your chest, the kind you can’t shake, the kind that makes everything else seem… irrelevant. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep hoping like this, like she’s going to turn around one day and say yes. 

So, you sit up. Slowly, unwillingly. Because hope has embedded itself so deep in your bones that even exhaustion can’t pry it out. 

You move through your morning routine like you’re underwater. 

You shower, standing still as the water hits your back. You don’t bother rushing. You just stay there, letting the warmth press into your skin, trying to soften the weight you’ve been carrying. 

You wash your hair. Moisturize. Brush your teeth. You still do everything—methodical, careful. You dress in clean clothes, something quiet and soft in color, like you're trying not to offend the world by being present. 

You make coffee, though you hardly taste it anymore. 

Egg and Toast. No appetite. But you eat. 

You brush your hair neatly, fix your collar, glance in the mirror—not to admire yourself, but to make sure you look okay. Like someone she might be able to stand looking at, if today is the day she finally does. 

And then you sit by the window again. Like always. 

Your fingers curl around the mug. Your eyes follow the people on the street below. 

There’s something strange in your chest. Not heavy. Not light either. 

Just… still. 

You think about how long it’s been. 

Weeks. 

Every day, you went to her office. Every day, you waited. 

And every day, you were turned away—politely, professionally. 

But always turned away. 

Still, you showed up. With flowers. Coffee. Notes you scribbled on thick paper, each one carefully worded and folded like something sacred. 

You were trying. Genuinely trying. 

And now? 

Now you know this isn't working. 

She’s not ready to see you. Or maybe she’s decided she never will be. 

You let that truth settle inside you like a stone. 

You stare into your mug. The coffee’s gone cold. 

You leave it on the table. 

You don’t grab the usual bouquet on your way out. 

No coffee run. No box of pastries. No notes tucked. 

You don’t bring anything with you this time. 

Just you. 

You drive without music. No GPS. You don’t need it. 

You’ve only been to her house once—years ago, for the baptism of her first child. A soft, chaotic day with too many guests and not enough chairs. You weren’t even close to her then. You were just part of the circle. 

But you remember. 

You remember how the gate looked in the golden afternoon light. How the front porch was framed with potted herbs. How the breeze carried lavender and rosemary through the air. 

You park a little ways down the street, near the old tree that still has those brittle wind chimes on it. 

You don’t rush toward the gate. You walk slowly, your coat drawn close to your body, your fingers trembling slightly inside your pockets. The sky is pale. Cold. And your breath fogs in front of you. 

You stand there, alone in front of her gate, and you stare at the small silver button on the intercom. 

Then—you press it. 

The chime rings out, soft and clear. And after a long moment, her voice comes through: 

“This is the Harkness residence. How may I—” 

“Agatha.” 

You cut her off before you even realize you’re doing it. 

Just her name, spoken like a prayer. Quiet. Shaky. Needing. 

Silence. 

No static. No reply. Just stillness on her end. 

You glance up toward the small camera nestled near the gate. Maybe she can see you. 

So you let her. 

You lift your chin and look into it, into her. 

“I’ll never stop,” you say, soft but steady. “I’ll do anything, just for you to forgive me.” 

Still, nothing from her. 

So you keep talking, like the words themselves might build a bridge through the silence. 

“I read them,” you say. “All those messages. All those things you tried to say to me when I shut down. When I ran.” 

You pause. Swallow the weight in your throat. 

“I should’ve answered. I should’ve listened. I didn’t. That’s on me.” 

Your voice shakes. You let it. You don’t hide from her anymore. 

“I love you, Agatha.” 

You say it clearly, simply. Not desperate. Not begging. Just… true. 

“I always have. I just—I didn’t know how to let you see it without ruining everything. And then I ruined it anyway.” 

A shaky breath. 

“I’m not even asking for now. I’m just asking… give me a chance. A real one. To make it right. To show you I’m not the person I was when I hurt you. I’m still learning. I’m trying. I never stopped trying.” 

You wait. 

The air is quiet. Heavy. 

A bird chirps somewhere far away. A dog barks down the street. 

But from Agatha—there’s still only silence. 

No click of the gate. No rustle of her voice. 

You don’t cry. Not this time. You’re past that now. This ache is deeper than tears. This ache has lived in you too long. 

So you just stay there. 

Still. Open. Waiting. 

Because if there’s one thing you know how to do—it’s wait for her. 

Even if she never opens the gate. 

Even if she never says a word. 

You’ll still be standing there. 

Because you meant it. 

You’re not done trying. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there. 

Your legs ache. The wind has turned colder. 

And just when you start to think she really won’t come out—not today, not ever— 

The front door opens. 

Your breath catches like a thread pulled tight. 

And there she is. 

Agatha. 

She steps out onto the porch like she’s unsure, like she didn’t plan to. Her hair’s pulled back, her coat wrapped tightly around her body. From this distance, you can’t see her expression. 

But you don’t need to. 

You feel it. 

Every step she takes toward you feels like the world shrinking down to this one, fragile moment. 

Your hands are trembling. Your heart slams hard against your ribs. 

Your eyes burn, but you don’t let the tears fall—not yet. 

Not when she’s this close. 

And then… she’s there. 

She opens the side gate slowly. It creaks like it hasn’t been used in a long time. 

And now she’s standing in front of you, closer than she’s been in weeks. 

Close enough to touch, but still a universe away. 

She doesn’t meet your eyes. 

God, that hurts more than anything. 

She clears her throat, like she’s trying to steady herself. And then— 

“Did you…” 

A pause. Her voice is brittle. Fragile. 

“Did you really mean all of that?” 

You nod once. Your voice is soft, but it doesn’t shake. 

“Yes.” 

She finally looks at you—just briefly—and then away again. Her arms are crossed, defensive. Still guarded. 

“What about Rio?” 

You exhale, the truth already aching in your chest. 

“I broke up with her,” you say. “I should’ve done it earlier. I was—” 

You pause, shaking your head. 

“She was good to me. She really was. Better than I deserved. And I was selfish. I was so fucking selfish. I kept thinking maybe I could… be better, for her. But the truth is—” 

You look at Agatha. You want her to hear this. 

“The one I’ve always loved… is standing in front of me right now.” 

That silence returns again. Thick. Dense. 

“I used Rio,” you continue, the words tasting bitter. “And that makes me a dick. A coward. I didn’t want to be alone, and she made things feel easier. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I did anyway. And I hate myself for it.” 

Agatha’s eyes finally lift to yours. Her mouth pulls into a tight line. 

“You are a dick,” she says. “For that. And for… all of this.” 

There’s no humor in her tone. No sharp sarcasm. 

Just truth. 

You nod. You deserve that. 

And then she looks away again. Her gaze goes distant, unreadable. 

“Are you really ready to prove yourself?” 

Her voice is low. Tired. Worn down by hope and hurt. 

You answer without hesitation. 

“Yes. Whatever it takes. I mean it.” 

There’s a shift in her expression. Barely noticeable—but it’s there. Her walls don’t drop, but… something flickers behind her eyes. 

And then she really looks at you. Not a glance. Not a scan. 

She sees you. Takes you in. 

Like she’s trying to decide if she can believe you. 

Like part of her already does. 

She just nods. 

“Okay.” 

Just that. One word. 

And then she turns and walks back through the gate. 

She doesn’t slam it. She doesn’t say anything else. 

She just closes it behind her. Locks it. 

And walks back inside. 

Leaving you there. 

Alone. 

But not the same kind of alone you were yesterday. 

You stare at the closed gate, the word echoing in your mind. 

Okay. 

It’s nothing. 

It’s everything. 

It’s a beginning. 

You turn and head back to your car. Your chest feels too full. 

Your fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel as you sit in the driver’s seat, frozen. 

And then it hits you. 

The tears spill out before you even realize they’ve formed. 

You cry—not just because you’re hurt, not just because you’ve missed her. 

You cry because after weeks of silence, she spoke to you. 

Because after everything, she didn’t turn you away. 

Because okay… 

God, okay means there’s still a chance. 

You wipe your face with your sleeve, breathing in sharp, shaky gasps. 

And somewhere inside you, buried beneath the guilt and grief and longing… 

Hope sparks again. 

You’re going to get her back. 

You have to. 

No matter what it takes. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @darlingaura

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

———————————————————————————

Masterlist

Chapter three: Laugh Track

———————————————————————————

By the fifth pub, Y/N’s voice is starting to slur at the edges.

Not dramatically—just enough to notice it herself. Her cheeks are warm, her thoughts a little looser than they were two hours ago. She's riding that golden middle ground between anxiety and abandon, the space where self-consciousness starts to soften around the edges.

She doesn’t quite trust it, but she’s letting herself sit in it for now.

ArthurTV is waving a receipt like a victory flag. “Ten pubs is a scam,” he announces to no one. “It’s just capitalism in a different hat.”

“Mate,” Bach replies, gesturing at him with a chip, “you just spent thirty quid on nachos and a single pint.”

“It came with extra guac,” Arthur says, affronted.

Y/N snorts into her drink.

She doesn’t remember the last time she laughed this much with people she barely knows. Her default setting has always been cautious—a little held back, always scanning the room, looking for cues on when to speak and when to disappear. But today, dressed like a walking punchline and surrounded by people who don’t seem to care about how they’re perceived, it almost feels... safe.

“Okay,” Bach says, peering at the bingo list again. “We still need to: swap shoes, skull a pint on the street, and get a stranger to sing to us. Oh and swim? Even though we did but it was for a bonus point?”

“Who made this list?” Y/N asks, squinting at the chaotic scrawl. “Are they okay? Mentally?”

“Chris,” ArthurTV answers, deadpan. “So, no.”

“Explains a lot,” she mutters. “It’s giving energy drink and repressed trauma.”

Bach grins. “It’s giving ‘second breakfast is the only joy I have left.’”

“Yeah,” Arthur adds. “It’s very ‘Frodo, but with a YouTube channel.’”

Y/N laughs, sharp and surprised. “Are we just bullying Chris for being short now?”

“Not short,” Bach says solemnly. “Hobbit-sized.”

They dissolve into laughter again, loud enough that a guy at a nearby table gives them a look.

By the time they reach the sixth pub of the afternoon, they’re starting to feel the buzz settling deep into their bones. The city around them seems blurrier, friendlier. A drunker London, Y/N thinks, is a slightly more magical one.

They’re halfway through convincing a guy in a Tottenham jersey to sing Bohemian Rhapsody when her phone buzzes again.

Chris

> Tell Bach his big nose is getting in the way of our win

> Also we’re at pub 6. Suck it.

Y/N shows the message to Bach without saying a word.

“Tell Chris I said I hope Sauron wins,” Bach says immediately.

Arthur nods. “Tell him to enjoy his pints in the Shire.”

She grins as she types. Being the group’s designated roaster-by-proxy wasn’t on her bingo list for today, but she’s not mad about it.

Then she sees him again.

George.

Across the street this time, stepping out of a corner shop with Arthur Hill. They’ve got plastic bags in hand and smiles that look way too relaxed for a competition. George spots her first, raising a hand in casual greeting.

She returns it—awkwardly. Her stomach does a weird little somersault.

She hates how aware she is of him. Like her body’s antennae pick up on him before her brain does. It’s not helpful. He hasn’t even done anything new. Just exists nearby, and her pulse decides to act out.

“Earth to Y/N,” ArthurTV says, waving a hand. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she says quickly. “Zoned out for a sec.”

She doesn’t explain what she was zoning out about. No one needs to know she’s mentally editing the way George said Nice shirt earlier like it’s an embarrassing voice note she can’t delete.

Eventually, they do manage to get a stranger to sing for them—badly, loudly, and completely off-key. Bach gives him a standing ovation like he’s just watched Les Mis.

Challenge complete.

By the time they reach pub seven, Y/N’s voice is scratchier and her legs are sore, but the warmth hasn’t left her chest. She feels... light. Like she’s slowly unhooking from the weight she didn’t realize she walked in with.

They wedge themselves into a booth again, chips in the center, drinks in hand. ArthurTV offers her a sip of something that tastes like battery acid. She politely declines.

Then George shows up again.

Of course he does.

He wanders in like he’s not part of a competing team but just happened to find them. Pint in one hand, smirk in place, like the universe told him she was finally starting to relax and he took it personally.

“Thought you guys might be in here,” he says casually.

“Or you were stalking us,” Bach offers.

George ignores him and looks straight at Y/N. “You surviving?”

“Just about,” she says, shrugging. “Haven’t been hit by a car yet, so I’m counting it as a win.”

He chuckles. “Low bar. I respect it.”

He leans against the edge of the booth, not sitting—just hovering in her space enough to make it feel deliberate.

“You’ve got something on your shirt,” he says, motioning vaguely toward her chest.

She instinctively glances down.

“Just kidding,” he says, already grinning. “Wanted to see if you’d fall for it.”

She groans. “You are the worst”

“Pretty sure you love it.”

She rolls her eyes but her mouth betrays her, lips tugging up into an involuntary smile.

ArthurTV watches the exchange like he’s clocking something but wisely doesn’t say a word.

George lingers for another minute, then disappears again. Back into the noise. The pub feels a little louder once he’s gone. Y/N exhales, not realizing she was holding her breath.

Bach eyes her. “You’ve got a little George crush, don’t you?”

Y/N nearly chokes on her drink. “Absolutely not.”

“Uh-huh,” Bach says knowingly.

Arthur raises a hand. “As a neutral third party, I can confirm: you definitely do.”

She buries her face in her hands. “I hate all of you.”

But she’s smiling. And somewhere under the teasing, the embarrassment, and the buzz of too many half-pints and inside jokes, there’s something else.

Something settling.

Something starting.

———————

I’ve already written 14 parts for this story… it goes into normal life streaming together, etc after this. Let me know if you guys like it!!! It’s very slow burn soz 💛💛

Masterlist

[pez3639]

This is probably so weird, but can you do one where Luke hughes and the readers' younger sister are dating and you have to meet him for the first time

Endings and Beginnings

Luke Hughes x Reader's Sister || Quinn Hughes x Reader (kinda not rlly. the smallest inklings of it)

WC: 2.2k Words

A/N: No I actually love this and had so much fun doing a lil emo piece about being an older sister. This probably isnt what you had in mind so my bad, this def focuses alot more on the older sister. BUT i feel like i should continue this, esp with the dead end i left there... maybe. Also NOT proofread.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

“Yes, I’m on my way right now,” there was a pause in the phone call as you heard your sister's shaky breath. The silence wasn't awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It was the kind that screamed hesitation, even when no words have been spoken. You let her simmer a moment before speaking up. “Hey. You’re going to cross that stage and move onto bigger and better. No more stupid 8 A.M. classes. No more forced smiles to people who talk behind your back. No more college bullshit.”

It’s a few seconds before you hear a long exhale, her quirk that always signals she's finally coming down from whatever ledge her thoughts had chased her to. “Yeah, yeah…you’re right. This is good, it’s great actually,” you continue driving, speeding actually, barely missing the pothole that you were hurtling towards. The sun glares through the windshield, illuminating the necklace that hangs from your rearview. A simple chain with a star attached to it. The sweet sentiment blinded you with a reflection of the sun before your sister's voice came to life over the phone again.

“But why does it feel like nothing's okay and everythings crashing down around me?” her voice no longer carried the anxiety that it held before, now much more quiet and watery as if her tears were collecting in her throat rather than her eyes. Its your turn to take a long exhale before reminding her of how many times she’s done this.

“Do you remember your kindergarten graduation?” you breathe out, knowing that she's hopefully slept since then, either way she lets out a huff of laughter before you continue. “You refused to crawl out of my bed that morning. You were too scared to even look at the little cap and gown. You hid under my covers and cried and cried until I held your hand and told you it would be okay. I did the same thing when you graduated middle school. I think by the time you graduated highschool you just wanted to steal my bed, but that didn’t stop me from holding your hand and telling you it was okay. And I’m doing that now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Your sister laughs at the memories of you two. That’s how it’s always been. The two of you. The two year age difference didn’t matter much, at least to you it didn’t. Most of the memories you had were of you and her. The first time she called you “sissy” while waddling towards you. The late nights on the trampoline, both of you armed with sleeping bags and flashlights that never got used since both of you were far too scared of the dark trees. Her screaming ecstatically when you graduated highschool and you subsequently having to speak for her the next day when she lost her voice. And now her college graduation. Every memory, every moment in time, splattered across your consciousness like constellations. All of those stars linking the two of you together. You and her. 

You felt your eyes sting at the thoughts of the future, both of yours carrying a certain haziness that couldn’t be defined. The only thing you knew is that you would always hold her hand through it. You continue driving with misty eyes and a tight throat before she cuts the silence.

“I love you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her sincerity broke you out of reverie. Not ready to face those emotions yet, you let out a dry and humorless laugh, “You’d live. You’re too much like a rat to not survive without me.” Her laugh on the other side of the line mirrored yours before she was onto another anxious tangent. 

“Okay, so when you get to your seats there should be…” she drifted off before you heard her mumbling one, two, three, under her breath. The thought of her standing there in her graduation gown while still having to count on her fingers made you grin. She crackled back to life after a moment. “There should be seven seats.” 

“Seven? I thought it was just me, mom, and uh…” you trailed off guiltily at having forgotten her boyfriend's name. Luka…Leo…Logan? No none of those were right as you shook your head at the names that popped up. “Your boyfriend?” 

“Did you really forget his name?” she accused in a dry tone. You pressed the brakes as you took a right turn before grimacing. Shit. “Oh yeah I definitely did…sorry?” She laughed a little at your antics as you continued to try and think of names. In your defense, you’d never met the guy, no less seen a picture of him. The relationship was still a bit new, so you never pressed about it, understanding that maybe she wanted to keep it a little more hidden as they grew closer with one another.

“Oh my god I can’t believe you, and yes he’ll be there, but so will his family.”

Your eyebrows shot up at the new information, “Holy shit, does mom know?” you question, wondering if you were the last to receive this news.

“Yes because she actually reads our group chat messages”

“Whatever,” you say dryly and with an eyeroll, “Okay, I’ll get there and make sure all the seats are good. Don’t worry about it. Everything is going to go great. Now go get in line or whatever you have to do at these things.” The two of you exchanged goodbyes as you got in line for the car park and hung up the phone. The college she attended wasn’t crazy big, but it definitely had a bigger student body than the small-town highschool the both of you attended. Eventually you found a spot and pulled in. You gathered your purse, coat, and ticket into your lap before just sitting there and staring. You felt the ache in your chest begin. The ache that always accompanies growing up. 

It felt like just yesterday that the two of you were giggling and ogling over your prom date. It was just last week that you two were pulling her last baby tooth. Only a month ago you two were running through the sprinklers in the backyard. But in reality, all of that was years ago. Your mind playing a cruel trick to bring up heart-ache and nostalgia. Nostalgia for times that were long gone and never coming back.

The trees along the pathways were budding in the late spring. The blossoms would woefully float down to the ground as if they were scared to let go of their mother branch. Two living things being torn apart by the movement of time. The lively weather was rolling in, a shift from the hoppy wistfulness of spring to the slow and sweltering heat of the summer. Collecting yourself, you unzip your purse to tidy up before heading into the large chapel where commencement was held. Pulling down your mirror, a polaroid stare back at you. Your own college graduation, more rather the pre-party. You hope your sister had that. One last stand with the people she's come close to. At least for now. They may end up bridesmaids, or co-workers, or strangers. Breathing out a heavy sigh, you blot your nose with powder as you take yourself in. Older and more mature than what you were when you graduated. 

Pushing up the mirror, you begin to shift and prepare for the walk to your seat. Unbuckle, open the door, and go. It should be easy but your body drags as if your bones have been turned to lead. Of course you were excited for your sister and her future, but you couldn’t help but mourn for the times before this. Before these big life events. Before you two grow old. You shut the car door and follow the masses to the chapel. The air serves as a lifeline of breath as the old brick walls enter your eyesight. So many people have gathered here to watch and celebrate someone. Everyone here has come together to support one another. It's warming to know such a diverse and expansive group of people can come together for a cumulative reason.

Getting closer and closer, people start collecting tickets as you walk past. You hand yours over and receive a program in exchange. You continue to walk further into the warm atmosphere of the church. Finding your sister placecards, you count out seven and shoot a text to your mom. You take a seat and shed your jacket while glancing around you. There's not many decorations, just some balloons and streamers here and there. A projector screen is in the middle of the stage where pictures of the graduates scroll through. Many of them are club and sports photos, but every now and then a straggler will pop out at you. Your mother begins to walk down the row of seats and chooses the spot to your left, sitting at the end of your reserved seats, meaning you’d have to sit next to these people you've never met before.

Once settled, your mother kisses your cheek and pats your knee in a comforting way, both of you feeling the emotion of today. She begins to make small talk, half of which you’re zoned out for, only throwing in a nod and Uh-huh here and there. About ten minutes pass before a family of five begins scooting down the rows of seats. Three boys and what you’re assuming are their parents. Your mother grabs you hand as she stands, pulling you up with her. Exclaiming in excitement, she greets the older woman first before saying hello to the boys.

“Oh Ellen it’s so good to see you here! She’ll be so happy that everyone made it.” Your mother speaks around you before introducing the family to you. Ellen, Jim, Quinn, Jack, and Luke. Right, his name was Luke. You remember your sister dropping it a few times. You all sit down, with Luke sitting to your right. You try to inconspicuously look him over, but probably failing. He tall and looks lanky under his somewhat formal attire. His dress pants fit loosely around his legs but his polo wrapped around his bicep. His curls looked well maintained, something you had no doubt that your sister had a hand in. He extended his hand to you before choking out a quiet “Hi, I’m Luke.”

You raised an eyebrow a bit and felt the corner of your mouth tug at his nervousness, your older sister protectiveness dropping by a lot at the simple gesture. “Hi, it's nice to meet you Luke.” You offered your name to him before making basic small talk. He told you about his brothers while you gave stories of your sister. While you two were playing with the hose and making mud puddles, the three brothers spent their time together enjoying hockey. As he continued to talk about himself, you understood why your sister chose him. He was the youngest of his brothers and close to all of them, especially Jack. You were glad that she found a family that loves each other as much as yours does. 

Soon his brothers joined in the conversation, making you realize how different he was from your sister. She was outgoing and fun but also had a soft side. You could imagine Luke bringing it out of her more, the two of them sharing a coffee and eating dinner. You understood that the two were more than just a new couple, they truly complimented and matched each other. Luke would often find himself going red as he defended himself from his brothers chirps at him. Moreso Jacks than Quinns. Jack was a true middle sibling–  boisterous, witty, and a bit cocky. Quinn on the other hand was different from both of the boys, from his dark and tousled hair, to the scruff that adorned his jaw, and the heavier look in his eyes. You recognized that look all too well as you caught eyes and he smiled at you, making your heart flutter. You averted you eyes as people began filing onto the stage as the music began to draw in. Everyone hushed as the graduates walked down the aisles and up to the risers on the stage.

As the ceremony continued, speakers came and went. Each one following the same formula on hitting the highs and lows of college. Admin and local “celebrities” filtered to the mic before congratulating the class and sitting down. As long-winded as the ceremony was, you don't miss the way Luke jumps from his chair along with you and your mom when your sister gets called to walk the stage. Or the way he’s grinning ear to ear when he sees his family cheering just as loud as him. It brought a smile to your face. Quinn caught your eye again as you shared a knowing look.

After the ceremony, the graduates ran to their loved ones. You barely had time to brace yourself before your sister borderline launched herself into you. Shes bouncing everywhere between people, from you, to your mother, to Luke, then Quinn and Jack, before slowing down with Ellen and Jim. Everyone stands congratulating her, with Luke showing extra affection for her. Always a hand on the small of her back or interlocked with hers. Everyone continues to mingle before a head of dark hair appears in front of you.

“Hi, I’m Quinn.”

[hmhas-00]

Ch. 34

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- uuhhh ohhhh!🥲 Sorry, can’t hear y’all over my own SCREAMING because my drafts are sooo READY for you lately. I love to read all your comments and messages so much btw! 🩷😤

Billie’s POV

I opened my eyes, allowing them to adjust to the bright rays of sunlight coming in through the little window. To my right, was a passed out Remy, using my arm as a pillow, with the covers all the way up to her neck.

When I finally regained full awake consciousness, my stomach sank.

It was the morning after.

Fuck.

I was supposed to be home before 8pm last night. I promised Ellie.

I quickly, but carefully, got out of bed, cautious not to wake Remy up, and searched all over the place for my phone.

My phone was no where in sight.

I rush to grab my shoes off the floor, and my keys off the nightstand, trying not to waste any more time. I quietly close her bedroom door behind me and leave a note on her fridge, letting her know I went home, and to call me when she wakes up.

If I ever found my phone, I thought.

I immediately race back to my house, cussing myself out while speeding and weaving through cars on the highway, knowing it’s too late either way.

I pull into my garage, running inside the house, probably looking like a hot mess. The only thing I care about is apologizing to Ellie for breaking my promise.

“Ellie?” I look around, my voice echoing through the halls. Not a soul in the living room, not even a sound. No one in the kitchen, no one in the backyard.

I hurry up the stairs, going straight into my room, only to see a ton of clothing items scattered all over my bed, and all over the floor.

“Babe?” I peek around the corner.

“Hey, love.” I see Ellie in the master bathroom, putting a bunch of her things in a huge, reusable bag.

She looks up at me, then back down at her stuff.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I walk in, confused about the mess.

She doesn’t reply, she just gets off the floor and closes the cabinet doors, walking over to my bed. She places the bag next to a large, open suitcase, and begins to fill it with her clothes.

“Ellie, talk to me, why are you packing all your things?” I furrow my brows, freaking out a little bit. This can’t be happening.

She ignores me, walking back and forth from different areas of my room, taking her belongings, and throwing them on the bed.

“Ellie! Stop! Talk to me, please!” I grab her arm, wanting her to just tell me what’s going on.

“I’m done. I’m not doing this with you.” She resisted my pull, “Let go of me! I’m getting my shit and I’m leaving, Billie.”

I let go of her, staring as she walks back into my closet to grab her shoes.

“Ellie, please, I know I didn’t come home in time, but I can explain, just let me tell you-“

She cut me off, turning to face me. “You weren’t just late, Billie, you fucking stayed the night! It’s 10 in the morning!”

“I know, I fell asleep— I swear, I didn’t mean to!”

“Yeah, right.” She scoffs, throwing more things in the suitcase, not bothering to fold any of the clothes before shoving them wherever they fit.

“What do you think happened?” I follow her around.

“If you think I’m really that stupid—“

“Ellie, I swear to you, we just lost track of time! She was completely breaking down, and I just wanted to—“

“You wanted to what? Make her feel better? Take care of her?” She looked furious, her eyes darker than usual, and her brows arched. I can tell she wants to say more, but being hurtful isn’t her style.

“I was comforting her, I was just trying to be a good friend! That’s all it was!” I follow her around as she paces the room.

“She needed me! She’s going through a lot right now, El! I couldn’t just leave her like that. I wanted to wait till she fell asleep first before—” My words came out so fast, hoping she’d believe me.

“I needed you! I’m your girlfriend! Not her!” She raised her voice. “You’re about to leave me for months and all I wanted to do was spend one day with you! Alone, without Remy!”

I ran a hand through my hair, aggressively. “Ellie, stop packing, please!” I stood by her suitcase as she continued to fetch more belongings. “I swear to you, nothing happened! She couldn’t stop crying and—“

She ignored me, picking up her speed.

“Ellie, I’m so sorry that I didn’t come home last night, like I promised. Please, baby, forgive me. It won’t ever happen again!” My heart ached. I could feel myself losing her.

“I stayed up until two o’clock in the morning for you, Billie, I waited for you! You promised me you’d be home last night!”

“I’m sorry, baby! I fucked up—“

“You have no idea how it felt, knowing you— Ugh! Knowing you slept in her bed, and I was here, making up scenarios in my head, thinking of the worst!”

I begin to take things out of her suitcase, desperate to stop her. “Baby, please, just stop packing. Let’s talk about this!”

“No! I’m fucking done, Billie! I can’t take this anymore!” She yells, yanking her clothes out of my hands.

She pointed her dainty, freshly manicured fingers at me, “I’m not going to compete with your friend, I’m just so not that type of girl!”

“Compete with— What are you talking about, Ellie!” I furrow my brows, my arms held out in bafflement, as if I didn’t cause this myself.

“Oh, fucking please, Billie.” She forced the rest of her stuff into the suitcase, struggling to zip it up.

“There’s no comparison, Rem- Fuck! I mean Ellie!”

She rolled her eyes, pointing at me again, shouting, “See! There it is!”

“No— We’re literally talking about Remy right now, that’s the only reason I— God, Ellie! Just please, don’t leave! I’ll do anything! I swear, I didn’t mean to—“

“I’m done! I told you, I’m not doing this anymore!” She refused to listen, putting all of her anger towards shutting the suitcase, and pulling it off the bed, onto the ground for her to roll.

I stood in front of her, walking backwards as she pushed forward, toward the hallway. I shut my bedroom door, standing in front of it.

“Billie, get out of my way! I mean it!” She yelled.

“No.” I supplicated, my eyes fogging up my vision.

“I’m serious, move!”

“Ellie, you can’t just leave like this! We can talk about it!”

She reached for the doorknob before I could block it. I grabbed her arm, trying to keep her from opening it, pushing all of my weight into the door. I began to tear up, feeling hopeless, feeling desperate.

“You have to believe me, baby. Nothing happened! I would never do anything to hurt you!” I shouted, my chest aching.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come home, I’m sorry I didn’t call— I honestly don’t even know where my phone is and—“

She stopped, backing away from the door, taking a deep breath.

“Do you have feelings for Remy?” Her voice firm, calmer than before.

I stood still, my insides turning into ice.

“Do you, Billie?” She waited for my answer, her eyes burning holes in mine.

“No.” I lied, my heart pounding out of my chest.

She nodded her head.

I began to walk towards her, thinking she believed me. But I was wrong. God, was I so wrong.

She pulled my phone out of her back pocket. My blood ran cold, knowing exactly what this was all about.

“You lied to me.” Her voice was soft as she burst into tears.

“No, Ellie, baby—“ I panicked, sprinting into damage control mode. “Don’t cry, please.” I begged, as tears streamed out of my own eyes.

She handed me the phone. “It was still in my fanny pack after our hike. You forgot it.”

She opened it and showed me a message thread between Finneas and I, from a week ago. I told him all about Remy and I making up. We talked about my feelings for her and how they aren’t going away. About how I couldn’t stop comparing Remy and Ellie to each other. About how awful I felt, how horrible it was that I couldn’t shake those feelings.

She crossed her arms, dissolving into a puddle of tears. She stood by my bed, weeping into her hands, feeling defeated.

She knew. She wanted to see if I would lie to her.

I want to run over to her, hug her, and make her feel okay again. But, how could I do that when I’m the one who caused her so much pain.

[sevgilimsatoru]

Error: 410 (Self Aware!AU Caleb Edition) Part 8

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Summary: A self aware!AU with Caleb and NonMC! reader.

Tags: Caleb x reader, Caleb x NonMC! reader, Caleb x fem!reader, fluff, angst (slightly) Stressedout!reader. Hypersexual!reader

Word count: 1k

Inspired by: @ittybittyfanblog

A/N: Sorry for the late post, I honestly didn't feel like writing today but I think this chapter is pretty good. Atleast the first part. Hope you enjoy. Have a nice day!!

"I don't care where paradise is. The person who'll accompany me to that place is what matters."

"- Caleb, Love and Deepspace."

As days passed, a sense of familiarity had been built between you and Caleb. From the morning of your days to the end of his nights, you were a part of each other's lives.

It was little things—greetings of good morning" and good night. Joking around when you made breakfast. He'd listen to you when you'd tell him about your life, and in return he'd tell you about his day and his work without fear since you already knew more than enough.

Exchanging comforting words, making inside jokes, just talking, and peaceful silence when you'd eventually tire your vocal cords out. Consciously or unconsciously, it felt as if he was here most of the time.

Except for the times when you'd come back home to an empty apartment, lying down on the cold sheets— he was there in the back of your mind, always there but never close enough to touch.

At night, the cold sheets would feel like needles on your skin, wishing that you could touch him, wrap your arms around him, and soak in his warmth.

The texture of his skin, the warmth of his breath, the softness of his hair..- you wondered how it would feel against your skin. How would his hands feel against yours? Rough.. or soft? How would his perfume smell like? How his face would look asleep next to yours, breathing, alive... real.

How would it feel? To have his lips against yours, hear his laughter fill the room, not from behind a screen but sitting beside you? How would those teasing words sound to you when you'd actually be able to see him and touch him? How would the food taste when he'd make it? How would your apartment look if he were to move in, making small changes for it to become his, yours...?

It'd feel like home.

Your fingers poked Caleb's body over and over again, a pout on your face as you lay in bed, hugging a pillow close to your chest. The distance was starting to become unbearable for you.

You were sure it was the same for him too, just being able to look and not touch something you so desperately wanted to.

"Are you done, sunshine?" Caleb asked, sitting back relaxed on the leather couch. A book in his hand, using his evol to flip the pages. He didn't even bother looking up.

You sighed, clicking your tongue in frustration. "Yeah. I'm done." You said, looking at him with a dejected look on your face, yet your eyes softened when you looked at him. "How come you are always here? Don't you have important stuff to do as a colonel?"

"I do. And I'm not always here; I do my duties and make sure that I'm free by the time you can talk to me. Besides, I quite like that we usually talk throughout the day." Caleb said, simply. Giving you a lazy look of amusement, turning his head to fix his attention on the book in his hand.

You both did talk throughout the day, but it wasn't the usual way. It started when you had made a list of groceries and to-do's in your notes. When you opened the app to look through them, there was a small comment from Caleb at the end of the list.

You replied to it, and after that, it just became a habit. Leaving notes and texts for each other in your notes app.

"So..., how was your day?" You asked, not sure what you wanted to talk about yet.

"It was alright.., A subordinate of mine is getting married." Caleb said with a shrug. "She invited me to the wedding."

"Are you going to attend?"

"I'm not sure. I'll see if my schedule can be changed to fit that occasion in." Caleb muttered. "Have you been to weddings?"

"A few, yes. They are... something. Back home, we have huge weddings- you dress up from head to toe. Wear your best clothes and get glammed up. But here, the weddings are very tame, and you can outshine the bride by wearing something that's a little too glamerious so.. uh yeah."

"Well, isn't that interesting? I would love to see you dressed up for a wedding." Caleb said with a teasing smile, his gaze turning curious. "Which one do you prefer?"

"Either one is fine.., if you want something that is calm and short and sweet then these weddings are great. You don't have to spend hours getting ready if you are not the bride. But if you want something loud and chaotic and you wanna look your best, the weddings back home are good."

"Hmm.., what about you? Do you ever want to be the bride? Get married?" Caleb asked. In reply you just shrugged. "It's complicated.., you tell me first, do you wanna get married someday?" You asked.

"I did; there was someone I wanted to stay with forever when I was younger..," Caleb said. You both knew who he was talking about. It left a bitter taste in your mouth. "But I'm all grown up now so things are different. I wouldn't mind it. Now, it's your turn to answer me..." Caleb said, closing his book and turning his head to look at you with a soft smile.

Your teeth caught the skin inside your cheek, chewing on it as you shrugged hearing his words. "I just.., I don't know. Like I said, it's complicated if I want to get married or not. I want something out of myself and not to depend on someone else. I want to be in control of my own decisions and life and freedom, but it just feels like.. something that is expected of me-

"Somehow if I don't do it, I'm not.. it's like.. uh. I just feel like if I don't- I'm doing something wrong but if I do, I might not be able to handle everything that comes with a marriage." You said, a conflicted expression on your face.

"Well, it won't make you any less of a woman if you don't want to settle down or have children. It's your decision in the end.. The same people who'll urge you to do it. They will eventually turn away when you'll need help after following their words." Caleb said after thinking for a while. "Do what feels good to you. Your life is yours to live, not theirs, sunshine. If something does happen, I'll be there every step of the way."

You smiled at his words, shifting in your bed as you looked at him. "How do you always know what to say?" You asked, looking at him.

Caleb found the look on your face so adorable: you looked at him so lovingly. "Because I know you and because I love you.." He said, smirking.

"I love you too, Caleb."

Tag list: @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @aneertawrites @etsuniiru @demon-master-zero @angstylittleb1tch @mcdepressed290 @ittybittyfanblog @winwinwrites @alifyairl @huhleighna @calebsbeanpeeler @bookworrm1999 @mentaltrouble2201 @noxus123 @babyx91 @multisstuff @beomluvrr @sunnylittleapple @lunia-likes-pomegranet @imhere2dosomething @lostpsycho13

[interstellarsystem]

You Could Be Median!

We've seen some posts lately where people are saying they feel too plural to be a singlet and too singlet to be plural, or that they feel certain plural-ish ways about their kintypes... And, well, we have news for you--there's (possibly) a word for that!

See, while a lot of people see "multiple system" and "plural system" as interchangable, they actually have nuance to their meanings. And there's a third term, "median system", that might actually apply to you!

Some descriptions of the terms, for reference!

This won't be the only term list in this post, but to avoid dumping a ton of terms at the start without context, they'll show up where relevant. For now, though, here's a few.

Singlet:

The state of being one singular person/identity in one body. Synonym for non-plural.

Plural:

More than one entity, self, identity or consciousness in a single body. Simply, being more-than-one in some way. This is more of an umbrella term for multiple and median.

Multiple:

Having more than one distinct identities or people within a body.

Median:

The state of being somewhere between "singlet" and "multiple" on the plural spectrum.

Now, that's pretty vague, especially if this is a new concept to you! What does "inbetween" of multiple and singlet even really look like? The answer is, well... Anything, almost! But that's also vague and unhelpful. So...

Some examples of what being a median system could feel like...

You're like a metaphorical hydra--all part of one dragon, but there's different heads. You might feel parts of yourself arguing or thinking different thoughts, and some might be more in charge at times than others, but in the end, you're all a part of one unit anyway.

You're like a metaphorical coin--you're all one single thing, but there's different faces. Depending on what angle someone looks at you from, they could see something completely different.

You're like a gemstone cut for a ring--all one stone, but there's facets of you that reflect light just a little differently.

You speak to your subconscious, but because that subconscious is you, you feel like you're an inbetween of being just one person and two people. (This can also include things like daemonism!)

You feel like your identity itself is a shapeshifter (not in a kintype way--your identity as a whole).

You're otherkin/fictionkin/etc, and your kintypes have juuuust a little too much separation from you to feel like they're still you, but they're you enough that they're not separate people. They're not entirely distinct from you, but they're also not entirely wholly you, either. (More on this one later!)

You feel too much like a singlet to be plural, but too much like a system to be a singlet.

You age or pet regress, and feel like your regressed self is a different version of you. Sure, they're still you! But they're just different enough that they fall in a grey area of being "you" vs "not you".

You feel like "you" are, in whole, a person wearing a lot of different masks. The masks might make you act a little different, or look a little to-the-left of your normal appearance. All the masks are a part of you, as much as you're a part of them.

You feel like you sometimes have a different "filter" put over you, like a photo being digitally edited. You're still the same base thing, but sometimes there's an extra layer on top that makes you a little different.

You don't feel singlet or multiple, but feel like a secret third thing that's in any way inbetween.

You feel like you're almost a system.

Now, that's nowhere near an exhaustive list, but it's a bunch of stuff we've experienced and/or heard from others in the community. That gemstone comparison is actually common enough for the median version of the term "headmate" to be a sort of reference to how it feels!

Headmate (also alter, system member):

An entity/person that is a part of a system.

Facet:

A type of headmate that is a part of a median system.

There's also a term for identities that blur the line between "fictive" and "fictionkin", because the experience of being median while having identities that feel like fictives and fictotypes simultaneously is so common! (There's now a factbased identity term for the experience too!)

Fableing:

A type of facet in a median system that shares experiences of both fictionkin and fictives, making them an inbetween, adjacent to both experiences, or both at the same time.

Factling:

A type of facet in a median system that shares experiences of both factkin and factives, making them an inbetween, adjacent to both experiences, or both at the same time.

Otherkinity and Median Systems

In particular though, we see a lot of otherkin who say a lot of very plural-y things about their kintypes. While not everyone who says these things is 100% plural and maybe just one or two of these points to nothing plurality related at all... These are things we think are pretty good indicators you should at least consider looking into median systems, even if you've looked into being multiple before.

Your kintypes can speak or communicate to you, disagree with you or each other, or interact with things separate from you. This doesn't need to include written or spoken language, either! Sometimes internal instincts clashing can feel a lot like median facets disagreeing.

Shifting causes you to experience memory loss, amnesia, or anything similar.

Shifting causes a complete gender change, even if previously and after the shift you disagree.

Shifting causes you to act "out of character" compared to your usual self.

Shifting causes a complete sexuality change, even if previously and after the shift you disagree.

Shifting causes you to want to change your name, even if previously and after the shift you disagree.

You don't feel like you're yourself while shifted.

You get thoughts that you don't feel belong to you, and feel like they belong more to your kintype.

You don't feel too much like you are your kintype, unless you're in a shift. (Also check out fictionflickering/otherflickering!)

Your kintypes do things that you're unaware of while you're shifted.

You commonly dissociate during or before shifting.

Your kintypes change your likes and dislikes (for example, while shifted you might hate apples while when not in a shift you love them).

You'd call your kintypes headmates or you feel like they'd be classified as headmates if you had DID/OSDD (spoiler alert, you don't need those to be a system!)

Your shifts cause a full or very strong personality change--especially if other people notice.

You feel disconnected from your body or lose control of your body while shifting.

You come out of a shift and are confused, distressed, or surprised at how you acted during it.

Like I said, not all of these point toward being median if there's just one or two--but, if you have the time to look into it, I'd recommend giving it some thought!

Misc FAQs

Do I have to call myself a median system if I fit a lot of/all of this?

Nope! Your identity is yours to label, and this post isn't meant to shove people into boxes. This is simply meant to inform people of what a median system is, and let people come to informed decisions themselves.

Can you be both multiple and median?

Absolutely! There's plenty of ways this can be a thing, too. Some examples:

Multiple system with median subsystems.

Median system with multiple subsystems.

A system that fluctuates between median and multiple.

A system with a bunch of headmates who are median or multiple (regardless of subsystems).

You could be both at once, which we've seen called "mediple"!

Can you have a CDD (like DID and OSDD) and be median?

Yep! It's commonly believed that most (not all!) OSDD systems often fall under the median umbrella, even! A system of any structure or origin can also have median members within it, regardless of other parts of how it functions.

Can you choose to be median?

As with plurality in general--yes, probably! We haven't seen any guides to specifically form a median system, but we're sure it's possible. Daemonism, for example, is usually counted as a nonplural experience by their community, as daemons are "you" in another font--for lack of better phrasing. But a lot of people do consider this to be a type of median plurality in their own experiences!

Is this an endo system thing?

No. Endogenic and traumagenic systems alike can both experience median plurality, and can also be disordered or nondisordered. The term didn't even originate in endogenic-specific spaces, nor did it originate recently either. "Midcontinuum" was presented as a term in around 1996-1997, and "median" was created in 2002. Some early plural communtiy mentions of the terms:

Us and Being Median:

This was co-written by a median subsystem (Dagger of Decay) and one of said subsystem’s QPPs in-system (Shrapnel). While we don’t reflect the entirety of our experience of having median plurality within our system, we can share what we personally know of our own life in the hopes that it resonates with others in a helpful way.

Being a median subsystem to me (Dagger of Decay), feels like I’m separate sides of the same metaphorical coin. (At least, that was an accurate descriptor until I discovered more facets than just the two.) You look at this coin, and one side might have a picture of one thing on it, while the other has something completely different–but you’d be wrong if you said that this was two separate coins just because it’s different depending on how you see it or how you hold it. You’d also be wrong in saying that the coin only had one uniform side–I mean, it clearly has different pictures on each side, they’re clearly different!

The faces of the coin are the fableings that make up me as a person. If I really wanted to, I could probably label myself as one person with very strong kintype shifts, but that doesn’t feel like it covers the full scope of my identity. I can’t talk to my facets, I also can hardly ever disagree with them because we’re so close to the singlet end of the spectrum. But even still, when I’m Tomura Shigaraki, I’m not really the other facets of myself anymore–it’s like you’ve spun that coin around and they’re the ones who are face down, hidden from sight for that moment. The same is true for when any other one is in control. The coin just sort of flips itself occasionally and oops! I’m the same base guy, but in a different font. A little bit to the left maybe.

The amount of separatedness between us fluctuates–sometimes I say “I” to refer to all of me, other times we say “we”. That’s one of the more noticeable fluctuations between my facets, but there’s plenty of other things that shift and change too–how distinct we feel, how much we can disagree with each other, how much we feel connected to other identities we hold… But in the end, we’re solidly sat in the grey area between “one singular guy with no extras” and “multiple guys in one head”--and it took our system a while to get a hold of what that can mean and feel like, so I hope some people who are questioning or struggling with their identity can get a little bit of something out of this post.

For further reading:

The Dragonheart Collective's "Am I plural" guide.

Allium House's "what is the self?" essay.

Endogenic Hub's "Medians" page.

Otherkin Wiki's Plurality page (section on median plurality included).

Beepbird's "Median is More than People With Parts".

Beepbird's "For Medians: Fronting and Switching Control".

Beepbird's entire median plurality links section, honestly.

[crash-bang-boom-corp]

It took a long time for us to feel like hearing each other was like hearing 'internal voices'.

For a long, long time, we had to strain to hear each other. And for a long time after that, we still had some alters who were "too quiet" to hear, or whose voices wouldn't form if consciousness energy wasn't directed to them.

Communication, even through emotional, image based, or sound based messaging didn't happen for the longest time. We didn't communicate, that is to say. Or if we did, it was very intentional.

If you wanted to have a thought, you had to come to front and think it very intentionally. Otherwise, the running monologue of ADHD and the fog of dissociation would overtake you.

Maybe, just maybe you could hear someone who was in co-front, but that still took effort.

If you can't communicate well, at all, or you can't communicate without "forcing" it or doing so very intentionally, that's a common experience, even for CDD-type systems like us.

You're not faking it. You don't need to hear "surprising voices/thoughts" to have real alters/headmates, often that kind of thing is actively worked on in therapy.

I have a similar sentiment for headspaces.

We formed ours intentionally, we weren't just Bestowed It™ by the plurality gods, and we're honestly still working on improving our headspace to facilitate memory and amnesia control, better communication, better switches, etc.

When we enter deeper parts of headspace, we have to be very intentional about visualizing it. Though, nowadays, we can visualize the frontroom and look around without any effort. Though, that's because the frontroom is utilized for multiple purposes, like mentioned above. Renlezha and other deeper headspaces still require active meditation to get to however, and they serve a different purpose.

Headspaces and communication are two things that often require help with, especially for adaptive systems (as far as we've seen.) You're not faking being a system just because you don't have a headspace or can't hear the others. But that is something you can work on improving if you want.

[keferon]

Did you think I was done? Ahahahaha no, I have more.

Because chapter 70 of MOMU gave me the very dynamic between them that I missed so much, I just blacked out and started drawing uncontrollably lmao

Also. ALSO. I noticed a while ago that Prowl has the habit of..like…constantly frowning. So. I did a bit of research and made this graph.

In 70 chapters, Prowl frowns rougly 104 times. And the intensity of this gesture is very clearly correlated with the development of his relationship with Jazz, as you can see ahahahahah It might be wrong tho don’t take me seriously I’m not good with graphs

[orcelito]

It feels. So so so good to feel confident in my playing again.

I spent a good hour and a half yesterday working at my new bridge again (so a total of 2.5 hours of sanding) and I think I'm satisfied with it now. The sound is definitely a lot better in general, which is Wonderful!! And I put on one of my new practice mutes today, so I didn't feel quite so self conscious playing with my bow. Bc my playing both sounds better than before and wasn't as loud (due to the mute), so! Not as self conscious!!

The bow was an important thing for practicing today. Prior practices at home, I was just practicing the fingerings and plucking, but when I got to rehearsal I'd still get tripped up by the bowings. So I needed to practice the bowings for this audition video.

Playing here today... I mean I still wasn't perfect, but that's what the practice is for. But my finger agility feels like it's really coming back, nowhere Near as stiff as it was when I started out this semester, AND my bow control was actually pretty damn good!!! So even with the parts I was tripping up on, overall my sound quality was Good, and that's. Such a relief, honestly. I got so out of practice that it kinda felt *wrong* to play, bc the experience just didn't match what I'd known in the past. Too clumsy, too stiff. But after just a few weeks of consistent practice, im starting to feel like my old self again. Starting to feel like I Do have the right to call myself a violinist.

And it's a very, very good feeling.

[scalproie]

Domesticated Post-Tekken 2 Era Kazuya is my favorite to think about because this would be so good for him and everyone else but he would have an absolutely miserable time during it

[wookgerine]

Love that they take Bella with the gym with them all the time

[tetradic-echinoidea]

Allow me to expand upon this a little bit to share my thoughts:

In this party, there are thousands and thousands of people, most of them you don't know. There's also thousands of people who have brought cakes, and every single one of them will feel dejected if no one tries their cake, or if they don't get enough positive commentary from amongst the chaos of the sea of strangers wandering around, seeing what kind of cake is being offered or even themselves carrying their own cakes.

This, inherently, is not the best situation to base your worth as a baker on, or to let determine whether or not you want to keep baking cake in the future.

(Disclaimer: I'm a professional artist who has been posting art on various forums and platforms for 18 years.)

This issue is very multifaceted - there's the current social media digital infrastructure not fascilitating art or writing well. There's the lightning fast 21st century current of constant 'content' going past people every day at all hours. There's people shouting into 'the void' and wondering, why no one is answering amongst the deafening noise of all that.

It's unfortunate, especially when you see others (most of the time people who have spent years and years cultivating their craft and an audience) get the kind of engagement you want, and you're just not getting it yourself. As much as artists aren't content machines, followers and social media users aren't constant engagement machines either. Sometimes a piece, no matter how deep the meaning behind it just doesn't manage to convey it's message to the audience it's reaching. Not all art speaks to all people. To get your audience to engage with you, the art needs to engage them first. And to achieve this consistently, you need to know what kind of audience you are presenting your work to.

Bare with me for a second here: there's this concept in dog training (that I've started to use in my mental health recovery as well, highly recommend) that in order to consistently succeed you need to set the dog up for success first by putting it in situations you know it can succeed in - that is to say, if you put it in a situation that's too difficult for the dog, it will fail. You should avoid that. How does this relate to art or the topic above you might ask? Well, especially beginner artists putting their work out on social media and expecting a certain amount or type of engagement are already setting themselves up for a failure. Like I said above it's a huge gamble, where you are fighting against all other content online for attention - it is not a fight you are likely to win.

In order to set yourself up for success, you need to ask yourself what you are actually looking for when you share your work. Think about where it is realistic to get what you want, whether that be in a smaller community or platform, or a friendgroup, or with other loved ones. Find those niche communities that like that thing exactly the same way you like it, engage with them, and they will engage with you. If you have trouble getting comments in a group setting, ask people individually. Reach out to artists and ask if they would like to give a quick comment about your art - some, like me, are happy to offer commentary and feedback!

Building an audience takes a lot, a LOT of time and patience, and willingness to withstand those times where something that spoke to you just doesn't speak to others, or it's not reaching the people it would speak to. Instead of sitting still and waiting for engagement to come to you, set yourself up for success and go to the engagement. Ask people if they'd like to try your cake, or what they thought of it. Engage with other bakers and share thoughts and tips about it.

You arrived to the party, now go offer people some cake.

“Your art isn’t valued by the number of notes you get” okay but. If you spent 6 hours baking a cake for a party, but no one at the party eats your cake, it’s still disappointing.

[reignpage]

How the JJK men react to you being in a coma

Satoru is devastated

It’s a deadly silence that envelopes you as he carries you to safety, face stone cold and grip tight. Even as you’re being patched up, laid down on a hospital bed, he doesn’t say a word. Just stares and watches every bruise fade, every wound heal, and for the heaviness in your limbs to wash away. But your eyes don’t open. No one says the obvious. 

Lying on the bed with you, he cradles your head to his chest and whispers, “This is the closest to losing you I ever want to get.”

You’re practically locked away after that. He takes over your teaching duties, and he works overtime to ensure the area is as safe as can be whilst you recover, intent on making sure that when you wake up, all you have to do is make it up to him with hugs and kisses. Every curse that runs into him faces a slow and brutal death as he takes out every ounce of his pain on them. None of it is enough. No number of curses slain will bring you to consciousness. For every hour you slumber, Satoru loses sleep.

"I always knew you like to nap but this is just excessive, sweets. Leave some beauty for the rest of us, yeah?"

No one has ever seen him more serious.

"Please?"

Suguru is motivated

You weren’t supposed to get hurt. You weren’t supposed to be there at all. Finding you, lying in a puddle of your own blood send shivers of wrath coursing through his veins. It was them. Those filthy monkeys. Seeing you barely able to open your eyes is a kind of pain only non-sorcerers could cause.

As you sleep life away, he busies himself with plans, double checking everything is airtight and all will proceed as expected. He can’t let you get hurt again. He won’t let them hurt you again. “Hi, pretty girl. I’ve been gone, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

You're taken care of by Nana and Mimi and every single shaky smile they hide from him steels his resolve even further.

"Yes, I think that colour suits her well. She always did love when you painted her nails. Why don't you do mine too? We can all match."

Manoeuvring you onto his chest, he pretends you’re merely napping. He decides, there and then, he’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that the world you wake up to is one that’s safe for you, for your family, for your future.

Even if that world is devoid of him. 

Choso is panicked

He’s fussing, hands flying as he warns them to be careful of you. Every lack of sound of pain, of agony, and anguish from you makes him pull on his hair harder. You’ve always been the stronger one out of the two of you, so to see you limp, weak and silenced, sends his newfound heart racing. Even when it’s just the two of you, he runs around the house, fluffing up your pillow, getting you a glass of water, placing a warm towel on your forehead. 

“I don’t know what to do. You’re supposed to be the one who tells me what to do.”

Putting more hours sparring, he pushes his body to the limit, dedicated to getting stronger and better. He wants to protect you. To make sure you’re never in this position again. And though he’s always wanted to experience every part of being a human, grief is something he can do without. 

"I'll be fine, Yuji. Hit me harder. I can take it. No, I have to. Y/n needs me. I'm no good to her like this."

Toji is terrified

This can’t be happening again. He can’t lose someone else again. Someone so special to him, who taught him how to love again, to live and to know it’s okay to want more. "You promised you'd never put me in this position. You fucking promised."

You’re safer without him. You have people to take care of you. He'll only get in the way.

Leaving is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Every step feels like needles are pricking his feet, stabbing him in the heart somehow. He barely makes it a mile before his thoughts drift to you and stay there.

He thinks about you, weak and recovering. What if you wake up and no one’s there? Not a single family member or friend. He thinks about how you’ll croak his name, force your body up and search the house for him, limping. He imagines your legs will give up on you and you’ll fall, hurting yourself more.

The thought steals his breath and knocks him back. Rushing home, he drops his getaway bag and creeps into bed, holding you gently against him. 

“I’m here. I’m here, ma. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

Kento is ruined

His wife. His beautiful wife, losing the light in your eyes as he holds you. Gone is your smile, your warm touch and is instead replaced with shivering and shallow breaths. The noise that comes out of him is guttural and broken. "Oh, d-darling. Look at this mess. Let's get you cleaned up, alright?"

You’re alive but sleeping. And he doesn’t know when you’ll wake. It feels as if you’re floating in that space between the world of the living and the dead, and he wants to follow. 

He never leaves your side. He freshens the flower by your bedside table, keeps a tight schedule of visitors. None of them can touch you, they can’t speak too loudly and they can’t complain by your ear about their personal lives — he only wants you to be surrounded by positive energy. 

“You’ll wake up soon, won’t you, sweetheart? Yes. Yes, you will because you always take care of me. You’ll tell me off for not shaving, for not eating and for pushing everyone away, wouldn’t you?"

Maintaining your routine, he washes your face, puts on face masks, and reads aloud by your side, hoping that a particularly dramatic prose will provoke a reaction from you.

"I need my wife. I need you. What am I supposed to do without you? Won’t you open your eyes for me? For your Kento?”

Sukuna is confused

He’s in disbelief as he's ushered into the room where you rest. Everyone is in a state of disarray and for what, he has no idea. You’re merely sleeping. He pokes your cheek. “Wake up, woman. Tell these pathetic fools to stop their useless quivering.”

When you don’t, he frowns. Brows furrowing, he tilts his head and examines your body. You’re breathing and he can hear your heart beating, and yet you don’t respond to his commands.

How insolent.

Waving the peasants away, he shakes your shoulder. “Your king has given an order. Follow it immediately or face punishment”

Even once he has it explained to him, he can’t wrap his head around the concept of you sleeping indefinitely, though he’s once gone through it himself. You’re different. Better. You’re supposed to be filled with endless optimism and energy. You’re supposed to be bothering him about smiling, pulling him to the garden to look at a flower he’s seen before.

"Humans really are f-fragile creatures. Ridiculous."

Tutting, he rolls his eyes and grumbles about how you’re not even making space for him on the bed. There, lying with you, he can do nothing but slumber and wait for your soul to reignite, sparking his once more.