#its starting to get to the point that it always does

[webslingingslasher]

j!!!!! i was going through your masterlist andddddr:

“second, you still get nervous about making out with me. you're not ready for sex.”

does she ever feel rejected? like obvs he’s not rejecting her, but the constant no’s has got to get her at least once, on a day where she’s tired or down or whatever🥺

guess who’s back… back again…

‘i’m tired of you saying no, peter. i get you’re trying to be nice and ease me into it and i totally trust you and, like, isn’t that the whole point? it just feels like it’s never going to happen. why should i hang around with you when being by myself is the same thing?’

peter’s trying to find a way to let you down easily without hurting your feelings more but he doesn’t know how to. ‘cherry, all i’m doing is moving at your pace. it might seem like i’m not but i am. if you really want to take that final step, you need to initiate it. and im not talking about telling me to do it, you need to do it.’

it feels like you’ve had this conversation a million times and today, it’s getting to you. ‘but you always say that and i feel like when i try to start something, you shut it down. you claim i always get in my head but i think you’re the one who’s over thinking, not me.’

peter looks at you with raised eyebrows, like it’s a challenge. ‘what, you’re ready right now? like, this very second.’ you nod, it’s what you were trying to say. ‘to be clear, you want me to lay you down and fuck you right here, right now.’

‘yes, peter. that’s my whole point.’

peter’s chest caves with a deep inhale, you’re expecting hard boundaries and a talk therapy session. what you’re not prepared for, is peter getting out of his desk chair to stand in front of you at the edge of his bed.

‘alright. lay back.’

you blink at him wide eyed. ‘what?’ peter gestures for you to lay back, you stay frozen. ‘you said you were ready for it. so, let’s do it.’ he was supposed to say no, he was supposed to tell you why you should keep waiting and take your time, not say yes.

‘like, right now?’ peter rests his knee next to you on the bed, you scoot backwards, you don’t really recognize the look in his eyes and you’re not sure if you like it.

‘yeah, right now.’ peter takes his shirt off, you swallow tightly because your throat feels dry. ‘now yours.’ you take a second to think about it but you shed yours too. it’s not the first time you’ve been shirtless around him, not even the dozenth. but it feels different this time.

‘c’mon, scoot back. i need to be up here too, don’t i?’ you inch backwards until your head lands on his pillows, peter cages himself around you, loosely straddling your legs. without warning, he wraps his hands around the waistband of your skirt and pulls it down your thighs. the standing fan at the far end of his room coats your legs, your thighs form little pimples from the cold.

again, its not your first time in this situation, it just feels… different. peter’s not as gentle, it’s like he’s got a ‘get it done’ mindset. ‘woah, um,’ you’re cut off with a kiss. a harsh one. there was no easing into a make-out session, in one second peter had his tongue in your mouth.

you push at his shoulders for the surprise, he backs off and kisses your jaw. ‘are you excited?’ he talks against your skin between wet kisses, you suck in a breath but you’re not sure if excited is the right word. when you said you were tired of hearing no, you didn’t expect an immediate yes.

‘yeah, sure, really excited.’ you didn’t hear it in your voice but peter must’ve. all he did was hum and make his way back to your mouth. it’s not normal kisses or teasing touches, it’s not going to end at his fingers in you or his mouth where you crave him most. it’s going to end with him inside you. and that idea is… a little jarring.

your chest feels tight when he skims over you, you shift your weight underneath him, he grinds his hips into yours. your eyes pop open at the sudden appearance of his hand in your underwear, you even look down to make sure you weren’t making things up.

normally, he tells you what he’s about to do. he’ll talk slow and sweet, communicate how he’s about to touch you and where but this time it’s like you were expected to know what he was going to do.

you look unsure but peter brushes it off. ‘mhm, you must’ve really wanted this… you feel so ready.’ your breath hitches, it’s not anticipation, it’s a threat.

‘i- i do?’ even you could hear the panic this time. peter just nods against your neck. ‘yeah, i’m sorry i pushed it off for so long.’ peter rips himself away, his hands fumble with his jeans, they land somewhere behind him.

you wanted this. you need to remind yourself all you’re doing is ripping off the bandaid. you try to calm your heart rate but it’s almost impossible when peter’s boxers come off. it’s been awhile since you’ve got to play with him but your minimal experience is coming out… hesitant.

you’re unsure if you should grab him and attempt some foreplay. or maybe he’ll tell you if he wants something. but you should know what he wants, right? you shouldn’t be this anxious, you trust him. you like peter, you chose him out of everyone else, you should know if he wants you to touch him.

you try to focus on his expert fingers, his heavy weight, his skillful kisses on the crook of your neck but there’s a hard imprint against your thigh that’s never been felt before and you implode.

your eyes squeeze shut, you throw peter backwards by a hard push on his arms. ‘stop! stop, stop, stop, stop!’ you heave for air, the second peter’s halfway off the bed, you can finally breathe. you hold a hand over your racing heart, you keep a focus on his ceiling to ground yourself. it takes a couple minutes but your brain resets itself.

you’re okay, you’re still a virgin.

‘when i said i was going at your pace, i meant it, cherry. all those things i just ignored, the freezing up, the hesitant movements, your stress… those are the things i look for. i know it bothers you sometimes but i always want to stop it before we get to this point. it’s not fun for either of us, right?’

you stay quiet, you don’t like when he’s right. peter’s made the same joke serval times, how he knows you better than you know yourself and this just proved it.

‘and when those things stop, we’ll go further. scared and nervous are two different things and that wasn’t nerves, that was pure fear.’

your embarrassment comes out as anger. ‘so you forced me to stop you? you care about me so much you put me through that? what if i didn’t stop you?’ peter rests his hand on your leg, you’re brave enough to look at him. he put his boxers back on in the time it took you to settle your heart.

‘i wouldn’t have done anything you didn’t want to do. i would’ve stopped it, you know i would’ve, i’m not scared to. you should know that by now.’ he smiles at you, he feels like like an enemy now. ‘you wanted to know why i end it before it can get started, now you know.’

your eyes narrow at him. ‘don’t be a jerk.’ he shakes his head, ‘i’m not. i was trying to show you what i feel when you say you want more. sex is supposed to be fun and it’s supposed to feel good. would you have had fun or feel good if i kept going?’

you take a deep breath and mutter a no under your breath.

‘i wouldn’t have either.’ you soak in the quiet of the room, peter strains his neck to kiss your knee. ‘i’m sorry i did that to you. i just thought you’d understand it better if you went through it.’

‘well, i do now. so thanks.’ you don’t sound very thankful. ‘cherry, that’s not a bad thing. yeah, sex might sound really good in the moment but sometimes when it comes down to it, you want to back out. no harm, no foul. sometimes we just change our mind. it doesn’t make you immature or invalidate what you thought you wanted.’

‘or in other words…’ you look at him to continue. ‘horny brain isn’t your real brain. and sometimes we forget that until it gets too real.’

you remember this first time you ever tried to hook up with him, truer words have never been said. ‘that’s so real.’ peter grins wide, ‘it is, isn’t it? so, what do you say? keep doing things like we are?’

you think about it and find yourself agreeing. ‘yeah. i kind of like you stopping it, actually. then i don’t feel so bad about myself, i can just pretend it’s your problem.’

peter play gasps, ‘it’s my problem?’

you’re finally able to smile along, he never makes you feel bad. ever. ‘totally your problem. who wouldn’t want to bang me? i think you’re scared of sex.’

peter nods, ‘absolutely terrified. having sex with girls i like scares me, i always end up dating them.’ you fawn and give him shy eyes. ‘are you trying to make me your girlfriend, mr. parker?’

‘mm…’ he sounds like he’s thinking about it, you squeal when he pulls you closer to him by your legs. ‘that depends on how you answer, miss. cherry.’ you’re about to make a joke about how you could be mrs. parker instead but the words leave your mind at kisses up your right leg.

you’re scared to go through with anything real, peter’s scared to hear your answer. and until either are ready to leap into the unknown, kisses down below will distract you both.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter twenty-three, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, me not wanting to write the actual dialogue for haymitch bringing rafe n y/n in on the rebel plan LMAOOO, properly meeting katniss, lowks i havent checked the taglist yet either n im in bed uploading this so LMAO ill update the tags next time i swear

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous

it all starts again like it never ended.

rafe doesn’t say anything as you’re pulled apart from the crowd and escorted toward the suv again. his jaw is locked, expression unreadable. you used to be good at reading him, memorizing his moods like maps. but now? now you can’t tell if he’s furious or numb.

you follow the peacekeepers without struggling. it’s not like it would change anything.

they put you both into separate cars on the ride to the capitol train station like you’re strangers again. maybe that’s the point.

you don’t get to say goodbye this time. there was no room for family visits, no mother reaching for your face, no mentor telling you to smile for the cameras, but you’re pretty sure enobaria has nothing to say to you right about now

when the car gets there, you’re shuffled off quickly, straight to the platform. you board with rafe just a few paces behind you, and for a second, neither of you speaks. not until the doors slide shut.

it’s only when the hum of the engine starts beneath your feet and district two starts to slip away behind the tunnel that you allow yourself to breathe. you’re on your way back.

the compartment they give you looks exactly like you remember last year with its plush carpet, velvet-lined seats, a low table between the couches where tea is already waiting, untouched. capitol luxury hasn’t even felt luxurious in a while. just fake.

you drop onto the nearest couch, pulling your knees up to your chest. rafe drops into the one across from you.

“so,” he says after a long stretch of silence. “round two.”

you rub your forehead in frustration, “please do not joke about this right now.”

he lifts his head, surprised. not hurt, just surprised.

your head drops and you try to focus on your breathing, just collecting your thoughts but you feel him watching you.

“i wasn’t joking,” he says. his voice is softer this time. “i was just . . . trying to make it lighter.”

you don’t respond, so he shifts again, probably rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous. you don’t look at him, but you can picture it.

“what, you don’t think we’ll make it a tradition?” he says, “win every seven years now? get matching crowns?”

your heart clenches. it’s not funny. none of it is. you stay quiet, eyes fixed on your boots.

“why would you volunteer?”

you look up at him. and when you do, he’s already sitting forward, elbows on his knees now, the easy-going look gone from his face. this isn’t some casual conversation anymore. he knows it. he always did.

“why would you do that?” you ask again. your throat tightens. “you didn’t have to . . . why did you volunteer?”

rafe’s expression hardens, not in anger, but something else. he holds your gaze for a long time, then shrugs once, his voice quiet, “why didn’t enobaria?”

the question hits like a slap.

your brows knit together, confusion flashing across your face. he just watches you.

“you think i don’t know?” he asks. “you think i didn’t notice that she didn’t move when your name was called?”

you blink, stunned.

“she would’ve volunteered for you,” he says, nodding like he’s laying out a fact on the table. “we both know that. but she didn’t.”

he waits. you open your mouth but nothing comes out. your chest rises and falls quicker now.

“so either she suddenly stopped caring about you, or you told her not to.”

you can’t look at him. he can read you like a book though. his gaze burns through your skin, you can’t ignore it, even if you tried.

“yeah,” he mutters, knowing what your silence means. he leans back again. “figured.”

the silence after that is thick. it’s almost unbearable. the train speeds on and neither of you moves.

you feel guilty, maybe something more. you don’t know how you would’ve even convinced rafe that the best option is you. he would’ve just given you the exact same look he’s giving you now.

“you’re so fucking stupid,” he says suddenly.

your head jerks up. “me?” you’re taken aback at his choice of words but you know he’s only upset because you’re sending yourself to die. “you’re the one who volunteered.”

“because i wasn’t gonna let you go in alone,” he snaps back, “what did you expect?”

you stare at him, chest heaving. “you think i wanted you to?”

“no,” he says. “but i know you. and i know what you’re like when you’re alone n’ under pressure.”

your furrow your eyebrows, unmoving. “don’t say that like i’m weak.”

“you’re not,” he says firmly. “but you shut down. you get quiet. you pull everything inside and ignore it all until it fucking kills you, y/n. it’s unhealthy.”

his words knock the air from your lungs. because he’s right. and he’s always known it.

you shake your head, scooting up closer to the edge of the couch. “if you’re there just to protect me, then you’ll die. and i swear to god, if something happens to you . . .”

something flickers in his eyes like he’s thought about it. like he knows.

“i did it because i love you,” he says, and you sit back and cross your arms at him, frustrated. “and i’m not gonna sit in that district, safe and useless, while you get thrown back into that place alone. and i don’t think you should’ve went to aria about this to decide who gets to go in without telling me.”

your throat tightens. you feel terrible. of course you do.

his voice is calmer when he speaks, but it’s just to shrug it off like it’s no big deal, or like there’s nothing you guys can do about it now. “it’s you and me again, alright?” he says, eyes trained on you to make sure you understand. “i’m not leavin’ you.”

tears brim your eyes but you press them away quickly, shaking your head and looking away from him again.

“we don’t win this time,” you say. “you know that, right?”

he looks at you for a long moment. then nods.

that’s enough to wrap up this conversation for you. you can’t stand talking to him about this anymore. you reach for the remote that’s practically embedded into the arm of the couch and click a button.

the screen on the wall flickers to life. victor highlights of this mornings reaping begin playing on a loop. there’s no ceremony or lead-in. there’s just faces.

the moment finnick appears on the screen as he raises his hand after his spot is confirmed in the games. there’s a plan behind his eyes. he knows more than everyone in that town square combined.

“you think we’ll end up with district one and four?” you ask, clicking through the different districts for a brief recap of who’s going up.

he doesn’t look away from the screen. “probably. they always like the career pack. gets better ratings.”

“and if we don’t?”

rafe finally looks at you again. “then we’re outnumbered, y/n. and no one cheers for the ones who go rogue.”

“do you think the others will hate us for whatever alliances we make?”

he knows you’re talking about finnick so far. he’s still district four so that pick is safe, but you know most of these victors from what you’re seeing. there will be some that you’ll want to ally with.

you wonder if they’ll hate you if you side with people you’re actually friends with. because what if it’s not just strategy this time? what if this time, it’s personal?

rafe shrugs. “i don’t think it matters what they think. we all end up dead or famous after this still.”

the door to your train car hisses open, and cassaline steps in. she looks the same: polished, poised, but almost bored. there’s something harder in her posture, like even she doesn’t want to be here.

she clasps her hands tighter, then relaxes them, forcing a smile, “we will be arriving shortly. district two’s proximity to the capitol has its perks, i suppose.” she tries a little laugh too. “some of the other trains are still en route. districts ten and eleven are apparently delayed, and one—well, they’ve only just departed.”

you glance at rafe briefly, but he’s still staring at the table, eyes unfocused.

cassaline steps further in, gesturing as she speaks, “once we arrive, you’ll be meeting with your prep teams and stylists ahead of tonight’s tribute parade. i’m told valis and rumina have rather . . . extensive plans for you both this year.”

you shift slightly, rubbing the back of your neck as you stare down at your lap. “have you heard anything else from valis or rumina?” you ask quietly.

you don’t specify what you mean, at least not directly, but cassaline picks up on it fast. like what do they think about this? about you being reaped, about rafe.

cassaline falters, just for a second. her lashes flutter, mouth parting slightly before she presses her lips together again. her hands drop from their clasp, fingers brushing against the fabric of her skirt.

“they said,” she begins, eyes flicking between you and rafe, “that they’re just glad to be working with you again. even if it’s . . . your final year.”

rafe lowers his gaze to the floor, brows pinched. his heel taps once, then stops. you turn your head, eyes finding the wall instead of her. they care, but that only makes you feel worse.

cassaline lets out a breath. “for what it’s worth,” she swallows. her voice gets a little quieter. “i didn’t want to do this again either. not with you two.”

you finally look back at her. her hands are clasped again, but tighter this time. her shoulders aren’t quite as straight.

cassaline has a thought to herself before she starts to leave, “i’ll leave you to prepare.”

but before she goes, she pauses by the door.

she lingers there like she forgot something, except you know she didn’t. her gaze drops to the floor for a beat, then lifts to somewhere just past your shoulders. she hesitates. her mouth opens, then closes again. something’s off.

then she says, quietly, “but first, you have a surprise visit.”

you keep your eye on her as rafe sits up straighter. cassaline doesn’t even get a chance to glance back before the footsteps sound behind her.

haymitch abernathy steps into the car.

he looks the same as ever, like tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. his eyes land on you first, and you’re already rising to your feet.

“hey,” you whisper, and it barely comes out. you cross the room and hug him. it’s instinct and muscle memory. it’s every shared drink, every late-night joke, every moment he said something sharp just to keep you from getting soft over the years.

your arms wrap around him tight like you’re grateful you’re able to see him before you even get to the tribute center, before you have to commit to all that is the hunger games. but the thought barely has time to settle before another hits harder.

you briefly remember catching katniss and peeta on screen when you were flicking through the reels. that’s why he’s here and they’re not. those two are probably still processing everything.

for a moment, you feel terribly. haymitch just mentored them to victory, but not freedom. and now they have to go in again.

you pull back, just enough to look at him. he doesn’t smile. he just nods like it’s already done. he knows what you’re thinking. but it’s already been decided.

“haymitch,” rafe murmurs.

you step aside so he can come forward. they hug, quick and firm, nothing showy. and then haymitch looks at both of you like he’s about to break bad news.

“we need to talk.”

you frown. “you shouldn’t be here though,” you say, not unkindly, but confused. it’s also just rules that districts stay within their separate train cars, plus katniss and peeta probably need him right now. “you should be with—”

“i know,” he cuts in. his voice is low, serious. “i know. but this couldn’t wait.”

you look at rafe. he’s watching haymitch with the same skeptical concern. if katniss and peeta are already in the train, haymitch wouldn’t leave them unless he had a damn good reason. and it must be important.

haymitch takes a breath.

“there’s a plan,” he says, keeping his voice low like he’s afraid of who’ll hear. and there’s a good reason for it. “a rebel plan. and i might need your help.”

a rebel plan?

the words hang there for a second.

fear strikes you immediately. it’s the only instinct you’ve had when it comes to the capitol.

you glance at rafe. he’s already looking at you. his eyes don’t say much, but they say enough. you don’t speak. neither does he.

you both just look back at haymitch.

tonight is the parade, like always.

the room smells like curling iron smoke and a mix of too many nature-scented perfumes, as if you’ve ever seen anyone in the capitol step out to smell some roses. you look into the mirror in front of you as your hands glide up the sides of your waist slowly, smoothing the fabric as you stare at your own face.

the dress is gorgeous, deep crimson like fresh blood, iron black clinging in armor-slick folds from collarbone to ankle. there’s a ripple to it when you breathe, like it’s alive. gold catches the light in flashes. the high collar curves upward like something ceremonial. and down your sides, rose-petal cutouts expose skin beneath the mesh.

the plunge of the back reveals the spine of you. the capitol’s thorns glint in the mirror. and the train fans out behind you in jagged shapes, uneven and regal. it’s a battlefield’s remnants stitched into silk.

you don’t hear the footsteps, but you feel the presence before he speaks, “you look nervous.”

it still startles you. your head snaps toward the doorway. rafe’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed, mouth tugged into a half-smile.

your expression barely shifts. you let out a breath of amusement before you turn back to the mirror.

“maybe i am,” you murmur. “just a bit.”

he steps in slowly, “doesn’t feel like seven years ago, huh?”

you don’t answer. you just adjust one of the sharp petals at your hip. your reflection stares back like a stranger with your face.

“i mean,” he continues, trying lightly, “you’re still hot. but valis really wanted to scare ‘em and seduce ‘em at the same time, hm?”

he pauses behind you. you see him in the mirror now, standing just inches away, dressed in his own version of doom and decadence. it’s tailored perfectly for him, of course. they’ve made him into a weapon too.

his eyes flick to yours in the glass. “hey,” he says softly. “you’re not her anymore.”

you stare at the reflection. “i know,” you whisper.

he watches you for a moment, then leans down to press a gentle kiss to the side of your head. you close your eyes into it even though it’s brief, then you swallow hard. your jaw flexes. then you nod once and finally, finally turn to face him fully.

“let’s get this over with.”

you take rafes hand and step into the staging corridor behind the chariots. it’s like a whole other world outside the room you were just in. it’s crowded, and honestly you don’t know where you’re supposed to be. no one’s even offering directions. valis and rumina are nowhere in sight, same with cassaline.

rafe stops walking and you do too. across the space, past a few stylists adjusting someone’s wingspan, you see finnick. he’s standing off to the side, hands behind his back, the way he always is when he doesn’t want to be approached. his eyes meet yours across the crowd. he lifts his hand once, barely a wave.

you offer a half-smile in return. rafe nods at him. finnick nods back, then it’s done. you’ll probably find him later if you can.

but then, out of the corner of your eye, there’s movement. a girl slips into the space from the side. she’s dressed in black that practically glows at the seams. katniss everdeen.

your stomach tightens, but it’s not the idea of her with a bow or anything. it’s still that she reminds you of you.

this is the girl whose life you have to protect when you’re in there.

you watch her walk aimlessly, but before she leaves, you call her name, “katniss.”

she stops. slowly, like her body doesn’t quite want to. she turns her head just enough to see you over her shoulder. her face is unreadable.

you take a few steps forward but keep distance between you. “you looked like you didn’t know where to go.”

her gaze slides to rafe beside you, then back to you. “i don’t.”

your lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smile. “i know the feeling.”

katniss nods, barely. she faces the two of you properly. “i thought you’d know. you’ve done this before.”

“so have you,” you remind her. there’s a pause. her hands flex once at her sides. “y/n,” you offer after a second. “district two.”

“i know who you are.”

you tip your head slightly and nod. rafe is watching the two of you like he’s not sure whether to speak. you don’t blame him. you wouldn’t be surprised if he left you to talk to her alone.

katniss shifts again. “i’m just trying to find my chariot.”

you watch as she peers over her shoulder to look around. “so they didn’t tell you?” you ask.

she doesn’t even look back at you. “they don’t tell me a lot of things.”

your eyes flick down the train of her cape again, as black as coal. you’re sure her stylist will probably make it explode later. they’re leaning hard into the branding, it seems.

katniss catches you looking. “it wasn’t my idea.”

you meet her eyes and smile. “none of it ever is,” you say.

there’s another silence, and it’s comfortable, but somehow strange at the same time. rafe steps forward beside you to try to ease the tension building.

“i think you and lover boy are back there, right across from district one,” rafe says as he points in a direction, katniss’s gaze following where he’s motioning to.

there’s a u-formation that the chariots are in, district one at the mouth of the entrance where the doors will roll open eventually, district twelve all the way across on the opposite end. if you look close enough you might even see peeta somewhere over there, confirming the placement.

katniss doesn’t move yet. she just looks at you two, eyes steady. “you’re different than i thought you’d be.”

you raise an eyebrow. “how did you think we’d be?”

“meaner.”

is this from what you’re actually known as or just because you’re from district two?

you let out a short breath through your nose. “give us time,” you joke, or half-joke. that’s when she just barely smiles. you assume she’s just trying to be polite or she doesn’t have a knack for conversations.

she blinks like she’s remembering something and glances behind her, probably wanting to excuse herself to find peeta. you let her go, but you speak up before she’s gone.

“good luck tonight, girl on fire.”

she turns her head, just a little. it’s enough to meet your eyes. “you too.”

and then she disappears into the curve of the chariots.

“that went well,” rafe says. you glance at him, raising your brows like you’re not sure if he’s serious or just being himself again. “c’mon, bug. we can ask where we gotta go.”

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[gamingavickreyauction]

also i don’t think forcible displacement is required. israeli’s will flee in droves any time their bubble is threatened. any jew who wishes to stay after palestine is liberated should be free too.

I don't think we actually disagree here, I think we just have different estimates of how many will stay. It seems tactically unwise to talk of the removal of all Israelis from the country when that's not actually what you're asking for- it sounds like you're asking for something much more violent than what you are actually asking for.

well for starters i can’t imagine the country can get much worse

It has been getting worse for decades, I don't see why it would suddenly stop now. Things are really bad, but things can always get worse.

there is zero chance this conflict is solved by internal pressure, so unless you’re willing to actively join the resistance inside palestine. you’re probably better off pressuring the governments of the west from the outside anyway.

I think this is a reasonable position. The main constraint on the current Israeli government certainly seems to be international, not internal. I'm not convinced that good Israelis can make little difference at other times though. Whether pressuring international governments would be more effective is ultimately an empirical question for which there is no data available.

what leaving does do is take money out of the israeli economy, take manpower out of the workforce and take a pair of hands of their guns. it weakens israel in a very direct way. that “overwhelmingly” force you talk about isn’t magic, it can be contained.

Israelis who avoid the draft already aren't a pair of hands on guns, and presumably aren't working in factories that make the weapons either. Though it is unavoidable that some of their tax money will go to weapons. The question really comes down to whether the increased financial burden of paying for the occupation with fewer people outweighs the increased willingness to spend more on occupation from Israel shifting even further to the right from everyone opposing the genocide leaving. I don't think there's an obvious answer to this question either.

I don't think the Spartacist uprising is similar to the February revolution. The Spartacist uprising was started by a communist organisation, and failed to catch on with the general public, whereas the February revolution emerged spontaneously from the general public and failed to gain the support of communist organisations. I don't think it seemed obvious at the outset that the February revolution would fail, and at the start it consisted of a series of protests and riots, which weren't going to kill anyone anyway (and the riots would likely have happened regardless). Again, this is only a principle that applies when a revolt is definitely going to fail, not just when it's probably going to fail.

i think its way better for public opinion if you say “hamas are doing the best they can, october 7th was not a particularly bad attack and was completely justified by the conditions of Palestinians that israel has put them through”

In my experience it's completely the opposite. The moment you speak positively about Hamas most people completely write you off and won't listen to anything else you say. If you refuse to acknowledge the bad things Hamas has done, and paint them as heroes, people will just see you as delusional- exactly the caricature leftist they've already been taught to ignore. People don't like a good guy when the good guy you're proposing is someone they already see as a bad guy, and not for all bad reasons. The way to convince people is by picking at the points where the dominant narrative is most obviously different from reality- like that they claim Israel isn't trying to harm civilians, but Israel is blocking entry of food, and is indiscriminately bombing Gaza. It's much easier to get someone to come around to a narrative that resembles what they already believe, and 'Israel and Hamas are both bad, but Israel is the one with all the power that's choosing to prolongue the conflict' is much closer to what people already believe than 'Israel is bad and Hamas is good' while also having the benefit of being more true. So the former is definitely better for persuading people. Avoiding 'conceding ground to Israeli narratives' is a fools' game when it gets you to avoid things that are actually mostly true, as that makes Israel supporters look like the reasonable ones.

lol...

[gin-juice-tonic]

Not sure how common this one is, but when I was younger my voice was always treated as a little too deep, a little too boyish for a girl. It was a point of moderate teasing and I was always ashamed of it to the point where it affected how I spoke.

Some people talk about how their voices pitch up for customer service. I've talked like that all the time for a long time. Not on purpose, just reflexively. Whatever way my body does it doesn't make my throat feel great, it'll hurt or ill start to lose my voice after just a normal days worth of talking

And even now on testosterone I still do it. And cant not do it. Sometimes I'll catch whatever causes this automatic shift off guard and catch a hint of what I could sound like, but that doesn't happen often.

Its frustrating to get to have your voice be lowered, but to have your reflexes fight against it constantly, even though it's something you want.

[vanitysxo]

Itoshi Sae, is actually really responsible when it comes to chores. Maybe it's because he's the eldest sibling, or maybe it's because he was alone in Spain for a pretty long time. Maybe it's both? but nevertheless, he helps out a lot in the house. It's gotten to a point where he's made it quality time with his lover. Because he's the one that gets up first in the morning. He'll start boiling some water for coffee and start opening up the curtains to let the warm sunrise enter the home you shared. It's one of the few times you get to wake up to a bright home, filled with the scent of cocoa. You insist on cooking breakfast, a simple but hearty one. Something Sae looks forward to every time he comes back home. The fried eggs and crispy bacon you make will always be better than the cold breakfast meals he gets during his stays at hotels when he travels. After breakfast, he'll wash up the plates. It's been a routine at this point. Whoever didn't cook will be the one to wash up the dishes. It's simple and forgiving. This way, no one has to do all the work, it's always split between you two. While he washes the plates, you watch him from the counter. Still a little sleepy even after the coffee he made, even after the extra sugar he put in it because he knew you always preferred your coffee that way. You exchange no words, just the sound of the water from the faucet and the chirping of the birds outside filling the room. And as you watch his back, you start thinking about how much better it is whenever he's home. Because when he's not home, the house feels bigger, with all the extra space he left behind. And it feels colder without his presence, without his warm hugs. The bed feels especially lonely, it makes you realize how spacious the bed actually is because there's no one else sharing it with you. But it also made you think that whenever he's away, you start appreciating his presence even more. It makes you look forward to the morning kisses even if you both had morning breath, arguing about what to cook for lunch, and talking face-to-face at the end of the day before you both go off to sleep. It makes you think about how wonderful it is to have him around, to do nothing but still do everything with him. Doing chores together, napping together, reading together, you'll always cherish each and every moment you have with him. When he needs to go away again, he gets everything done before his flight. Does the laundry, washes the dishes, and even vacuums the carpets. Not because he's a clean freak, but because he wants you to have a clean home before he goes away. So that when he comes back and its a bit messier than how he left it, he can spend time cleaning up with you.

[monster-disaster]

Hellooooo!!

I was wondering if I could make a request?

I was thinking something with either male gnoll/goblin/naga (bonus points if there’s multiple 🥺) with the reader being pregnant and lactating?

I feel like it would be liquid gold for them!! A delicacy if you will 💕

Thank you!!!! I’m sorry if this isn’t okay! You don’t have to write this at all!

gnolls!Kaath & Relgo x human!Reader Good to know: pregnant!Reader, lactation kink

The bedroom glows softly with the warm light of the lamp beside the bed. The amber hue stretches across the furniture, catching on your skin as you rub lotion into your arms. It glistens faintly in the mirror, the fresh scent mixing with the floral hint of your shampoo. You are in one of Kaath's old shirts. The worn cotton clings damply to your shoulders and chest, loose everywhere but stretches ever so slightly around the curve of your belly. Its previous owner sits behind you on the edge of the bed, long legs spread, elbows on his knees. His golden eyes are fixed on you in the mirror, flicking between your face and the curve of your stomach. He is watching like he always does lately, like he is trying to memorize every inch of you before the next day changes you again.

You glance at him over your shoulder with a smile. "What?"

He shrugs but doesn’t look away. "I just like watching you," he says as he rises. "You’re beautiful."

You hum, half teasing, half honest. "I’m almost rolling," you say, giving your belly a little pat. You’re not due for a while yet, but there is no hiding it now. Not with how you’ve grown.

"You’re beautiful," he repeats. His arms wrap around you from behind, his furred chest pressing gently to your back. His big, warm hands slide beneath your belly, lifting it with soft care, and you sigh the second he does. A quiet moan of relief slips past your lips as your back sinks against him, muscles relaxing completely.

"Could you do this for a few more weeks?" you ask, eyes fluttering shut.

The gnoll chuckles, low and close to your ear. "As long as you want."

The door opens behind you, and Relgo steps in. He is carrying three mismatched mugs, steam curling lazily up from them before fading into the air.

"Do what?" he asks while the door clicks shut behind him.

"Our baby’s starting to get heavy," Kaath answers, still holding the weight of your belly in his hands, still standing pressed so close behind you that you can feel every breath he takes.

The other gnoll sets the mugs on the vanity with a quiet clink before turning toward you. His gaze softens as he sees you, his hands rising to cover your belly, joining Kaath’s and yours.

"She is," he agrees. "She’ll be strong. Healthy."

"Thanks to her mother," Kaath murmurs against your neck, nuzzling in.

Their touch is gentle and unhurried, and slowly, you melt into their embrace even more. Relgo's hands slide lower for a moment, fingers pressing into your hips where the ache has settled deep today. He works the muscles slowly and carefully for a while. Then, his touch trails back up.

"And how are you, sweetheart?" he asks. His dark green eyes lift to meet yours before dropping again, settling on your breasts. "You’re almost ready. They hurt, don’t they?"

"They’re so sensitive," you reply, the words catching in your throat as his thumbs brush over your nipples.

Relgo touches you lightly at first with slow circles and teasing strokes over the shirt, and the response is instant. Your nipples harden beneath the fabric, and soon, wet heat spreads through the cotton as your milk begins to leak, darkening the shirt in lazy spots that grow quickly.

Kaath makes a soft, guttural sound behind you. "She is leaking again."

And the gnoll in front of you doesn't need more. He pushes the fabric up slowly, revealing inch after inch of swollen belly and soft skin until your breasts bounce free, heavy and full. Your nipples are already damp and shining in the low light. The sight of them stops them for a breath, their hands pause, hovering.

"Fuck," Relgo murmurs.

Kaath’s arms tighten gently around you, one palm spread beneath your belly, the other across your ribs, steadying you as your knees start to go soft. "Look at her," he rumbles. "I think our love needs some help, don't you sweetheart?"

"Please," you whisper, head lolling back against the male's shoulder, lips parting. "Please." The word is shaky and aching as it rolls off your tongue. More of an exhale than a speech.

"We will take care of you," Relgo says, cupping your breasts in his large palms. His thumbs stroke once, twice, coaxing a fresh spill of milk from your nipples, and then he leans in, slow and hungry. His lips seal tight around one sensitive bud with a low hum of satisfaction. He starts to suckle, firm and steady. His tongue swirls in teasing circles that make your thighs clench and your back arch.

Behind you, Kaath's muzzle brushes against the line where your neck meets your collarbone. His arms hold you tight, one still lifting your belly, the other wrapped snug beneath your chest. You feel entirely surrounded and cradled between their strength and their mouths and their want.

"You’re so good for us," the gnoll breathes against your skin. His kisses move lower to the slope of your shoulder, then back up. "Look at you. Letting us take what we need."

You whimper, head rolling weakly against Kaath’s shoulder as your breath stutters out in soft little pants while Relgo suckles, greedy and deep. He is savoring you, drinking each drop like it's the last time he can taste you. His hands never stop moving. His rough palms cradle your breasts, squeezing just right to coax more milk from you. His tongue is warm and slick, lapping and curling around your nipple between each pull. His lips drag over the damp, tender skin just around, and you can feel the edge of one of his sharp canines graze there. You can't help but shiver in their arms. The gnoll hums low and pleased. It echoes through your chest and down your spine.

Then, he pulls away with a soft pop as your nipple slips from his lips, followed by a thin, glistening string of milk and spit that stretches between you until it breaks. Your mouth opens a whining complaint, but before you can say anything, Kaath's warm hand replaces his mouth almost instantly, cupping your tender breast with a gentleness that makes your breath hitch. His palm is big and calloused, radiating heat as he cradles the aching weight with such care it almost makes you dizzy.

"Is it better?" he asks, his thumb brushing softly over the slick skin.

"Yeah," you breathe out.

Relgo says nothing. Instead, he shifts forward again, tilts his head, and drags his tongue slow and wet along the underside of your other breast. Milk is already there, beading in lazy, fat droplets that roll down the curve of your skin. He licks them up with a growl before latching onto you again. He sucks harder now, deeper, his tongue swirling and flicking, teasing the milk out in strong, pulsing flows that make your whole body ache. The pressure fades, replaced by a rush of warmth and sweet, liquid relief as he drinks you down.

You feel full and emptied all at once, surrounded, cherished, taken apart piece by piece under their care.

And they aren’t finished yet.

And, if you are lucky, you will make them rub your feet too.

[shelbazoidz]

I was rewatching the movie because I hadn’t seen it again in a minute and I saw that Madeline wears glasses to read. She squints at like three different things to try to read it within the first 20 minutes of the movie. I feel like musical Madeline would just struggle to read shit until Helen makes her get a pair. Lets explore that a little.

 (these shorts aren't as heavily edited as my ao3 stories because its just me getting the bees out my brain like I said before. Apologies if it's a lil wonky)

She’s getting suspicious. They’ve been living together for the past five months and Helen’s started to notice a pattern. Every time she points it out Madeline always has an excuse for it. Like why does Madeline have to hold her phone so close to her face when she needs to read something? Oh, of course it's just because she’s tired. 

Whenever they're cuddled on the couch, more often than not Madeline has to squint a little to see what's happening on the TV. But that's just because it's so far away, anyone would struggle to see it. Helen doesn't, but then again she wears her damn glasses. She's also seen Madeline bump directly into a wall that was clear as day. Madeline says she just wasn’t paying attention, she can be so clumsy. Even when that happened a fourth time, Madeline had the same excuse. 

Yeah something's up.  

Helen hoped she'd bring it up on her own but that clearly isn't going to happen. The patience she has runs out as they make their way from their seats while the credits to the movie roll. 

“That was amazing, I wish we hadn't missed the first half hour.” Helen grumbles as they leave the theater in the crowd of people moving sluggishly. 

“Oh my god, I'm sorry! The tickets said 8:30! I swear.” Madeline can only say sorry in so many different ways. 

“If they said 8:30, we wouldn’t have been a half hour late.” She grits out through her teeth. 

“You’re acting like I did this on purpose.”

“Well it feels like it because you didn’t even want to come in the first place.” Helen holds the door open so Madeline can walk through. In a flash her arm sticks out, just before Madeline can run directly into a metal post between the doors.

They share a silent look that Madeline chooses to ignore and continues, “You’re right, I didn't want to come. Historical fiction is lame. But I said I would, and I did! I just thought they said 8:30!”

“And you thought that because you can't see! You need glasses Madeline.” Helen's words make her gasp. 

“I. Do. Not.” 

“Yes you do, Mad. I know you do.” 

“How?” She folds her arms like a child. 

“I'll show you.” Helen looks around the theater lobby. “Alright. If you can see so well, then what color is that guy's tie?” Helen turns Madeline towards a group of people a little ways away. 

“You can't be serious?” She scoffs. 

"If you don't need glasses then just tell me and we'll be done with it.” The challenging look on Helen’s stupid perfect lips makes Madeline want to flip her off. So she does before looking back across the lobby, and tries to see what color the tie is. She can’t even take a guess. Gray? Blue? Fuck, she can’t tell from here. 

“....Green?” She says high pitched and unsure. 

“Wrong.” Helen deadpans. Her eyes search around the space again, landing on a sign that has some information about the theater. It's only a few feet from them. “What about that sign right there? What's it say?” Helen watches as Madeline squints at the sign for a few seconds before huffing.

“I don't know why I'm being quizzed right now.” She averts her eyes, looking anywhere but the sign. Because she knows the answer. It's blurry as hell, she can't read shit. 

“Just admit you need glasses.” Helen sighs. 

“No!” Madeline pushes through the last set of doors that lead outside, stomping her way towards the car.

“Madeline! You drive sometimes! You need to be able to see the road!” Helen chases after her, catching up in a few strides. “Whats the big deal? I wear glasses." 

“Yeah but glasses work for you. You look like a hot librarian. I'll look stupid.” Her head hangs in defeat when she stops under a flickering street lamp. 

“You haven't even tried, can we at least try so you can see. We're dead Madeline, your sight isn't going to get any better.” Helen holds Madeline's shoulders gently with a soft look until she relents.

“Fine…I'll try.” It did suck to have to squint at everything all the time.

“That's all I ask.” A kiss is pressed to Madeline's cheek while she attempts to hold onto her irritation. Another is pressed to the tip of her nose, then to her other cheek, and her forehead. The doting makes a smile break across Madeline's face again. Helen loops their arms together once the pouting is done. The two of them start making their way back to the car. “So are you thinking circle frames?” 

“That is the most disrespectful thing you've ever said to me.” The horrified look on her face at even the concept of circle frames makes Helen burst out laughing.

 

It still takes a few days of convincing and Madeline dramatically throwing herself onto different furniture around their house for them to finally go out to get a pair. The optometrist seems baffled at Madeline's eyes just like the poor doctor she'd seen about her neck. Thankfully he doesn't keel over but Helen sees him standing by a window with a thousand yard stare as she and Madeline head out the door.

“Dead eyes.” He whispers to himself softly. One of his concerned looking coworkers offering him a glass of water. He'll be fine…probably?

The glasses Madeline picks out aren't used immediately. They sit on her dressing room table for two more days until she feels brave enough to put them on.

Early morning rays of light filter in through the sheer white curtain, casting the room in a warm glow. It's a lazy Sunday, they had no plans for today so no one would see her if she looked stupid in the new glasses. The case is clicked open, she holds them up, eyeing the clear frames she decided to go with. The lenses are thicker than she thought they would be. Madeline's head falls back and she groans.

“Might as well sign me up for AARP while we're at it.” She whines, looking at the frames again. “Just do Madeline. You can do it.” She says to herself, sliding them onto her face. Her eyes stay squeezed shut, a slow breath leaving her until she finally opens them again. 

Well this is a pleasant surprise. 

Madeline turns her head side to side, trying to get all her good angles. 

She looks cute. 

She looks good.

She looks hot. 

They don't make her look ancient at all. If anything she likes the cougar energy she radiates now. Ooo! Maybe a sexy secretary? Madeline sits straighter in the chair, getting into character and putting on a dramatic airy voice.

“Oops, sorry the boss isn't here today. Can I help you instead? I'm sure we could squeeze you in.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder before grinning at herself. Yes, this would do just fine.

Besides looking cute, Madeline can see. She can see. Has the world always looked this clear? Surely not? She would have noticed if her vision had gotten that bad over the past few years. It had to of because it feels like someone just turned on the high definition setting in her eyes. Some of her hair is tucked behind her ear, a little smile playing on her lips as her eyes roam over the brightly colored clothing in her closet. Today is absolutely going to be a dress up day. There are so many outfits she needs to see herself in now.

“I take it you like them?” Helen's voice drifts over to her, drawing her out her thoughts. With a grin Madeline turns in her chair to reply.

“Hel, I love them so–...” It feels like her brain stops working when she sees Helen leaning in the doorway in her soft blue robe.  

“They look really good on you, Mad.” The loving smile on Helen's face would make her dead heart stop if it could. 

Madeline should have gotten glasses sooner. She's been missing out.

Yes she knew Helen was gorgeous. She could admit that now that they weren't trying to kill each other most days. Even when she's dressed in her long skirts and beige, Helen is beautiful. But Madeline doesn't think she has seen her this clearly in a while. The warm light coming in from the morning sun highlights Helen's fiery hair. It's like Madeline is lured from her seat just at the sight of her, she's on her feet making her way across the room before she even realizes she's doing it. 

“Give me a twirl.” She asks and Helen gives her a weird look. 

“What?” A brow arches. 

“Humor me?” Madeline puts on the puppy dog eyes, Helen can never say no to.

“Okay werido.” With one more mildly confused look to her, Helen slowly starts turning and tries not to feel self conscious under Madeline's unwavering gaze. 

They aren't painted today since they have nowhere to be so Madeline can see her pale lifeless skin. The robe she's in slips off her shoulder a little when her back is to Madeline.  

She knows it's hard for Helen to believe but she likes her without the paint that makes them look alive. Especially now that she can see all the little freckles that dot across her back and shoulders. Madeline's eyes wander over every detail until Helen is facing her again and she can look into her eyes. Those gorgeous green eyes have a little brown around the iris that look honey colored under the morning sun. There's freckles on her face too. Madeline used to give her shit about them when they were younger (and she could see better) but she's always loved them. It feels like she can't get enough of looking at Helen. 

And she thinks she's fallen in love all over again. 

“What? What are you looking at? Is something wrong?” Helen pats her face nervously. 

“No. Everything's fine.” The silly grin on Madeline's face doesn't let up. 

“Okay, you’re freaking me out. What?” 

“Nothing. You’re just pretty.” The honesty in her voice tugs at Helen's heart strings. 

She laughs awkwardly. “Thanks?” It's still new to hear compliments from Madeline. True ones, ones that make her knees weak. Especially when Madeline looks at her like she's going to devour her right here.

“Like, really pretty, Hel.” Her hands slip around Helen's waist, pulling her closer. She's never loved getting anyone flustered more than she does Helen Sharp.

“We should have gotten you glasses sooner if this is how you act when you can see.” If she could Helen knows she'd be blushing.

“We should have.” Madeline purrs, sliding her hands under Helen’s robe, gliding the tips of her fingers lightly over smooth cool skin.“I wonder what else I can see?” 

“Guess we'll just have to find out, hum?” Helen smirks back, the two of them giggling as they make their way back into the bedroom.

[august-anon]

look i love a good truth spell/truth serum fic, esp in the batfam fandom because none of these assholes know how to communicate with each other at ALL kjdsfhkjdfh

but think of all the possibilities of a truth spell/serum mixed with tickling/teasing like

is the spell/serum one that forces truth as a compulsion? where you cant help but blurt out the truth and resisting is futile/painful and you have no choice?

is the spell/serum one where you can choose not to answer, but if you speak at all anything that comes out will be the truth and you cant physically lie?

but no matter what mixing that with tickling is the best sdkjfhsdf like, they cant even protest without meaning it (and you know i hc literally all characters ever to enjoy being tickled, so, lol)

and maybe its even to the point where you cant hide/mask reactions because that is, in a way, lying -- omg. so many possibilities

(rest of the more detailed hcs under the cut because this got long, but who is even surprised because this is Me we're talking about KJSDFHJDH)

bruce getting hit and alfred performing an injury check once he gets back to the cave and he accidentally hits some ticklish spots and bruce cant hide it like usual because of the spell/serum and he's like "hey!" and wants to tell alfred to stop it or cut it out or something, but he cant, because that would be a lie because he's still that little boy that always wanted to play tickle monster with Thomas and Martha (and sometimes Alfred, once the grief became manageable, in rare times Alfred dropped the propriety) and he still thinks its fun. and alfred can tell and just smiles indulgently, sneaking some more in here and there under the guise of the injury check

dick getting hit and he already knows his siblings are going to be hounding him with questions because theyre little shits like that, and he complains about it during the batmobile ride home (which Bruce actually went with him on because dick was real out of it for a bit there and Bruce had been pretty worried). bruce isnt gonna ask him questions, at least not until he can be fully monitored, but he hums here and there to respond, and dick is of course fluent in Batman Grunt Language so theyre able to have a full conversation and you cant tell me dick is not adhd so theyre jumping topics like crazy but bruce has learned to follow his train of thought by now. and somehow tickling gets touched upon, maybe a childhood memory or smth, and dick tries to say something about it being so annoying or smth like that but he chokes on the words because he cant lie and whoops, bruce definitely knew that when dick was a kid (he wasnt shy about it, he was an attention seeking kid) but definitely didnt know it continued once he grew up. he definitely makes it clear that he's putting that one in his back pocket, and dick whines about how its embarassing, but when asked if he wants bruce to forget it, he cant lie and say yes because he does miss the affection of a tickle-attack from his father figure

jason who gets hit and keeps snapping at everyone to stop asking him questions because of course theyre asking embarrassing shit, who wouldn't. and dick is the most annoying of all like "do you REALLY hate it when i hug you??" and he's got the compulsion type so he tries to bite his tongue for a bit but eventually cant take it anymore and spits out a rage-filled "no" and dick gasps and starts grinning like the cat that caught the canary and starts going through all the types of affection he can think of "do you actually hate when i kiss your forehead?" "do you actually hate when i spam you with tiktoks?" "do you actually hate when i force you to come to movie nights?" "do you actually hate when i get you to cuddle?" and of course the answer to all of these is no, Jason doesnt actually hate it, but goddammit he's got a reputation to keep and he cant have his siblings all thinking he's gone soft (luckily alfred had kicked out everyone but dick by now, because dick was SUPPOSED to be monitoring jason's symptoms, but instead he was being Obnoxious) and then he gets to the worst one of "do you actually hate when i tickle you?" and jason doesnt know if its more or less incriminating that he tries to hold back his answer for as long as he does, but eventually he has to give in to the "no" trying to escape from his body. and dick has never looked so smug or evil and jason knows he's never living this down. especially not when dick gets into questions like "do you like it when i tease you?" or "why do you like it when i tickle you?" Jason swears, the second this wears off, Dick is gonna regret ever being born

tim gets hit and he's got the kind where he doesnt even realize fully he's speaking the truth. he's super chatty, cant stop talking, just keeps dropping more information. almost like he's high actually, but not quite, he's still mostly aware he just. cant really stop talking much and doesnt care to lol, but all of it has to be the truth. and so his family guides the conversation further away from the angstier stuff and more towards silly or non-important stuff. like, what game has he been playing recently, his favorite foods, what he thinks of this or that movie.... the movie part, of course, gets them talking about movie nights in general, and tim talks about how much he loves it when they do a blanket fort night because everyone gets to be all cozy in a pile together and even after all these years he's still a little touch/affection starved (yes i know thats extremely fanon characterization but leave me alone KDFKDF), and he talks about how much he loves it when dick or bruce will give him back tickles and hair pets/head scratches if he manages to cuddle up to one of them during movie night. and because tim is in word vomit mode, he just keeps going, and he talks about how fun he finds tickling in general and how he wished it happened more because it shuts his brain off and he likes the playful affection and spending time with his siblings and/or father figure. everyone makes Extreme note of this, and tim is mortified once its worn off, but he cant really complain when he gets more cuddles, tickle attacks, AND prime back tickles/hair pets/back scratches every movie night from then on, even Jason joining in sometimes

damian gets hit and its a mix of these, he's not exactly high and its not exactly a compulsion he can resist, but he's just spouting the truth when asked and its clear he finds it annoying and is already exhausted. he's still a little wobbly so dick helps him out of the batmobile and into the medbay and up onto a cot, and in getting him on the cot he hits a few ticklish places and damian cant quite hold back his reactions while under the affects of the spell/serum and he flinches and giggles a little. and dick smiles because his baby brother is so cute, but does apologize because he really wasnt meaning too that time and he knows damian is dealing with the spell/serum right now. and damian mutters out a little "dont really mind" as he settles on the cot, and then flushes right up to his ears. and dick resists the urge to coo or laugh fondly because he knows that would not be taken well right now, but he does do his stupid bright grin. and damian is like "i dont suppose we can forget this interaction" and dick is like "not on your life, baby bat. but dont wory, youre safe for now" but damian knows as soon as the spell/serum has worn off and he's gotten some rest, his ticklishness is fair game

[colouredbyd]

Off-Script

chapter 1: scene 11, take 1

celebrity!sirius black x celebrity!reader

synopsis: in which one audition changes everything, and you find yourself growing up in the spotlight—alongside sirius black, a boy with a voice like smoke and a name the world won’t forget. the fame is loud, the rumors louder, and somewhere between the endless cameras and the harsh media, the lines begin to blur: between who you are and who you’re expected to be.

and, along the way, everything goes off-script.

warnings: anxiety, nervousness, cringe movie scripts (i tried my best), panic attacks, overthinking, and emotional vulnerability. disclaimer: this chapter features minors as characters since it’s intended as a flashback to how they first met; in later chapters, the characters will be older and adults.

wc: 4.8k next chapter

“Hi, I’m James Potter.”

Your head snaps up, eyes meeting a pair of round glasses and a grin so effortless it almost annoys you.

He’s tall, charming in that boyish way that makes you think he’s never had to try too hard at anything. And he’s holding out a hand like the two of you haven’t been sitting in the same holding room for the past hour, like you didn’t just watch him high-five every casting assistant and crack a joke with the lighting guy and befriend the green-screen lady.

You blink, gather your breath, and take his hand. “I’m Y/N—” 

You hesitate for half a second, but it’s more instinct than insecurity. 

“You look nervous,” he says, dropping into the seat beside you without waiting for an invitation.

He doesn’t say it unkindly—it’s more of an observation, like he’s stating the weather or that you’ve got a pen tucked behind your ear.

“I’m fine,” you say, but your thumb is still pressed against the margin of the script, smoothing over the same corner you’ve been folding and unfolding since you walked in.

“It’s the lines, isn’t it?” James leans over, peeking at your script.

“Everyone always gets stuck on that one monologue. It’s a beast. I couldn’t get through it without sounding like I was about to cry. Still can’t, but maybe that’s the point.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You struggled with it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says easily. “I’ve been in this industry since I was in diapers and I still choke on the heavy stuff. My parents keep trying to convince me it’s all about breathing and honesty. But I think sometimes it’s just about surviving the scene.”

You try not to look visibly shocked. Of course you know who he is. Everyone does. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter—famous for their string of Emmy-winning series and flawless box office runs—are the brains behind this very show. Stranger Things. The dark, nostalgic, terrifyingly brilliant project that people have already started calling “genre-defining.” The Potters are its creators, directors, and executive producers. And James? He’s practically royalty.

You wonder, briefly, if he knows how impossible it is for someone like you to be here.

Because you didn’t grow up on studio lots. You didn’t take acting classes at age three or have your face printed on casting calls by age six. You came from a town where dreams like this stayed dreams. No famous family. No connections. Just a voice in your head telling you to try.

Now you’re here. Sixteen years old, freshly cast as one of the leads in the most anticipated show of the year, with a role that’s raw and strange and full of psychic powers and bleeding noses. You’re not even sure how you got it.

They haven’t officially announced the cast yet. There’s still one final audition round left, but the assistant told you it’s more of a chemistry read—just to see how you and the others move together. Still, the thought of it makes your heart pound.

This isn’t just a dream come true. It’s a dream with teeth.

James nudges your elbow lightly. “You’re gonna be brilliant, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“The scene. The whole thing. I can tell.” His smile softens, less flashy now, more real. “You’ve got this look in your eyes. Like you’ve already lived it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, and for the first time since you arrived, the room feels a little less sharp. The walls stop closing in.

James grew up with cameras in his face and scripts in his hands. This is his normal.

But he doesn’t make you feel small. He doesn’t throw it around like it means more than your quiet, trembling hands or your desperate need to belong.

“Are you nervous?” you ask, half-joking.

He grins. “Always. That’s how I know it matters.”

You smile back, the knot in your stomach loosening just a little.

“You want to run lines?” he offers, already pulling out his own copy of the scene, edges covered in messy ink.

You nod.

And for the first time since you got the call, the weight lifts. A little.

You’re still the only one who didn’t come from a famous family. Still the only one whose name means nothing in a casting room.

But James Potter is sitting beside you, reading your name like it belongs here. And maybe that’s a start.

You and James run lines for what feels like both forever and no time at all.

He reads with an ease that doesn’t feel showy. There’s no smugness, no performance for the sake of impressing you—he just lives in the scene.

He trips over words sometimes, laughs at strange directions, makes faces when something doesn’t make sense. It makes you feel lighter, like maybe this isn’t so impossible after all. Like maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be good.

At some point, your shoulders stop tensing at every noise. The studio hallway grows louder as more crew members shuffle past—assistants with clipboards, stylists with tangled garment bags, someone dragging what looks like a lighting rig across the floor—but their movement blurs into the background. You’ve got a rhythm now. A steady back and forth between pages, voices, breath.

Then a voice cuts through the hallway: “Remus Lupin? Scene ten, take nine—you’re up.”

James looks up and grins. “You’ll like Remus. He’s good. Kind of freakishly good, actually.”

But you don’t really hear James. Because after Remus, it’ll be you.

You try not to stiffen, but your fingers tighten around the script in your lap. You glance toward the casting room door—the one they’ll call you through next—and suddenly it’s harder to breathe.

James must notice, because he bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey. You’re fine. You’ve got, like, twenty minutes.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I think I’ll step out for a bit. Get some air.”

“Good idea,” he says easily, already gathering the pages between his fingers. “Don’t go far, and don’t psych yourself out.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

The hallway is more crowded than when you first arrived, a blur of unfamiliar faces and tangled equipment. You walk briskly, turning toward the exit sign at the far end—except when you get there, it leads to another corridor, not outside.

The studio’s layout is a maze of white-painted walls, steel beams, and swinging doors with production labels. Voices bounce from room to room. The air is warm with stage lights and static.

You try another hallway. No exit. Just more people—tech crew, assistants, actors already in costume. Someone offers you a bottled water. Another brushes past you with a headset and a frown.

Still no fresh air.

You keep moving, further from the noise, until you find a stairwell tucked between two heavy doors. You climb, following the scent of dust and metal, up past the wardrobe floor, past the locked rehearsal studios, up to a plain gray door that hums faintly with the wind behind it.

It opens to the rooftop.

It’s quieter here—distant sirens, a low hum from the city beyond the studio walls. The sky is overcast but soft, the kind of light that makes everything look washed in nostalgia. You step forward slowly, as if not to disturb it.

From up here, the lot looks small. Even the casting room—the one that holds your future inside its four thin walls—seems like it couldn't possibly contain something as heavy as your dream. You sit down against the ledge, script still in hand, the pages fluttering slightly in the breeze.

You close your eyes for a moment, just to remember how it feels to breathe when no one is watching.

You close your eyes for a moment, just to remember how it feels to breathe when no one is watching.

But when you open them again, you realize you aren’t alone.

There’s a figure already at the far end of the rooftop, perched at the edge, his back to you. His legs dangle over open air, casually swinging like the hundred-foot drop beneath him means nothing.

You blink, startled. He hadn’t made a sound—not even the creak of movement on the metal ledge.

Your breath catches. “Hey—careful, you’ll fall off.”

The boy doesn’t move. For a second, you think maybe he didn’t hear you.

But then he sighs—loud and pointed—and turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his face.

His eyes are red. Not tired, not irritated—red. The kind that only happens when someone’s been crying for a long time and didn’t have time to fix it before being seen.

“I’m fine,” he says flatly. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just… blunt.

You take a step closer, slowly, like you’re trying not to spook a wounded animal. “You’re not really supposed to be sitting like that.”

“Then don’t look,” he mutters, eyes flicking back toward the skyline. His voice isn’t sharp, but it cuts anyway.

He’s dressed like someone who was supposed to be somewhere important earlier—pressed shirt, blazer half-slipped off one shoulder, tie loose and crooked. But his hair’s a little messy, and there’s a scuff on one of his shoes, and he looks like he got into a fight with the day and lost.

“I just—” You hesitate, but the words come anyway. “I didn’t think anyone would be up here.”

“Clearly.”

You bristle, despite yourself. There’s a part of you that wants to walk away. Let him stew in his rooftop silence and whatever disaster he’s currently avoiding. But there’s something in his posture—how rigid his shoulders are, how he won’t look at you—that stops you.

So instead of stepping back, you step forward. Right up to the ledge.

And then you climb onto it.

His head snaps toward you. “What are you doing?”

You settle beside him with more stubbornness than grace, gripping the edge for balance as your legs dangle beside his. “If you get to sit here, so do I.”

He frowns, the sharp line of his jaw tightening, a muscle twitching as if caught between restraint and something more volatile. “You could fall.”

“So could you,” you answer without hesitation, your voice calm but firm.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” you tilt your head, meeting his eyes. “How?”

He opens his mouth like he has the answer ready—like he always does—but nothing comes. His jaw locks again, and for a moment, silence stretches between you, taut as wire.

“Because—” he starts, and then falters. The words catch in his throat. And when he speaks again, it’s thinner, almost like fear is threading through it. “Because I’ve been up here before. I know where the edge is.”

You glance out at the city skyline, the wind brushing against your cheek like a warning, and then back at him. “Then show me.”

He looks at you for a long second, a storm flickering in his gaze. Like he’s weighing the urge to lash out, to say something cold or careless to make you leave.

But something in your expression stops him. Because you’re not backing down. And maybe that’s what makes him pause. Maybe that’s when he sees it—the same quiet storm behind your eyes that mirrors his own. That same mix of anger and aching, of being brave when all you want to do is run.

His shoulders drop slightly, the tension bleeding out in a slow, reluctant breath. When he speaks again, it’s not angry anymore.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” you say, your voice soft but unwavering.

He huffs, a half-laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. Still, he doesn’t look away. “You’re impossible,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

“And you’re not?” you counter, the corners of your mouth tugging upward just a little.

His eyes flick to you again, sharper this time. Curious. Like he’s trying to make sense of you, to figure out why you keep showing up in all the places he thought he’d locked away for himself.

“What are you even doing up here?” he finally asks, voice low, frayed at the edges.

You shrug, trying to keep your tone casual even though your hands are starting to feel numb from the wind. “Auditions. I needed air.”

That gets his attention. He turns to you more fully, brows pulling together. “Wait—you’re here for Stranger Things?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His stare sharpens. “Who are you cast as?”

You hesitate, just for a breath. “The girl. With the powers.”

His mouth drops open slightly. “Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He lets out a humorless laugh and rubs a hand over his face. “Just… of course. Of course it’s you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just tips his head back toward the sky like it might answer for him. Then, with a sigh, he mutters, “I’m her love interest, Mike.”

There’s a beat of silence. A breeze cuts through, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how close you’re sitting, how this rooftop feels like a stage you didn’t mean to step onto.

“Wait,” you say, squinting at him. “So… who are you?”

He pauses for just a second too long. “Sirius. Sirius Black.”

You blink again, harder this time.

“You’re—Sirius Black?”

He grimaces. “Unfortunately.”

And that’s when it hits you. The name. The face. The headlines.

The Sirius Black. Probably the most well-known teen actor of his generation. Star of a dozen indie films, two major franchises, and one Oscar-buzz drama that made everyone collectively lose their minds when he was fourteen.

His mother, Walburga Black, hosts one of the most watched reality TV empires in the country, her name basically synonymous with Hollywood gossip.

His father, Orion Black, was once a golden boy actor in the 80s, now the executive force behind Black Pictures—one of the biggest production companies in the industry. The entire family reads like a film credits list. His uncles are actors. His aunts are Oscar-nominated. His godfather is the face of an entire perfume brand.

And you… you had to pick this rooftop.

“Oh,” you say faintly, the word barely brushing past your lips. “That makes sense.”

He snorts, bitter and tired. “Does it?”

You look at him again—really look. There’s a glassiness to his eyes, a kind of weight that doesn’t come from call sheets or cameras but from something older, quieter, and heavier. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s laughing at you or at himself.

“I mean,” you murmur, gaze steady, “it explains the dramatics.”

That earns the faintest twitch of a smile—subtle, almost like it slips through before he can stop it. “You’ve got guts,” he says, the words curling just slightly at the edges, “I’ll give you that.”

You don’t know who laughs first.

Maybe it’s him—Sirius Black, perched on the edge of a rooftop like it’s just another stage, muttering something dry that slices through the silence and all your tension with it.

Or maybe it’s you—because everything suddenly feels absurd. The audition, the pressure, the hours spent holding your breath, the way the city breathes beneath your feet.

You glance at him. He’s not smiling wide, not beaming, but there’s something there now—something pulled from beneath the stormcloud eyes and sharp cheekbones. A warmth that could almost be mistaken for light.

And then it hits you.

Your entire body jolts with the realization.

“Shit,” you breathe, the word tumbling out before you can stop it.

He glances over, one eyebrow lifting. “What now?”

“My audition,” you murmur, eyes already darting to the crumpled script poking out of your dress pocket. “Your name’s on my pages.”

He stares at you. “What?”

“You’re in the scene I’m auditioning with.” You fumble for the paper, smoothing it open between your hands. “It’s the one with the girl and the boy in the woods—the flashlight, the whole speech about being scared and doing it anyway.”

He leans slightly to peek at the page, and then groans. “Oh, that one.”

You nod. “That’s you.”

He shrugs, utterly unfazed. “Great. You’ve got it covered.”

“No, I don’t. I need to run it, with you.”

“I don’t rehearse,” he says simply, like it’s a personal philosophy.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t rehearse,” he repeats, dragging a hand through his hair. “Never really needed to. I show up, hit the mark, say the lines. People seem to like it.”

You just stare at him.

“Sirius fucking Black,” you mutter under your breath, turning toward him with a look that could split the moon in half. “You are going to rehearse with me.”

He looks almost amused. “Am I?”

You’re already climbing off the ledge, your white dress catching in the wind as you move fast, fueled by panic and adrenaline and something that feels dangerously close to raw determination.

“Whoa, whoa—hey!”

Before you can plant your feet back on the gravel safely, a hand grabs your wrist—tight, steady, pulling you back just enough.

“Fuck, be careful, angel,” he mutters, the words rushed and low like they’ve leapt out of him uninvited.

You pause.

Not because of the nickname (though it sparks something strange in your chest), but because he said it like he meant it. Like for half a second, the idea of you falling scared him more than anything else in this moment.

He’s still holding your wrist when you look at him.

“I’m fine,” you say, softer now. “I’ve got it.”

He lets go, slowly.

And then you square your shoulders, adjust the pages in your hand, and lift your chin. “We’re doing this scene.”

“I just said—”

“You are going to rehearse with me!” you repeat, voice sharper now.

“Because I am going to get this fuckass role. I don’t care how many Emmys your uncle has, or how many magazine covers your face is on.  I didn’t crawl my way into this building to have some nepotism prince brush me off like I’m decoration!”

His eyes go wide, a flicker of something wild and admiring sparking in them.

And then he bursts out laughing.

Full, deep laughter. The kind that echoes off the rooftop walls and makes your blood boil.

“Stop laughing!” you snap.

He just keeps laughing, wheezing now, hands on his knees. “You—you just said fuckass role.”

“I’m serious!”

“No, I’m Sirius.”

You groan, glaring.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Okay, okay. You’re terrifying.”

“Good.”

He straightens up, brushing off the edge of his jeans. “Fine. Let’s rehearse. But only because you threatened me.”

You cross your arms. “I did no such thing.”

“You dragged me off a ledge like some kind of homicidal fairy.”

You shrug. “Desperate times.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The wind plays with the edge of your dress, your hair, the papers clutched in your hand. And you swear he softens—just slightly. The edge in him easing, curiosity replacing arrogance.

“All right.” He tugs a folded script from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and waves it in the air. “Let’s see if you’re any good, then.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m excellent.”

“We’ll see.”

You step back, flipping to the right scene, clearing your throat. The wind tugs at the corners of your script and your dress, but your hands are steady now. He leans against the ledge, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, and waits for you to begin.

The rooftop isn’t a stage. The city doesn’t quiet for your lines. No one’s watching.

But you speak like someone’s listening.

And when you finish the scene—when the last word hangs between you, raw and electric—Sirius doesn’t say anything for a long time.

He just looks at you.

Like he sees something he didn’t expect.

Like maybe, you belong here after all.

Sirius taps the edge of your script with a knuckle. “Alright, angel. Scene 10. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You raise a brow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he says, dropping into an easy stance like he’s done this a thousand times before.

His posture shifts, the smirk tucks itself away, and suddenly he’s someone else entirely—Mike, the boy trying to hold a flashlight steady while the world around him falls apart.

You take one breath, then another, then step into the moment.

Scene 10. Forest. Mike and Eleven, side by side in the dark.

The lines you’ve memorized a dozen times spill out, but this time they don’t feel rehearsed. Sirius listens like he’s never heard them before, and when he speaks, it’s with a weight that grounds the scene.

The words aren’t magic—but they do something close. The space between you vibrates with the rhythm of shared silence, tension, emotion. It’s short, but by the time you reach the last line—“It’s not about what we lost. It’s about what we’ve still got.”—the quiet that follows feels earned.

Sirius exhales and gives you a crooked smile. “You’ve got timing.”

You shrug, but your heart beats louder than before.

Without a word, he grabs the scripts from your hands and plops down cross-legged on the rooftop floor. “Let me see.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you always this—”

“Collaborative,” he cuts in, uncapping a marker from his jacket pocket. “Now sit. We’ve got work to do.”

His annotations are a mess of arrows and looping words. He circles beats, draws dashes for pauses, and jots little notes like don’t rush this or breathe here. His handwriting is barely legible, but the edits are precise, focused.

“Pause here. This line’s too heavy to throw away,” he murmurs. “And this? Keep your voice low. Not scared—just… holding back.”

You watch him, amused. “You always direct your scene partners?”

“Only when they can actually act,” he says, glancing up.

You snort. “Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t push it.”

The corner of your mouth quirks, and he flips to the next page.

Scene 11.

He hums. “Ah. That one.”

You know immediately. The basement scene. The one where Mike—Sirius’s character—fake proposes to Eleven, your role, just to get her to talk again. You’ve read it so many times that the dialogue is practically carved into your bones.

He reads over the first few lines and chuckles. “This is so dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” you argue lightly. “It’s sweet. In a stupid, manipulative way.”

Sirius makes a face. “Exactly.”

Still, he stands, brushing dust off his jeans. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

You both take position, scripts half-forgotten at your feet.

He steps into the part quickly, voice shifting into something earnest and awkward—Mike trying to coax Eleven out of silence with a ring made from a candy wrapper and desperation.

“Okay,” he says, kneeling dramatically. “Since you clearly won’t talk to me like a normal person… I guess there’s only one thing left to do. I hereby propose. Like—on one knee and everything.”

You fold your arms. Stay silent.

“Wow. Rejected without mercy,” he mutters, then softens. “You haven’t talked to me in. Do you hate me?”

You look down, breathe. “No.”

“You’re mad?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m scared.”

The words slip out soft, but true. And Sirius looks at you differently this time—more like Mike, less like the boy who called you angel and handed you his marker.

A silence follows that isn’t awkward, only real.

Then Sirius lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You’ve got this.”

You let yourself smile. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Please,” he grins. “I’m Sirius Black.”

You roll your eyes, but something in your chest loosens. For the first time, the role doesn’t feel like something you're chasing. It feels like something already yours.

Sirius plucks your script off the ground again, flipping back to Scene 11 like he isn’t still grinning from your fake rejection five minutes ago.

“Well, angel,” he says, stretching out on the rooftop like it’s his living room, “if you’re gonna turn me down, at least let me immortalize it.”

He grabs his marker—still uncapped, still bleeding slightly at the edges—and scribbles something in the margin next to your line: SAY IT LIKE YOU’RE LYING TO YOURSELF.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder.

He shrugs. “Exactly what it sounds like. Don’t act like you’re scared of him—act like you’re scared of what he means.”

You blink at him. “Since when are you an actor and a psychologist?”

He grins, toothy and easy. “Since five minutes ago. I’m multitalented.”

You’re still laughing when the rooftop door slams open behind you.

A crew member stands in the doorway, breathless and wide-eyed. “There you are—we’ve been looking for you for ten minutes! Are you out of your minds? You’re both up next!”

Your stomach drops.

Sirius just stretches, calmly dusting off his jeans. “We got a little carried away. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine!” the woman shouts, already dialing someone on her headset. “Come on, let’s go!”

You scramble to your feet, panic rising like a tide you can’t swim against. Ten minutes. That’s forever in this world—enough time for a casting director to change their mind, to offer your role to someone shinier, someone with the right last name.

You clutch your script to your chest as you follow Sirius down the narrow stairwell, and your thoughts spiral with every step—they’re going to hate me, I ruined it, I lost it, I lost it—

“Hey.” Sirius’s voice cuts through the static, and then—his hand on your wrist.

He stops midway down the stairs, turning you to face him. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are steadier than you’ve seen them all day, quiet in a way that feels almost reverent.

“You’re fine. You haven’t lost anything. Just breathe, alright?”

You shake your head, heart pounding too loud in your ears. “They’re going to be mad. They’re going to say I’m unprofessional—”

“Shh.” He shifts his grip, then with his free hand, pulls the marker from his pocket again.

And slowly, gently, he starts drawing stars along the inside of your wrist—five-pointed, slightly smudged, looping together like constellations only he can see.

It takes you a second to notice that your breathing’s slowed.

The panic eases.

You glance down at the ink-dusted trail of stars blooming across your skin. “How did you… know to do that?”

Sirius freezes for a beat too long.

Then he looks away, tucking the marker back into his pocket. “My brother. Sometimes he… gets like that.”

You want to ask more, but something in his expression tells you not to. His shoulders stiffen, the familiar armor sliding back into place. The charm, the cool detachment—it’s all back by the time you reach the studio door.

But the stars stay on your wrist.

The second the studio doors swing open, chaos swallows you whole.

It’s brighter than you expect—overhead lights casting a sterile glow across the soundstage, voices overlapping as crew members rush to and from set, someone shouting about blocking, someone else dragging a lighting rig across the floor. You blink against it all, suddenly unsure where to look, where to stand, how to exist.

And then—

“There you are!” James.

He jogs over, looking mildly out of breath, strands of his messy hair falling over his glasses. Relief flashes across his face when he sees you, and then it shifts—warms—when his eyes land just beyond your shoulder.

“Sirius,” James breathes.

And Sirius lights up.

Like a switch flipped. The edges of him soften, melt. That cool indifference disappears entirely as he grins, almost boyishly, and throws his arms around James in a way that’s too fast to think about and too real to be scripted.

“God, I haven’t seen you in forever,” Sirius mutters into James’s shoulder, and you swear—for half a second—he sounds like a different person.

“Thought you were ditching the project,” James teases, clapping him on the back.

“Almost did.”

James pulls away, looking over at you. “You met Y/N, yeah? She’s playing the girl with powers. She’s incredible.”

You smile, shy under the weight of his praise. But before you can say anything—

“Hello, darling.”

A voice, smooth and warm and unmistakably in charge, cuts through the air. A woman strides over, sharp black heels clicking on the floor. Her hair is pinned up perfectly, lips a red that looks expensive, and the way everyone parts around her—it tells you everything you need to know.

Euphemia Potter. The director.

She reaches for your hand like you’ve already earned the role and says your name like she’s been waiting to meet you for months.

“I’ve heard about you,” she says, voice honeyed. “And I just want you to know—don’t worry about a thing. You’re here because you belong here. Okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. But something in your chest eases.

“And this,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “is my husband, Fleamont. Producer. He’ll pretend he’s not a softie, but he cried over Scene 9.”

He gives you a polite smile and a knowing wink.

Before you can process any more, a crew member in a headset appears beside you, clipboard in one hand, clapperboard in the other.

He looks between you and Sirius, then lifts the board slowly.

“Alright,” he calls out, voice carrying across the set, grounding the room in sudden stillness.

A spotlight clicks on overhead.

The crew goes quiet. Everyone freezes.

You take your mark. Sirius takes his.

And the board rises. 

“Scene 11, take 1.” Snap.

The clap cuts through the silence, sharp and final.

And in that breathless second after the sound dies—everything begins.

Sirius turns to face you in the darkened basement set, his expression already shifting. The cameras roll, the lights hum, and the line between fiction and reality dissolves like sugar in water.

And just like that, the scene begins.

-

a/n: idk why i cringed so much writing this (i promise pt 2 is much better) anyways, thoughts?

oh and, before anyone comments it; no reader won't be bald like eleven, she has hair.

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Official Guidebook (Vol. 2): Interview with Gavin

Interviewer: Our interview officially begins now. The questions are related to Officer Gavin's personal life and emotions. Do you need some time to get ready?

Gavin: No need, let's start.

Interviewer: As the Commander of the Special Task Force, Officer Gavin has been producing stellar results. It seems that any problems you encounter will be resolved smoothly. Everyone is very curious about whether there things you aren't good at or things that you find difficult at work.

Gavin: Yes. I'm not good with dealing with work related to documentation. Whether I'm dealing with someone else's report or my own reports, my standard is to be clear, factual and to the point. But certain documents have a minimum word requirement. Very often, even after I have described the situation, I still fall far behind the word requirement.

She once gave me feedback that my performance reports were too brief and missed out on many key points that could have been elaborated on. Before her suggestion, it's true that I never thought about how those portions could be elaborated on. I just found them troublesome.

But after some time of training, even though my documentation skills are still far from being adept, I am now able to meet the word requirement as long as I put in the effort. I also spend far less time doing so. In the worst case, I can always ask her for help.

Interviewer: I never expected Officer Gavin to have such an unexpected side. Everyone knows that STF missions are always accompanied by danger. When a mission ends successfully, how do you reward yourself?

Gavin: I'd reward myself with a bowl of beef noodles. If I'm going to Lynn's Kitchen, the boss would give me extra side dishes.

I'd also turn my phone off and have a good sleep.

It doesn't sound like a reward, but I wouldn't do anything special aside from those things. After all, to everyone at the STF, being able to complete a mission successfully is already the greatest reward. A successful mission means that I can return to her side safely, and that is what's most important.

On the other hand, she often prepares many "special surprises" whenever I'm done with a mission.

Because of this, I feel a greater sense of anticipation whenever I'm done with missions. The first thing I do when I'm done with work is to rush back to her side.

Interviewer: Hypothetically speaking, if you had a personal matter to deal with or had to keep an important person company and needed a long break, what would Officer Gavin submit in his request for leave?

Gavin: "I have things to do."

After all, the person who would approve the leave application is myself. I'm the only one who needs to know the reason.

But most of the time, I'd tell a few people in charge about what I have to do, so that it'd be easier for them to find me if any special situations crop up.

Interviewer: It looks like Officer Gavin does not relax even when he's on leave. I've heard from members of the STF that eating is the only time they can take a break. In terms of diet, does Officer Gavin have any strong likes or dislikes?

Gavin: ...I don't like bittergourd. The first time I ate bittergourd, I didn't know that such a vegetable could exist on this earth.

I had a bad impression of it as a child, so I still can't accept its flavour even now.

I don't like lotus seeds, endives, and other vegetables that are bitter. Since I rarely cook them, it's easy to avoid them. I also don't hard chunks of carrot in stew.

Even though I find them difficult to eat, I'll eat what I'm supposed to. After all, being picky isn't a good habit.

Interviewer: I heard that you raise a potted cactus called Thorny. In the process of taking care of Thorny, are there any interesting stories worth sharing?

Gavin: Hmm... I think Thorny is a cactus with a lot of things on its mind.

Thorny is more lively on sunny days than rainy days. I think it really enjoys sunbathing. When it's comfortable in the sun, the spikes on its body would become shiny. But don't ever touch it. It can be quite painful.

Recently, I found out that if I water it too early or too late, it will be a little unhappy. Is it true that cactuses can also "wake up on the wrong side of the bed"?

Sorry, I was rambling a little. In short, Thorny is a very special existence to me, and I will take good care of it.

Interviewer: I originally thought that Officer Gavin only focused on fighting criminals every day and didn't expect you to have such an interesting life. What do you often do after work?

Gavin: As a member of the STF, there isn't a clear concept of going to work and leaving work. Even when it's after work, my phone would be on standby, awaiting orders. The moment a special situation arises, I will immediately put everything else on hold.

At other times, I would fly up to the night sky for a "stroll", watch the sunrise, go for a spin or play basketball. These things make me feel relaxed.

In the past, I would go for spin around the city multiple times. Aside from relaxation, it also helped me to familiarise myself with the various streets in the city, which was helpful when carrying out missions.

But now, my first stop when going for a spin is wherever she is. I'd sometimes send her to work, sometimes pick her up from work, and sometimes just want to see her for a while. My work day doesn't end at a regular time. To save time, I'd often fly straight to her home or office and knock on the window. This used to give her a scare. But she seems to have gradually gotten used to it.

She knows that I just wanted to see her earlier.

Interviewer: Sure enough, the most important people have a subtle influence on our lives. We found a snippet of a treasured video. Let's watch it together.

Note: The video referred to is from the 3rd Anniversary Interview:

Q: How did the two of you meet? Gavin: She came to the head office because of work, and we investigated a case together. But our story actually started much earlier.

Q: What kind of a person is she? Gavin: Mm… She's kind, gentle, very responsible, and very courageous. The sort of… courage which can give me a fright. Without realising it, her hard work and actions motivate the people around her, making this world even better. That’s something incredible. Oh yes, she has great taste. Recently, my house has become much warmer, and it’s all thanks to her. She also remembers some of the habits I don’t even notice. Now that I think about it, being with her is what’s considered “living.” Before, it could only be considered “existing”. I'm not exaggerating. I’ve changed a lot because of her. Before, no matter how difficult of a time I was in, I’d feel as though I could press on for a little longer as long as I thought of her. Because she’s still waiting for me to come home. But now, that’s not all. When I have no choice but to choose danger, I’ll tell myself to be even more cautious, more careful, and resolve it even more perfectly. Because I know that if I were to get injured, she’d be angry, and will cry. So I need to take greater care of myself, and return to her side in perfect condition. Mm… she looks especially pretty when she smiles. Cough… Actually, I don’t really know what to say for this question. She isn’t someone who can be described clearly with a few simple sentences. But she’s very good.

Interviewer: Looking back at that interview, do you still think the same way as before?

Gavin: The same. The current me is still changing because of her.

Interviewer: She is someone whom you cherish greatly - can I describe her that way? When the both of you go on dates, do you make any special preparations?

Gavin: Not really. I'd just confirm the time that we set off, the condition of the route, information of surrounding shops, the temperature and the intensity of the ultraviolet rays on that day and other things. If we are visiting another city or a faraway place, I'd find some shops where we can rest our feet and new places that she might be interested in. Of course, sometimes we would just take a casual stroll in the city.

If I had to say something... perhaps there are some "special preparations" when I return from a mission. For example, doing a meticulous check on myself to see if there are any injuries. Sometimes, I don't notice trivial scratches because I'm too used to them. But her eyes are very sharp when it comes to this. If she discovers them, her expression would be a little... I don't know how best to describe it. Hide them? No. If I do find a wound, I'd first tend to it properly before preparing a reason for it when she asks.

This should count as a "special preparation", right? By the way, please don't tell her about this.

Interviewer: Even though she isn't anywhere nearby, she can still make Officer Gavin this nervous. It looks that Officer Gavin really cares about her! When the two of you are together, when does she make your heart accelerate most?

Gavin: When she looks at me, when she smiles, when she eats delicious food, when she tilts her head to study recipes, when she's serious at work... My heart always stirs at her every action.

My heart accelerates the most when... hmm... (the interviewee sinks into deep contemplation).

(A rather long time passes.)

It should be whenever I return to Loveland City after a mission and see her for the first time. Sometimes, it's when I just push open the door to the house. Sometimes, it's when I fly to her office window. sometimes, it's at the entrance of the STF... When she sees me, her eyes would instantly light up and she would run to me with a smile.

In that moment, I always hear the sound of my heart racing.

Although I've experienced it many times, the moment my sense of longing is perfected, my heart always beats very quickly.

Interviewer: That's incredibly romantic. Do you think that you're a jealous person?

Gavin: Yes. I think it's pretty obvious.

Although when I know that I'm jealous and know that the things I do can be quite childish and have told myself that it isn't a big deal, my actions are a different thing. I can't help it. When it comes to her, I'm petty. Even if people say that I'm the pettiest person in the world, I don't care.

Interviewer: That's an unexpected answer. If she ever asks you a question that has an embarrassing answer, what would you do?

Gavin: ...I guess I would still respond.

Most of the questions that have an "embarrassing answer" that come to my mind are related to emotions hidden in my heart.

I... have never been good at expressing such things, and prefer to take action. But I would try my best to summarise my emotions. I believe that in the end, I would be able to overcome the feeling of embarrassment. Whether it's good or bad, I want to show her everything I have.

That's the frankness and openness that I had promised to her.

Interviewer: What has she ever said to you that left you at a loss?

Gavin: ...I've always been at a loss when it comes to her.

After all, no matter what she does, my only option has always been to give in.

But if she insists on working while sick, or if she doesn't have proper meals, I wouldn't compromise.

Interviewer: I believe that such a person must have left a deep impression on you. After being with her for such a long time, how do you think you have changed?

Gavin: The most obvious change is that life has become much more regular (laughs). People around me have said that she has made me "glossy and shiny".

Personally, I feel that I've become better at taking care of myself, cherishing myself, and letting loose.

I've begun to hope that I'd return to her side safely after every mission, and I don't force myself to shoulder everything. After all, if I don't do certain things well, she would remember these things in secret and find a way to "deal" with me.

For example, if I get seriously injured, she would revoke my "eating spicy food privileges" to prevent my wounds from getting inflamed... Of course, she would also cook nutritious meals for me.

Also, there are more things to worry about now, and I also understand what fear is.

I think these are very good changes. There may be more of such changes in the future.

Interviewer: After being with her, have you done things that you've never done before?

Gavin: Many. She has made my life richer and more interesting.

Performing in plays, getting serious about cooking, being a model, taking wedding photographs...

None of these things had crossed my mind before. Experiences that I thought would never happen in my life have now become irreplaceable memories. This feeling is very magical and I'm very happy.

I hope that I can also bring her a lot of new experiences and make her feel that each day with me is a happy one.

Interviewer: Since you've done many things that you haven't done before, are there any things that you want to do with her but do not dare to?

Gavin: There were many things back in high school, but they've more or less been fulfilled now. Thinking back on it feels a little miraculous. As for now... of course there are. But I can't tell you about them.

There were many in high school, but now they have basically been realised. Turn around. Look, it's a little magical now... of course there are also. But I can't tell you.

Interviewer: In exchange, please tell us a little secret that she doesn't know.

Gavin: Hmm...

When I was shaving a few days ago, I accidentally bumped into a lipstick that she often uses. It fell on the ground and a corner chipped off.

But I bought her an identical one and put it back in secret. She shouldn't be able to tell... right?

There's an obvious difference between a used and new lipstick? Of course I know that. Which is why I wore it down a little with tissue...

It's still noticeable?!

...

Mm...

...

Do you think I shouldn't have done that?

Interviewer: It would be best for Officer Gavin to consider the lipstick problem by himself! If there is a challenge called "How long can you not think about her", how long do you think your record would be?

Gavin: This challenge wouldn't work for me.

A challenge means is that there is a competition arising from a set goal, and participants would need to have certain qualities to be evenly matched.

I don't have an option of "not thinking about her", so I feel that this record would not exist.

Interviewer: After hearing your answer, I believe your daily life with her must be very sweet. What do you think of creating little surprises in your life together?

Gavin: At first, I didn't care much about "surprises", so I did whatever that came to mind, whether it's visiting her or other things. There was a time when I reflected on whether these overly direct actions would bother her, so I would subconsciously consider what she wanted a little more. I couldn't help it. When I'm with her, I'm not like myself sometimes.

After being together for a long time and understanding each other better, we became more at ease. I found out that she actually liked some of the ways I behaved in the past. During those times, her eyes would be bright when she looks at me, and very pretty. So from time to time, I'd do some things to her that are... how should I put it... "out of character", and some things I'd want to do when I feel greedy.

She likes it, and so do I.

Maybe this is the so-called sense of surprise.

Interviewer: Well, I won't hold Officer Gavin back from work. I'll use the final question to wrap up this interview! If you were to use a phrase to describe your feelings towards each other, what would it be?

Gavin: "The only one."

The only one whose heart stirs. The only one who decides destiny. The only starting point and ending point.

If there is someone on earth who could make me give everything to her without hesitation, it would be her.

✧ Sub-masterlist

[under-my-pillow]

Su-won's Character Development Chart Part I

I am doing this as a personal exercise to prove that Su-won has a lacking character development problem.

Another thing to note, Su-won accurately pin-points the looming poverty crisis, lack of trade & realizes Chishin can't simply rely on its dwindling mineral resources, has obviously done some research on the trends in Kai to tell Yun-ho to serve her tea to the visiting Kai merchants. - Hmm...that's an awful lot of insight for a guy who has a poor point of view.

Something interesting about this arc which might be less obvious is the moment when Hak sees Su-won for the first time since the coup.

When Yona sees Su-won for the first time, she is frozen, drowning in her thoughts and isn't able to make a decision before Su-won stops her. In a similar manner, when Hak sees Su-won, Su-won isn't able to make a decision until Jae-ha stops Hak.

I have always felt the Sei arc is the most emotionally complicated arc written by Kusa in AnY. We see many characters forced to face the feelings they have locked away. Hak, Yona, Su-won, Ju-doh, Ki-ja, even Mun-deok.

Also since the story is mostly about Yona I don't think many people actually realize how much Su-won has grown into his role as king. How much will, effort & reason it takes to stop oneself from getting drunk on the victories, the power.

It cannot be denied. Su-won had a violent, oppressive start. It was necessary at that time, but what many don't realize is how easy it is to continue on that lane especially when it comes to power, but Su-won grabbed every opportunity possible to change lanes.

Also we end up contemplating what determines right? Ki-ja says Hiryuu is the rightful owner of the country. Does that mean if roles were to flip and Yona was not a reincarnation of Hiryuu no matter what she did for the people and the country do not matter? or Is he referring to her right as the daughter of the former king?

Second thing about this arc is when Hak & Su-won work together. We are shown Yona's thoughts asking herself how they turned out like this. I believe it is possible that it was not only Yona asking herself that. We all know how well our author loves to play with parallels.

The third interesting thing about this arc is we are given a small insight into Mun-deok's complicated feelings towards Su-won too.

I think time has given him an opportunity to make peace with the Su-won's ascension to King. Despite his mixed feelings he was even expecting Su-won to get married and have an heir

So to summarize part one -

Kills IL - chases Yona Hak out of the castle - suppresses wind tribe - Becomes King - Hides Yona - Improves earth tribe economy- gains the respect of Geuntae - stops fire tribe rebellion - teaches kyo-ga how to rule and trusts him as the next head (cause its very easy to trust the son of the man who started a rebellion to not stab you in the back.) - investigates nadai - motivates Lili to stand up for her tribe - thwarts a south kai fleet - gains Joon-gi's support - reclaims lost territory (there was a slight mishap with Kin province) - thwarts a future Sei invasion - starts facing his feelings towards Hak and Yona.

Nope, no growth at all.

[crazyforsturniolo]

Promise

taglist_ masterlist_

Summary: You've always had a little crush on Matt, but you thought you were far too innocent for him. Plus he was Quenston's best friend so he was totally off limits, Quen had made sure to remind you of that multiple times when you were kids. Matt thought you were like no other girl, he only did one night stands and didn't care about other girl's feelings. The truth is, he'd always thought you were kind of cute. Of course he'd never admit or act on that... what happens when he does?

01: She was so peaceful and innocent, even demons fell in love with her.

You fussed quietly with the ribbons on your shoes, making sure they were just right. The soft fabric felt smooth against your fingertips as you carefully tied the laces, glancing at your reflection in the mirror. Your cheeks flushed slightly, nerves fluttering in your stomach.

"Klo! Hurry up! You’re gonna be late!" Quenston’s voice called sharply from downstairs, his tone playful but impatient

Startled, you quickly finished tying your shoes and straightened your dress. You grabbed your bag and took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. Today was your first big ballet show, and the idea of performing in front of an audience made your heart race.

You hesitated for a moment, glancing once more at your reflection, feeling a strange mixture of excitement and nervousness. It was silly, really—just a little dance, but to you, it felt like so much more.

A knock on the door startled you, making you jump.

"I said I'm almost done Quen-" You turned around, expecting your brother but instead, there stood Matt. He was leaning against the door frame, wearing dark baggy jeans and a white button up, a leather jacket draped over his shoulder.

"Matty," You smiled, all your nerves disappearing. You walked toward him, standing on your toes in your ballet shoes. Your arms wrapped around his neck and giggled before pulling back. "What are you doing here?!"

"You didn't really think I was gonna miss your first real on-stage ballet performance, did you?" He smirked "Well y'better get going. Don't wanna miss your first show, do ya?"

Your head snapped up and you pushed past him, practically sprinting down the stairs where your brother and parents were waiting with upset looks on their faces.

"Let's go Klover!" Your father says, tapping his watch.

~~

The music swelled, a rich, resonant crescendo filling the theatre. Sunlight, fractured by the stained-glass windows, painted the floor in shifting patterns of gold and crimson.

You moved. Not a hesitant, tentative movement, but a controlled, fluid dance. Your arms, long and graceful, traced elegant arcs across the air, then coiled tight as you pirouetted. Each step, each leap, possessed a perfect rhythm, a silent conversation between your body and the music.

Your pointe shoes, a whisper of ivory against the polished wood floor, glided effortlessly. The delicate pliés, the sharp arabesques, the soaring jetés – every movement spoke of hours of practice, of dedication, of a deep, unspoken connection to the art. The audience held its breath, captivated by the sheer perfection of it all.

As you twirled across the stage, you felt your heart pounding in your chest, a mixture of exhilaration and nerves. Every step you took felt like it was part of a story only you could tell, a secret dance between your dreams and the music. Your breath came steady, controlled — a testament to all those late nights practicing in the mirror, perfecting each pose, each extension.

As the final note of the music lingered in the air, you held your pose, chest rising and falling softly, eyes fixed on the stage floor. For a moment, everything was still — the silence was almost sacred, as if the world had paused to hold its breath with you. Then, slowly, a gentle ripple of applause started, growing steadily into a thunderous applause that filled the theatre.

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, a small, shy smile curling on your lips as the audience’s praise washed over you. The spotlight shone brightly, but all you could see were the faces, shining with admiration, faces that belonged to strangers yet somehow felt like part of this moment.

Your heart fluttered again, a warm rush of pride and nervousness. You took a small bow, feeling the weight of the applause, and the ache in your legs from the dance.

You made your way backstage, your legs still a little shaky from the adrenaline, but your heart pounding with excitement. The crowd’s applause still echoed faintly in your ears as you pushed open the curtain and stepped into the corridor.

Ahead, you spotted your parents, their faces bright with pride, eyes shining as they hurried toward you. You hurried into their embrace, cheeks flushing with happiness as they showered you with praise and congratulations.

"Did you see her? That was incredible!" your mom whispered, tears glistening in her eyes as she gently stroked your hair.

Your dad nodded, smiling wide. “You were amazing, Klo. We’re so proud of you.”

Turning slightly, you caught sight of Quenston leaning against the wall, a rare softness in his usually teasing expression. He grinned and ruffled your hair. "Told you you’d do great," he said, voice proud and warm.

Then your gaze shifted further up, to the stands where Matt was sitting. His eyes immediately found yours, and there was that flicker of something you couldn’t quite read—something softer, more genuine. He was clapping, slow and deliberate, a small smile playing on his lips.

He nodded at you, eyes warm. "Congratulations," he said quietly, voice low enough that only you could hear.

Your cheeks warmed again, a flutter of nervousness and pride swirling inside you. You nodded back, unable to find the right words, feeling like this moment was somehow just the beginning of something quietly special.

~~

You stepped through the front door, still feeling the buzz of adrenaline from the performance. The warm glow of the house wrapped around you, making everything feel a little calmer, a little more familiar. Your shoes thudded softly on the floor as you kicked them off, and you took a deep breath, letting the quiet comfort settle over you.

Quenston was already in the living room, leaning back on the couch with a casual, almost nonchalant look. He glanced up as you entered, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"So," he started, voice a little teasing, "Matt and I are staying home from college for a while."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Wait, what?"

He nodded, his grin widening. "Yeah. Both of us. We’re not going back just yet. Said we need a break or whatever. And… Matt’s gonna stay here too. At the house."

Your mind spun a little at the news. "Really? Just… staying here?"

Quenston shrugged, stretching his arms over his head. "Yeah. He’s got some stuff to figure out, and it’s easier being close to home. Plus, he’s gonna help out around here for a bit."

You felt a strange flutter in your stomach—part curiosity, part nervousness. You’d known Matt as Quenston’s friend, but now, knowing he’d be staying with you all for a while… it made everything feel a little different.

Quenston leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "And don’t worry, we won't bother you. Probably just be in my room playing video games. You'll see us at breakfast and shit."

Your cheeks warmed again, and you looked away, trying to hide the little smile tugging at your lips. You weren’t sure what to say, but the idea of Matt being around more, just in the house, made your heart beat just a little faster.

You nodded, smiling as you told your brother goodnight and went upstairs to your bedroom.

Tags: @bushnellswife @silenceb3tweensongs @courta13 @sturnsblogs

[kerryshifts]

ugh, i know how this is going to sound, and i promise this isn’t your typical “iS sHiFtiNg rEaL” question, so please hear me out lol.

the thing is i’ve been getting a lot of videos from shifters on tiktok lately, and it’s really starting to feel like 2020 over there again. a lot of og shifters on that platform are talking about shifting almost as if they don’t believe in shifting at all, like for example, the consciousness theory. now, i believed that we all agreed that shifting and your drs are very much real and that these theories are just an idea as to how it’s possible, and NOT that the theory itself means that they think their drs are only happening inside of their head, sort of like a dream. point is, it’s created a lot of doubt to see them say that permashifting isn’t possible, liking comments that basically say that shifting is akin to a deep meditative state or an ultra real vivid dream, etc, especially after these are people who have claimed to have shifted for years now and have been helping others as well. (and have *massive* platforms)

so my question is not “is shifting real” but more, i guess, how real is it in actuality? is it ACTUALLY just like this reality where we’re JUST as grounded, have all of our senses, and it all operates how it does here? i hope this question doesn’t annoy you, and if it does please feel free to skip it, but i guess ive just been feeling silly because i did plan on eventually permashifting to my main dr and it breaks my heart to see fellow shifters say that the experience is ‘real’ but that it’s not physical (whatever the hell that means) or as important as this reality.

for context, the way i see shifting is that we simply switch our awareness between very real and physical places. all of it is real life and the real world, we’re just choosing what to be aware of, sort of like switching the channel yk? just because you switch it doesn’t mean the other channels cease to exist or aren’t as valid as the channel you’re currently in. but am i wrong, is there maybe something i’m misunderstanding?

thank you in advance if you do see this, and thank you for your page! it’s always been massively helpful. and again, i really hope this ask doesn’t bother you, i just feel like i need someone to confirm outright that shifting is what i think it is and that i haven’t foolishly misunderstood. much love to you!!

this annoys me, but only because you and other people keep basing your opinions and trust on big creators. i understand that you being worried that all we on tumblr say is fake, and i understand that people who say they have shifted multiple times feel more reliable to people who didn’t shift.

and the thing is: you can have your own opinion. if you shifted, if you didn’t shift, if you are an anti shifter. shifting is personal to you and you only, and you are allowed to express what you think shifting is. but other people are allowed to think differently.

i know people who permashifted. mutuals here on tumblr who deactivated their accounts after permashifting, and other accounts who just said goodbye and told us that they were going to permashift and not be active anymore. do i consider shifters who say that permashifting isn’t possible idiots? yes! but they are still entitled to their opinions.

sorry but i am a firmer believer that shiftok is not reliable for informations. even the big shiftokers. because i honestly never seen people on tumblr say that permashifting is not possible. i have never seen someone on tumblr say that shifting is just being in a deep meditative state (that's a way to shift. not what your dr is).

and people can have preferences. someone might prefer their drs to this, someone might prefer their cr to their dr. there’s nothing wrong with it, and i don’t see why this demotivates you. like, it’s okay to have a favourite life. for example i care more about my marauders dr than my singer dr. its not a crime. and….. the experience is physical. that’s why it’s called shifting and not astral projection. or lucid dream. like ?? hello people ???? why do we have this side of tumblr ??

and i also see shifting as switching a channel. but as i said, people on tiktok make it complicated. if thats their opinion than okay, good for them if it makes them happy. like if they say that shifting is just a ultra realistic dream ….. girl. what even is the point in having a tumblr account. let's stop with the misinformation ????????

[littlestarbigsky]

i said i'd be back with headcanons so here they are.. these bitches have occupied every ounce of my brain power for the past two weeks lol

chronically ill bev🩵

- she's got a handful of things going on, someone sent in anemia and i rlly like that, im also thinking she has some kind of serious gastro-intestinal issue. i also think she has some form of alopecia, but she never tells anyone about that - with her stomach issues, she had to have a feeding tube placed at one point because her body literally couldn't tolerate food. she absolutely didn't want it and she fought it the whole time, but it wasn't a question of whether or not she wanted one, she would go into organ failure if they didn't get something in her - i also have this really sick and twisted hc that after she had her feeding tube placed, it still wasn't enough and they had to remove one of her kidneys to keep the other one from failing - with her anemia, she's always tired, always cold, and always has a headache, tylenol and ibuprofen are her best friends. she doesn't really have the issue of passing out when she stands up, but that's mostly because she's really good at managing it by now

marcia with tremors💚

- it started when she was little, i think she had some kind of speech impediment/stutter when she was in preschool/kindergarten, but grew out of it. however, when they started focusing on fine motor skills, she fell behind because she couldn't stop her hands from shaking. - she's not an angry or aggressive person, but her tremor is one of the only things that truly fills her with anger. when she was 8, she smashed a ceramic teapot on the floor because she kept spilling the tea at her stuffed animal tea party - she really has to put so much time into her school work because she's a perfectionist but her handwriting is messy because of how badly her hands shake, she spends hours on hours trying to keep her notes legible - her parents really don't get it... they try, by replacing all of their glassware with a nice plastic that won't break if marcia drops it, but they still get mad at her when she spills. they won't sit with her if it takes her longer to finish her food - speaking of marcia's parents, they stop going to doctor's appointments the minute she turns 18 because she can go by herself, and i always hc her parents to be pretty absent. marcia is just as much of a latchkey kid as two-bit, her house is just nicer

cherry with insomnia🩷

- cherry baby has not known a moment of peace once in her life !! from all the pressure her parents put on her to the way she's expected to be perfect at school (by her teachers, by her friends), she's so exhausted by all of it but still feels like she has no idea who she is.. and it keeps her up at night - i also hc that cherry was sick a lot as a baby (not like scary-hospital type sick, more like she had a bunch of ear infections/strep throat/little infections) but she never really learned proper sleep patterns when she was supposed to. - normally, she falls in this really frustrating middle ground where its hard for her to stay up all night becuase the tired only hits her at like 4-5am, but if she's in a bad season, she'll go 2-3 days without sleeping, functioning perfectly fine, maybe just a bit more emotional. - every now and then it's useful, like studying for finals, or when she and her friends miscalculate how long a drive home will take and she's still wide awake at midnight, but she's mostly - she learned to avoid sleepovers at a young age because she got tired of being the only one still awake at 3 in the morning. - and in true cherry fashion: she thinks it's her fault. she thinks that she should be able to just shut her brain off and not think the way she does, she makes herself so mad all the time over it.

trip with anxiety and an irregular heartbeat💙

- the funny(ish) thing about trip's irregular heartbeat is that it probably never would have been an issue if he wasn't such an anxious person... but bro is always worryin about somethin, so his heart is always havin problems - i imagine him with POTS, which wasn't recognized as a condition until the 1990's, but before then, it was categorized as an irregular heartbeat or anxiety - bro just rlly needs to drink more water or SOMETHIN bc he's definitely doing his best but if marcia or brill aren't actively refilling his water bottle and giving him gatorade, he's seeing stars every time he stands up - melvin and his parents are aware that it's an issue but he also never really talks about it so it doesn't become something he talks to a doctor about for a good while. by the time they actually see a doctor they're pretty sure it's gotten a lot worse - there has definitely been a night or two that he's been sent to the hospital after going too hard at football practice and they have to put him on a hydration drip to get him under control

brill with an eating disorder💚

- oh brill my baby.. tbh he just never properly understood the necessity of properly fueling his body, and he was constantly ridiculed by his parents for eating too much, not eating enough, so eventually he just stopped trying - 100% the type to think an espresso shot in the morning counts as breakfast (thank god they didn't have redbull bc this boy would singlehandedly keep that entire company running) - another rlly important bit with brill is that he is so wrapped up in taking care of bev that he forgets that he needs food and water. he would be spoon feeding her applesauce because he hasn't seen her eat in three days but he hasn't eaten in that time either - he is constantly being strong for everyone around him and doesn't realize that he's crashing until it's really bad. he'll lose weight over the winter and spring and not notice until they're going swimming that summer and suddenly, "oh shit, where did half my body weight go?" - basically, he doesn't mean to, but it's still a problem

[brookaboo]

Sparks Fly (literally)

Denki kaminari x fem!reader

summary: your wonderful boyfriend might have used his quirk to much and now is short circuiting but don’t worry your there to help him

warnings: mild violence, Electric shock(brief), mild language, blood(nosebleed), protective behavior, Use of y/n

The Sports Festival had barely reached the halfway point and already Denki had pushed his quirk past the red line—again.

You’d seen the buildup coming. The determined expression, the small grin, the wild spark in his eyes right before unleashing a full-voltage attack that left half the stage scorched… and Denki himself?

Well.

“HEH-HEH. I’M A TOASTER WITH EMOTIONS.”

He was gone.

You bolted toward him, barely registering the cheers or the snide laughter from somewhere to your left—until a voice cut through the noise like nails on a chalkboard.

“Wow, Kaminari! Big brain move, buddy! Nothing like completely frying your own neurons in front of thousands!” Monoma’s voice was practically gleeful, smug and loud as always. “How do you even havea girlfriend—does she like picking potatoes off the floor?”

You didn’t even pause.

SMACK!

Right upside Monoma’s smug little head.

“Shut your mouth,” you snapped, fuming. “Keep running it and I’ll make sure Kendo accidentallyactivates her quirk while you sleep.”

Right on cue—WHOMP.

Kendo appeared behind Monoma with the grace of a ninja and smacked him in the back of the neck with a giant, flat palm. Monoma dropped like a sack of laundry mid-rant.

She huffed and looked at you apologetically. “Sorry. He’s been unbearable all week.”

You giggled. “Don’t apologize. That was therapeutic.”

Kendo smiled. “You’re welcome,” she said as she dragged Monoma away like a cat carrying its kitten.

With that taken care of, you rushed to Denki’s side. He sat crisscross on the ground, tongue slightly out, face dopey and dazed, sparking gently from his temples.

“Y/N!!! You’re so… wow…your eyes are like two little suns but not fire suns, like…juice suns…”

“Hi, baby,” you laughed, kneeling beside him.

You gently took his hand—but zzzzap!

“OW—Okay, okay! That was…that was my fault,” you hissed, shaking your hand.

Denki blinked, his brain still boot-looping. “W-wait—I HURT YOU?? Oh nooooo! I’m a danger to society! I’m a love hazard! I—I need to be quarantined! FOR YOUR SAFETY!”

Despite the buzz of sparks and static, you giggled, leaning in to press a kiss against his cheek. “Denki. Sweetheart. It’s fine.”

BOOM.

Nosebleed. Instantly.

He made a noise halfway between a microwave dying and a walrus choking. “You…k-k-k-k-kissed meeee—my system is overheating—meltdown imminent!!”

You laughed even harder and shook your head. “You’re such a dork.”

You slid his sleeve over his sparking hand to insulate it, then gently held his covered fingers. “Come on, baby. Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

Denki didn’t resist, rambling the whole time as you tugged him down the hall.

“Your smile is like…like a blanket, but for the heart…and your nose is so nose-shaped…I love that for you…”

You guided him into an empty equipment room—only to freeze.

“THE HELL are you doing here, you damn nerd?” Bakugo snapped, already sitting on the counter next to Kirishima, who looked like he was mid-story about protein powder.

Kirishima perked up. “Hey, Y/N! What’s up?”

You weren’t in the mood.

“Bakugo. Shut up and get out.”

But then you looked at Kirishima “hey Kiri”

Kirishima smiled as you returned his greeting 

Bakugo blinked, about to yell something else—until he spotted Denki, still babbling and twitching beside you.

“…What the hell happened to Sparky over here?” he muttered.

Kirishima leaned forward, concerned. “Yeah…he looks kinda brain dead. Is our bro okay?”

You nodded and sighed. “Yeah, he short-circuited again. Used too much voltage during the match and then that loser Monoma started mocking him while he was like this I could only manage to smack him upside his stupid head”

Kirishima nodded and look at you as he said “wow you are so manly for doing that or wait…..womanly”

Bakugo’s entire demeanor changed. He stood up slowly, cracking his neck and knuckles 

“…That copy-cat bastard’s gonna die.”

And then he left. No further questions.

Kirishima scratched the back of his neck “I should probably go with him…still not sure if I’m gonna help or stop him, though.”

You smiled warmly. “Fair. Go be manly or whatever.”

Kirishima grinned, threw you a thumbs-up, and disappeared after Bakugo yelling “Baku-Bro wait for your manly backup”

You giggled Now it was just you and Denki.

You sat him down on a bench and gently smoothed out his hair, the static crackling against your fingers.

“I like your hair. It’s like a…a a beautiful lightning carpet. Did I ever tell you you smell like strawberries? Not like the fruit. Like…strawberry shampoo. But emotionally.”

You giggled. “I don’t even know what that means.”

He blinked, still dazed. “It means…I love you. And also I think I might be…um…your toaster boyfriend.”

You kissed his forehead and tucked his hair behind his ear. “And you’re my favorite toaster. Now rest. I’ve got you.”

Denki melted into your touch, finally relaxing a little.

Even if his brain was fried, his heart was in perfect working order.

[jayceofprogress]

“It’s not expensive,” Jayce amends, backpedalling. He doesn’t need Viktor thinking he’s becoming infected with the same snobbery as the rest of the Council. Maybe he already does, and it’s part of the reason he seems to regret their night together so much. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t beautiful. Or valuable. You should see how many butterflies and hummingbirds visit my mom’s garden in the spring. She’s always telling me it’s the highlight of her entire year. I think it’s worth more because of the difference it makes. How much more meaningful things are because of its presence.”

He isn’t sure whether he’s still talking about the flowers. Ignoring Viktor’s clear attempt at dismissing him, he leans on the edge of the desk. The tension across his entire body is hard to ignore. Jayce hates this; hates how uncomfortable Viktor looks, how unhappy. He wants to pick him up and carry him somewhere far from the city and all its mess.

“We don’t have to do this, you know.” He says it to the papers, ducking down to avoid looking at Viktor’s face. “We can find other ways to fund the filtration system. Shoola, for instance—we’ve probably got a better chance of getting her on our side than Salo anyway. I’ll talk to her about some of her petitions. And then if that fails…”

He exhales, and looks back up at Viktor. He should’ve been honest about his feelings on this from the start. Better late than never, he figures. “I’ll step down from the Council. It’s been too much of a distraction to our work. I hate feeling this…division between us. It’s all my fault. I haven’t been here for you the way I should’ve, and if I can’t even get our own projects through, what’s the point?”

Jayce stands awkwardly beside Viktor’s desk, and clears his throat. His hands are clasped behind his back in a strangely formal, nervous stance.

“Hi, Viktor. Good afternoon. Sorry to interrupt you. I know you’re in the middle of something. I just wanted to confirm what your favorite kind of flowers are. It’s work-related.”

- @jayceofprogress

Viktor tensed, when Jayce came over. Purposely not looking up from his notes to just try and avoid the awkward air that formality between them brought. Though he couldn't help but glance over for a second when Jayce asks about flowers, of all things, confused until it hits him.

"Ah. For the, eh, event with Salo? I have never put much thought into it, you can get whatever you think is best. You are better at these kind of…caring about appearance things."

He pauses a moment, though, in clear thought, before speaking again.

"Though…what were those ones Ximena was planting last time I was over? The red ones? Perhaps…Salvia? I liked those. They were rather striking."