#why is it that people think it's still okay to do that on posts by transfeminists? (<- knows the answer)
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emmanation · 1 day ago
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the senses shift last mindset is quietly ruining your journey
this whole senses shift last business has become a bit of a poisoned chalice. and i'm not saying that it's completely off the mark, it's not, but people take it and run in the entirely wrong direction. and when you're on the wrong track, no amount of speed is going to get you where you're meant to be.
so, now what it ends up doing is sneaking delay in through the back door.
like, okay, let's say you've ticked the box, signed the form, said "i'm in my dr," and then instead of just cracking on with it, you sit tight, waiting for the walls to turn marble white gold and the air to smell like the fragrance of jannah. and when that doesn't happen in five minutes flat, you say.....ah, well. senses shift last. i suppose it's still on the way.
when you do that, what you're actually doing is making waiting your state. we're past the point where you're assuming you're already there, now you're just assuming that you'll get there eventually, which means you're not there yet. and if you're not there yet, where are you?
right. still over here.
people in this community treat delay as if it's some abstract obstacle imposed by the universe or whatever system you subscribe to, alas, it is not an admin error or a queue in customs. it is entirely a you thing. it is you assuming it'll happen later, that it's not here now. that it's coming, but not arrived. and because you assume that, your awareness sits in the version of reality where you're still waiting.
it is entirely self-fulfilling, and you're dressing for a flight you've already missed.
the trouble is that people are pinning everything on the moment it feels different. they want the moment and the proof and the gut punch of realisation that comes along with it. but if you're chasing a moment, you're not living in the state, now you're just chasing it. you're treating the assumption as if it's a bet you picked, and now you're pacing the bookie's window to see if your horse came in, that's not how it works.
what's happening under the hood is: you affirm i am in my dr, and in doing so, you're placing your awareness there. like actually and practically because now that's where you are. and every time you come back to it, i am in my dr, you're reorienting. literally adjusting the wheel while driving. i hope. HOPE! you know that you're not waiting for something to occur, now you're just staying in line with what already is.
now, if instead, you go: "i am in my dr, but nothing has changed, so maybe it’s not working yet" then congratulations, you've booted yourself out of the assumption and back into the waiting room.
you're checking the post box for a letter you already wrote, signed, sealed, and sent to yourself.
this is what senses shift last should mean, that the feedback from your senses is often lagging behind the state you've chosen, and not because it's trying to punish you or teach you something. it's just a matter of where attention goes, your five senses are creatures of habit, they need a bit of time to catch up with what you've already internally accepted.
if you're standing around waiting for confirmation, you're doing what every beginner in this space does. you're treating the assumption as a request, not as the shift itself. you're assuming "i've affirmed, now the world will show me something." which is not how it works, the shift doesn't happen after the world proves it. the shift IS the moment you assumed. the rest is none of your business.
you think you're being realistic by saying "well, obviously it's not here yet, but it will be," but actually what you're doing is anchoring yourself to that very state of absence.
cause now every time you look around and say, it's not here yet, but it will be, you are doubling down on the idea that it's not here yet, not that it might be.
you're essentially watering the weed and then wondering why your flower bed is bare.
delay is not about time, nor is it about the universe putting you in a holding pen. your brain is dragging its feet. it's about you saying, i'll believe it when i see it, and then not seeing it, and then not believing it. and round it goes.
that's what delay is. it's a treadmill.
because you're literally not waiting for your senses. they are waiting for YOU.
this isn't a call for blind faith or performative cheerfulness or about pretending something's real until you're blue in the face.
you're understanding that awareness is the engine room, what you pay attention to IS what you affirm, and what you affirm is where you go.
so stop treating your senses like a litmus test.
it doesn't matter if you feel it. it doesn't matter if you see it.
it does not at all matter if the walls are still the same colour or your hands look the same. what matters is: did you say it? did you assume it? then that's it, and you're done, and now hold your line.
if you want to actually live in your dr, and not just sit at the platform waiting for the train to arrive, you've got to stop asking your senses for permission. so stop waiting for the fireworks, stop treating doubt like a weather system you have to brace for, your assumption is the state, your awareness is the shift.
now before the whole thing gets tied up with a neat little bow, we've got to address the panic side of things. because if there's one thing that really gums up the works, it's people thinking that their assumption isn't good enough, or isn't working, or that they've somehow done it wrong.
and once that line of thinking creeps in, the whole thing starts unravelling like a jumper caught on a nail.
so let's get this down plain and clear: changing your assumption is not akin to some metaphysical divorce proceeding.
you're not locked into one idea like it's a mortgage. you're allowed to, and in fact expected to, reorient. if you realise you've gone off course or gotten spooked by the silence, all you've got to do is pick a new line and keep walking. no bells and whistles, you shift the assumption, not the stars.
when you panic over whether or not the assumption is solid, or whether you've ruined the shift by having a bit of a wobble, you're playing hide and seek with your own reality. and not in a fun way.
you're the one with your hands on the wheel, right? and if you're constantly waiting for someone else to tell you it's safe to proceed, you're going to end up stuck at the lights until kingdom come.
when you fall into this pattern, the checking, the worrying, the outsourcing, what you're really doing is giving your power away to an imaginary tribunal. you're acting as if there's a central authority somewhere, monitoring your thoughts and stamping them approved or denied. there isn't, it's just you, always has been.
and yes, of course senses shift last can be comforting. especially for people who've spent years waiting, waiting to be seen, waiting to be chosen, waiting to feel different, waiting for a break, it slots right into the familiar groove. it says: don't worry, the delay is part of the process. you're doing fine. you'll get there. just trust this.
and it's tempting to cling to that, because in a world that runs on deferred gratification, it fits like an old pair of shoes.
alas, that comfort can turn into complacency, and then into passivity, and then into this soft-focus patience that masks what's actually happening, which is: you're sitting in the same place, hoping something external will do the heavy lifting.
but yet. shifting isn't something done to you, it's something you are.
you don't need to sit and twiddle your thumbs while waiting for confirmation.
nor do you need to wrestle with the question of whether it's happening.
you say it, and then you hold your line.
and if you wobble? if you slip? if the old assumptions creep back in? no need to light a candle or start over.
just drop the old one as if it's a bad habit and keep going. carry on as if.
that's all.
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special applause reserved to the loveliest to lovely @sheeezu, who was my think thank throughout this.
i do have to also point out that this is in no way shape or form directed at any sort of shifting creators, but just of a collective mindset that i have seen people twisting an originally very correct thing into!!!!!!
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jingerpi · 3 days ago
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dear us liberals: do y'all know about "the box"? the one you have to check when you're applying for school or a job that says whether or not you're a felon? you know how activists have been trying to ban it for years?
consider the implications of that and why its important
now tell me again why you need to stalk and harass and air out minorities online for their mistakes or worse, their already private, personal, kinks and fetishes? explain to me why it's justified to remove someone from society because of how they've Posted™?
While I don't want to reify legal systems, you know many felons are such because of violent crimes right? like people do kill each other sometimes, and still we organize in real life not just to stop discrimination based off felon status, but to ban asking about it entirely!
I feel it really gives some perspective to how ruthless and vindicative these online mob justice campaigns are. I don't really know how to end this post just... think carefully, consider the impacts of your actions. yes maybe attacking someone will make you look good or be beneficial for your social clique but it will eventually turn on you. this method of engagement is fundamentally bankrupt and if you defend it then you're positioning yourself against basically every oppressed group. maybe you're okay with that now but I promise you in the end it will not work out in your favor.
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velvetvexations · 2 days ago
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This just isn't true. Like, that's false. Trans men are treated like subhuman t-slurs constantly, all the time, but no one listens to them and just tells them they're lying about it. They're constantly treating trans men that way! A few trans men chiming in to say "well I've been extremely fortunate" does not make that any less true than when Caitlyn Jenner or Blair White dismiss transmisogyny. It happens to trans men all the time.
And trans men being given male privilege within queer communities is this really weird assumption that the queer community is somehow 1:1 with the cishetpatriarchy, which makes no sense. Queer people are absolutely the part of the population who will have most hugely varied attitudes about gender. Gay cis men think they're disgusting abominations. Yall think they're whiners who aren't oppressed more than cis women. A subreddit with half a million subscribers just deleted a trans man's post and banned him for three days because saying trans men are often not talked about was "bitching." And literally none of yall are talking about that, one of the biggest hubs for trans people on the internet shut down for a bit and had mass defections, and this is not newsworthy to a lot of people because it's wildly against the narrative.
It's just not true, no one listens to them, no one hears the things they're actually saying, they just misgender them calling them transandroterfs and th***abs, or c**tboys who should commit suicide. Extremely popular transfem bloggers do this all the time to zero effect on their clout while transmisogynistic trans men usually get the shit dogpiled out of them by the people being called transandroterfs. GQD got an atomic bomb of backlash from people who believe in transandrophobia for saying some trans women needed to unlearn toxic masculinity and then apologized profusely, but it still gets treated like a sin that it wasn't publicly executed in the streets while even worse equivalent behavior is just Based Transfeminist Memes.
No one has any idea what transandrophobia actually is because no tries to understand it and just assume it's about socialization or AGAB or other things it is not even tangentially related to. Believing in transandrophobia is not even technically incompatible with TMA/TME framework and the belief trans women have it even worse, but you just don't believe trans men experience meaningful transphobia distinct from the oppression cis women face, which given yall also think it's okay to misgender cis people because you don't think they have their genders denied in a way that harms them, explains a lot of why yall keep calling them whiny short soft-music females-at-birth.
Just engage with more transmascs. Transmascs who you don't currently agree with already. Please. Please, please, please stop calling oppressed people liars when they tell you they have a slit throat and are bleeding all over you. They do not deny transmisogyny. They do not think they are more oppressed than us. They just want you to see their pain too.
"in Queer spaces where gender identities are recognized over agab trans men have male privilege" okay by that logic trans women have male privilege in every space where they are seen as men which is essentially just saying terfs are right. Also for that to be true we wouldn't have trans men talking about how misogyny against them gets worse even in trans spaces when they transition. So once again your ideology is stupid bc its just recycled terf talking points.
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cloudycleric · 10 hours ago
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okay—more comprehensive post on my analysis of the ‘mileven’ scene in the teaser.
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to me, these shots don’t seem romantic. maybe i’m crazy, but they just don’t. maybe because there are NO other shots in the trailer that scream romantic, so this would be very out of place even if it did read like that. i pointed this out in my original post, but if this shot was focusing on mike AND EL’S relationship, why is el so dark in the close up with mike?
we’ve also seen mike be ‘romantic’—to me, he just doesn’t have that look in his eyes. he looks more sad than anything, & dare i say, heartbroken.
now i think this is a scene where mike is confessing something & let me explain why.
el is obscured in the shot focusing on mike. we can’t see her facial expression, even from the side, very well—we’re supposed to be focused 100% on mike & what he has to say. el’s hand on his cheek seems to be one of comfort, not a romantic gesture, & so does the hand hold you can see in the other shot.
in the wide shot, too, you can see that they are sitting on something with a door—to me, it kind of look like it could be a bath type thing with a door on the top. now, i don’t know what exactly it is, but to me, sitting in front of an open door could symbolize being more open with each other. & who is doing the talking & being open…? mike. he could be telling el about how he’s scared of losing her, how he loves her, etc. but to me, if my best friend was in the same place, i’d tell them that, too. & it just doesn’t feel romantic, like i said.
also, i feel like people may think this is ‘romantic’ purely because this is showing a girl & a boy. if it was karen instead of el, we’d think it’s a mother comforting her son, or even if it was will instead of mike, we’d think is el comforting her brother.
now, this scene also looks very similar to one that noah schnapp posted on his instagram:
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sure, they aren’t touching, but i think what’s important here is that will, illuminated by the light, is talking to el, who seems to be listening, & is on the right side of the screen.
the lighting is also very similar. this could be because this is all from the same season, & seasons need a cohesive look, but the dark room with a light on the ceiling is very similar.
will is obviously this focus of this shot, being the only one illuminated. this goes for both shots—but the duffers love to use lighting to show the focus of a scene—remember the cabin scene from the stranger things 4 finale? the light was shining on will, & will was the one confessing how he still felt vecna’s presence.
not to mention how both will & mike are lit by the same warm, almost orange, light in both scenes. visually, they are very similar to me, & i would not be surprised if they took place during the same episode.
food for thought.
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joyswonderland1108 · 2 days ago
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🪞💍 JIKOOK LIVE REPORT – JULY 14TH: CHAOS, LIP BALM, AND UNHOLY VIBES (Part 1)
Note: This post might, once again, be very messy. And by "might" I mean "definitely." But we’re working with slightly more structure this time because I’m writing this while actually watching the live. Yes. In real-time. Reporting from the trenches. HOWEVER, because Tumblr hates joy and limits media posts to one video per post (how very anti-Jikook of you, Tumblr), I’ll be attaching what I can—screenshots, links, whatever unhinged content Twitter has to offer. Bear with me. It’s gonna be another Very Chaotic Jikook Post™.
✨ Opening Scene: Empty Chairs, “Still Life,” and Off-Camera Giggles
Imagine opening the live and the first thing you see is two empty chairs. Okay, Shakespeare. You’re telling me Jikook ghosted us for a whole month, then decided to make their ✨grand return✨ by giving us 15 seconds of symbolic empty chairs while “Still Life” by RM plays in the background? Poetic cinema. Give them Oscars.
AND THEN—you hear them giggling. GIGGLING. From off-frame. Like, sir? Are you telling me you pressed “go live” then hid behind the camera to laugh in sync before appearing like two twinks in a sitcom intro? Are you kidding me?
Then, finally, they grace the screen. The chaotic gay duo themselves. I was not ready.
🪙 The Silver Day Coincidence (or… not)
Oh, and did I mention? This live happened on July 14th, also known in Korea as... Silver Day. You know, that totally casual and not loaded with meaning couples' holiday where people exchange silver jewelry as a sign of commitment.
COMMITMENT. SILVER. COUPLES. JIKOOK. Tell me again how everything is a coincidence—I dare you. Literally ghosted for a month then pop up on a couples' holiday like “hey besties 😊” with matching soul energy? Yeah okay.
🍱 Time Zones, Lies, and Bro Hugs That Aren’t Bro Hugs
Jimin, soft-voiced and bright-eyed, says it’s lunchtime in Korea. Lovely! Thank you for sharing. But BOY—it was 5 A.M. for me. I was in REM stage 4, face smashed into my pillow, dreaming of simpler times. I woke up to find out that I missed THE LIVE OF THE CENTURY because our gay icons decided to go live during breakfast. I’m suing. Actually, i forgive you, because love is blind and I’m a clown.
Also, Jimin just casually throws in, “It’s been a while.” OH, YOU THINK? You made us all emotionally dependent on your chaotic duo lives and then dipped for a whole month like you were never here. But of course, all is forgiven. Because... they were together. So.. I'll allow it.
🤝 Let’s Talk About That Hug
So not even THREE MINUTES into the live and what do we get? A hug. Not just any hug. Not a side-pat. Not a “bro” arm grab. No. Jungkook hooks his chin on Jimin’s shoulder. Jimin cradles JK’s head like a precious Victorian orphan.
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YEAH. Just “bros being bros,” right? Very heterosexual. June ended but these two renewed their pride subscription for the next 12 months. Auto-renewal ON. Jikook said Pride is a year-long membership and they are now on the deluxe gay tier with free rainbow refills. This is what we mean when we say “soft launch wedding content.”
💬 JK Says It’s “More Comfortable” With Just the Two of Them
Jungkook then has the NERVE to say doing lives with just the two of them is “more comfortable.” Oh, so you’re comfortable now? You’re feeling good? Relaxed? In your element? Cozy, even?
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HUH. Why is he always proving the “JK is being forced” weirdos wrong so quickly? Like clockwork. “It’s more comfortable,” he says. Okay, homo. 🙄
💄 Lip balm: The Erotic Tale 🫦
This is where I start losing grip on reality.
JK goes off-screen to grab his lip balm. Normal. Fine. Then he comes back and starts hovering around Jimin, he decides Jimin’s lips are dry (they weren’t), like, “Hmm... maybe you need lip balm too 😏.” He literally tries to APPLY IT for him. Sir. If you want to kiss just say that. There’s no need for this oily, waxy foreplay.
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🍝 “It Was Just Us Home Today”
They tell us today was their day off and the members all went out, so it was just Jikook at home. Oh and “someone from protocol.” Because apparently someone at HYBE realized you cannot leave Jikook alone in a house with WiFi and a camera.
Jikook being unsupervised = live going feral in under 10 minutes. Even WITH a staff member present, it was still giving “we’re two seconds away from kissing on camera.” Whose idea was this? Someone give that staff member a raise for witnessing the most rainbow-coded hour of BTS history.
🖼️ The Picture Segment (aka Emotional Damage)
Jikook, being the unserious duo they are, decide to show us very flattering pics of themselves. The type you’d normally bury in your camera roll under 12 folders. But they just show them. Proudly. JK even recreates the same pose from one of them ON CAMERA. Like. Boy.
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But the real mystery: there was a photo they refused to show us. Like “oops no can’t show that one teehee.” JIMIN. WHAT. WAS. IT. You can’t just dangle forbidden content like that. My imagination is already conjuring scenarios. And none of them are safe for work.
🎤 JK Singing, Chest Touching, Pinky Promises, Oh My
Okay. JK watches Jimin sleep. Films him sleeping. Jimin tells us this ON LIVE. With a smile. Like it’s a cute anecdote.
Sir. That’s an AO3 summary. I’ve read this fic. It’s tagged “soft yandere Jungkook” and “obsessed but in love.”
Then, JK starts singing to Jimin. Touches his chest. Again. Like that’s just a regular Friday thing. They make pinky promises with all the intensity of a vow renewal ceremony. Honestly, at this point they might as well call their lives The Real Housewives of Bangtan: Jikook Edition.
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🛍️ Shopping with Yoongi and Joon & The Inspection™
Jimin shares a wholesome little story about shopping with Yoongi and Namjoon. JK wasn't there but from what I understood, he might have wanted to go. In any case, Jimin went, came back with stuff, and JK—like the curious man he is—asks about it.
But here’s the thing: JK doesn’t just ask with his mouth. No no. He touches Jimin’s chest to “inspect” if the top is the one he bought. Jungkook-ssi. There are other ways to verify a shirt. But you chose hands-on validation. Bold of you.
https://x.com/13_KM_13/status/1944819903384387955
💬 The "Invasion of Privacy" Rant We Needed
And then—serious moment—Jikook called out the fact that people tried to access their accounts. 😐
Some clowns tried to dig into their accounts like it’s a game of The Sims. The calm, deadpan way they said, “There’s no more info to find anyway,” is both iconic and depressing. Translation: Y’all ain’t gonna find what you think you’re gonna find. Like… why are y’all like this? Are you so desperate to “prove” something that you’re willing to literally break the law? News flash: that’s an actual CRIME. And if HYBE ever decides to press charges? Bye jail.
Leave their privacy alone. Jimin and JK have already had enough of that line crossed. Be normal for once.
🎶 JK Plays “Golden” and Jimin Immediately Goes Into Defense Mode
JK plays Golden by K-pop Demon Hunters and the moment it starts, Jimin goes: “But Jungkook did it first!!! 😤” BABE. No one even accused anyone of copying yet. You were READY. Standing up for your man before anyone even opened their mouth. Iconic behavior.
JK just says: “If it’s good, it’s good.” Like the chillest, most supportive boyfriend ever. Yin and yang, honestly.
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💀 The Comment Section Was a War Zone
Before i forget, let’s talk about those damn comments.
Some Cultist typed: “CHEATER JUNGKOOK.” Because he was doing a live with Jimin instead of Tae. I am not joking. Another wrote: “Jungkook please tell me you miss Taehyung.”
GUYS. WHAT. This is not a custody battle. Jikook being in a live together does not mean someone is cheating, dying, or divorcing. This is not a breakup announcement. Why are you acting like Tae is trapped in a basement?
Y’all need to go outside. Drink some water. Smell a flower.
🔚 Cliffhanger Ending Because I’m Dramatic Like That
Anyway. That was only Part 1. The live is almost 2 hours long and I haven’t even covered half of it. So yes, I’m pulling a Netflix and ending this post on a cliffhanger. Stay tuned for Part 2, which will arrive when my soul recovers and my brain stops buffering. (Actually my back hurts and my ass is flat now)
Will it be tomorrow? Probably. Will it be even more chaotic? Definitely. Will Jikook continue to act like we’re watching their honeymoon vlog? Without a doubt.
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crazykinkiwi · 2 days ago
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How to tame a yandere?—Victim 1
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Step One: Identify the Type of Yandere.
There are many kinds. Which one is he?
You stare at the glossy magazine cover, the title printed in bold, playful font: “How to Tame a Yandere?” It was a random impulse purchase—snatched off the shelf of that oddly charming new bookstore at the edge of town. You weren't even sure why you bought it. Curiosity? Boredom? Or… maybe, just maybe, because of the way your boyfriend had been acting lately.
“Okay, let’s not jump to conclusions,” you murmur, flipping the pages. “Satoru’s just… intense. Not a yandere.”
Still, as your eyes scan the article, you feel your stomach tighten.
“Step One: Identify what kind of Yandere he is.”
Underneath it, a whole chart appears. Possessive type. Obsessive type. Deranged type. Manipulative. Silent. Flirty but lethal.
Do people like this really exist? you think, squinting.
Your phone buzzes on the bed next to you. You glance at it. Nothing yet.
“…Okay. Let’s test him,” you whisper to yourself.
You sit up straighter and pick out the dress—the one he bought for you just last week. It was expensive. Flattering. A little too flattering. You slip it on, take a few shots in the mirror—one with a slight pout, one more candid—and then open your messages.
You: Which one looks better? I wanna post them💅🏻
You stare at the screen, then toss your phone aside, heart thumping. A few seconds pass. Then—
Satoru 🩵: Both.
“…That’s it?” You frown, checking the magazine again.
“If he doesn't react much... try harder.”
Your brow twitches. “Don’t blame me, Mr. Blindfolded Menace.”
You grab the matching lingerie set. He bought that too—said it would look cute on you. You never posted anything that bold before… but these are just photos. Just for testing.
Click. Click. Click.
Caption: Still can’t decide which one… might post both🤔
Back at Jujutsu High, Satoru Gojo’s chill day is interrupted by his phone buzzing again. He opens the message, casually smiling—until the image loads.
Silence.
His smile fades.
“Excuse me for a bit,” he tells the students, voice eerily calm.
Meanwhile, you’re lying on your bed, nervously eyeing your phone. It’s been five minutes. No reply. “Okay maybe I went too far—”
“Are you messing with me, princess?”
You scream—not from the phone, but because that voice came from behind you. You twist around and see Satoru Gojo standing in the middle of your room, still dressed in his Jujutsu High uniform, a smile stretched across his lips… but something beneath it feels dangerously unreadable.
“What the—how did you get here so fast!?”
He steps forward, removing his blindfold just slightly so one pale blue eye can meet yours.
“It’s just pictures!” you argue, clutching a pillow. “Jeez, calm down!”
Satoru chuckles. “Ah yeah, pictures of you in lingerie. Real chill stuff.”
You swallow. “It was just—uh—a joke. A test.”
“Oh?” His voice drops. “Want me to turn your 'ha ha ha' into 'ah~ah~ah~'?”
Your soul practically leaves your body. “I WAS JOKING!!! I’M NOT GOING TO POST THEM!!!”
He raises a brow, then his eyes drift to your hand—the open magazine still sitting on the bed.
“What’s that?”
Your heart drops. “N-nothing.”
Before he can lean in, you hurl the magazine across the room like a grenade. It hits the wall and flops to the ground, open to a page that reads:
“Step Three: If he catches you testing him, RUN.”
Fuck, You're so doomed.
Yet, You didn’t give up.
Last time might’ve been a complete disaster—okay, fine, a near-death experience—but you learned something from it. Sort of. Enough to try again. The magazine had flipped open later that night on your bedroom floor, as if mocking you, revealing a fresh step in loopy red font.
Step Four: Go out without informing him.
If he notices, observe how he reacts.
You had stared at it like it was insane.
“…That’s really playing with fire,” you’d muttered.
And yet.
Here you were, tiptoeing your way into actual danger. Again.
For science.
“Satoru’s not going to freak out,” you said aloud that morning, brushing your hair in front of the mirror. “He’s mature. He knows I’m safe. It’s just a little reunion.”
Even your own reflection raised an eyebrow at you.
But you still picked your outfit with care. Not too flashy. Not too boring. Just enough to say: I’m not guilty, but also please don’t vaporize anyone today, thank you very much.
---
The restaurant was dimly lit, filled with nostalgic warmth and laughter. Old classmates crowded around a table full of empty glasses and half-eaten appetizers, talking over each other in that chaotic way only reunions had. You recognized familiar faces, names that rolled off your tongue easily again. And for a while—just a short, shimmering while—you forgot all about why you’d come here.
You laughed. You drank. The wine was good—too good. You didn't realize how quickly you were sipping until the room began to blur slightly at the edges. Your cheeks were flushed. Time lost meaning.
“Y/n! I didn’t think you’d come!”
“Still gorgeous as ever!”
“Hey, remember our literature teacher—what was her name—”
You laughed with them. You wanted to. And when you finally excused yourself and stepped out into the cool night air, you didn’t think much of the faint dizziness. You just knew you needed a bit of fresh air before heading home. Preferably in an Uber. Preferably alive.
That’s when you heard footsteps behind you.
Then a voice.
“Y/n…?”
You turned around slowly. A guy—slightly taller than you, soft brown hair, oddly familiar smile.
“I’m Haruki. We were good friends in school, remember?” he asked.
You blinked, the name struggling to connect in your fuzzy mind. “…Oh.”
“You look even prettier now,” he said casually, stepping closer. “I think you drank too much. Let me drop you home?”
You took a small step back, trying to smile politely. “That’s kind, but I’m good—really.”
“Nah, come on,” he chuckled. “It’s not safe for a girl to be out drunk alone. At least let me walk you to the cab.”
You opened your mouth, about to refuse again—
And then a hand grabbed your wrist. Gently, yet firmly. Cold fingers laced through yours.
“She’s with me,” said a voice, flat and dangerous.
You froze.
Everything did.
The breeze stopped mid-gust. The flickering streetlights halted. The hum of the city went silent.
Your chest tightened.
“S-Satoru—”
But you weren’t facing him.
No.
You could feel him. The way the air pulsed with cursed energy, heavy and suffocating. The way your breath caught in your throat as the familiar chill of his domain seeped into your skin.
And Haruki—
Haruki opened his mouth to say something—
But he never got the chance.
In one blink—
You heard the sound. A clean slice.
The next second, Haruki’s head dropped clean from his neck.
Blood sprayed upward like a grotesque fountain. His body stood for one terrible moment longer, swaying, then collapsed.
You stared.
You couldn’t move.
You couldn’t scream.
Your lips parted, but only a choked sound came out.
Your brain refused to register the horror you’d just witnessed—
You could still feel the heat of the blood.
You were close enough to feel it.
Your knees buckled.
Satoru caught you before you could fall, his arms firm around your waist, his head resting against yours with something far too calm for what just happened.
“Lesson learned, right?”
Bonus scene:
“Took you long enough,” drawled Satoru, leaning lazily against the couch, arms spread over the back like he owned the entire world—and you were just the most prized part of it.
You stopped in your tracks, fresh out of the shower, your towel barely clinging to your frame. Water dripped from the ends of your hair as you narrowed your eyes at him. Bombastic. Unforgiving. The ultimate side-eye.
You knew how he was looking at you behind that damn blindfold.
He was practically smirking through it. You could feel his gaze dragging down your legs, pausing at your collarbone like he was mapping out your weaknesses.
Satoru chuckled lowly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Don’t look at me like that, princess. You know it only makes me worse.”
Before you could retort, he reached out and took your hand, pulling you down with zero warning until you were flush against him, settling you squarely on his lap.
You gasped, startled, your hands instinctively grabbing his shoulders for balance. “Satoru—!”
“The water must’ve been cold…” he whispered, voice thick with heat, “...let me warm you up.”
Your cheeks went up in flames. You blinked, stammering, “H-Huh?! How’d you—?”
But then you paused.
Wait.
How did he know the water was cold?
Your eyes narrowed slowly, suspiciously, and you reached up. “Don’t you dare—”
You slid a finger beneath his blindfold and pushed it up just a bit.
And there they were.
Those goddamn eyes.
That bright blue mischief practically glinting at you like a neon sign that read: I saw everything.
His grin was criminal.
“Satoru…” you hissed, voice cracking with betrayal. “You were watching me shower—?!”
He didn't even blink. “It’s not my fault that whenever I close my eyes, I see you. Naked. Even now.”
His gaze flicked down deliberately, eyes darkening just a shade as they lingered on the dip of your shirt.
Dead drop silence....
"You- you-!"
You squirmed on his lap now, half-mortified and half ready to throttle him with your towel. “You stupid!! Pervert yandere!!”
He just laughed and wrapped his arms around you tighter.
“I know,” he whispered in your ear, annoyingly smug. “And you love me anyway.”
You hated how right he was.
Even if you were absolutely reporting him to the Yandere Behavior Hotline later.
If it existed.
(Which it really, really should.)
Maybe Sukuna or Itadori next?
Masterlist
154 notes · View notes
idontlikeschool · 23 hours ago
Text
I have no idea how Ao3 works ngl but assuming/pretending Ao3 has people in an office managing the Twitter account I imagine something like this
Employee 1: ...oh damn.
Employee 2: What?
Employee 1: Tumblr wants to marry us.
Employee 2: Wait what? I know Tumblr is goofy and all that but they can't just say they're gonna marry all their users–
Employee 1: No, idiot. Us. Ao3.
Employee 2: What?
Employee 1: *shows them the tweet*
Employee 2: Oh... wait that's the official Tumblr account?!
Employee 1: Dude have you been listening to me at all?!
Employee 3: Keep it quiet you two! It's the third time today someone yells about a fanfic–
Employee 2: Tumblr wants to marry us.
Employee 3: What?
Employee 1 & 2: *show them the tweet*
Employee 3:
Employee 3: *calls the boss*
Boss: Vicky I told you those kind of fanfics are quite common in Ao3, I don't think you're made for this job–
Employee 3: Um, we have an emergency.
Boss: Oh, sorry. What is it? A bot or something?
Employee 3: Tumblr wants to marry us.
Boss: Guys I already told you, what happens in another apps is none of our business. If Tumblr wants to marry– wait, us? Ao3?
Employee 3: Yeah, there's a tweet.
Boss: ...are you sure is that what the tweet says?
Employee 3: Well, going steady and a ring sounds pretty obvious to me.
Boss:
Employee 3: Boss?
Boss: FUCKING FINALLY.
Employee 3: Wait wha–
Boss: ANSWER THEM. AND DONT YOU DARE SAY NO.
Employee 3:
Employee 3: I mean, are you sure? Our tweets are usually pretty serious and–
Boss: Look, if you ruin this you're fired.
Employee 3:
Boss: Just kidding. Unless you ruin it. I'm out.
Employee 3: Wait! What do you want me to answer?!
Boss: Oh just... don't look too excited but also not too serious. And be funny.
Employee 3: What does that even mean–?! And they hung up, great.
Employee 1: What does the boss say?
Employee 3: To answer yes but without being desperate but also not too serious but also funny.
Employee 2: So... like normal people.
Employee 3: Yeah.
Employee 1:
Employee 1: That's impossible!
Employee 3: Right?! We're not normal! We're everything but normal!
Employee 2: Guys, we got this. We're Ao3. We may always post seriously but it's all because we value efficiency and don't want to keep our users in the dark. We're totally capable of answering a marriage proposal from Tumblr in a normal, fun way.
Employee 1: You have no idea what to say, don't you?
Employee 2:
Employee 2: Is the twitching eye?
Employee 1: Yeah.
Employee 2: Dammit.
Employee 3: Okay, let's read the tweet again guys we can do this.
*one minutes later*
Employee 2: So... go steady... that means we were already dating?!
Employee 3: What?!
Employee 1: Wait, you're right! How didn't I notice that?!
Employee 3: Okay, that's... something. But we still don't know what to answer.
Employee 1: What about "everyday with you will be crazy"?
Employee 2:
Employee 3:
Employee 1: It was terrible, right?
Employee 3: I can't believe my job depends on these morons.
Employee 2: Look, in our defense, this a tough situation. What do we even say to something like this?
Employee 3: You're right. How would Ao3 answer a marriage proposal from Tumblr?
Employee 1: Well, happily.
Employee 2: And with a warning maybe.
Employee 3: About what? Ao3 is not insanely different from Tumblr. I don't see why they wouldn't get married.
Employee 4: *accidentally hears them* Ha! Like Tumblr could handle Ao3's fanfiction.
Employee 1: Huh?
Employee 4: I mean, Tumblr has fanfiction, yeah, but Ao3 is on another level. In both amount and wild content.
Employee 1:
Employee 1: I got it!
Employee 4: Wait what?
Employee 1: Take a look.
Tumblr media
Employee 2:
Employee 3: That's... actually pretty accurate.
Employee 4:
Employee 4: SINCE WHEN ARE WE DATING TUMBLR?!
Employee 5: *in the distance* WE ARE?
Employee 6: *even more in the distance* GUYS WE ARE MARRIED TO TUMBLR NOW?! A WARNING WOULD'VE BEEN GREAT.
86 notes · View notes
arabella-syntax · 2 days ago
Text
Between the Lines
Pairing: Leah Williamson x Y/N
Last Part
Tumblr media
Summary: She’s Ellis to the world, Y/N to the ones who matter. Leah is captain, but never in control of what she felt for her.
Word count: > 15k
Parts: Read the previous updates here.
A/N: Finally! This fanfic is completed. I enjoyed writing this so much, that I have written a somewhat AU of this “universe” fanfic.
————————————————————————
Leah, 25 December 2026, Milton Keynes
The Williamson family Christmas was always a little chaotic — in a way that felt like home.
There was the scent of her mum’s roast potatoes wafting from the kitchen, her dad humming the Spurs anthem under his breath to annoy Amanda, and Jacob arguing with the telly over a rerun of Love Actually. The paper crowns were askew before they even finished the crackers, and the dogs had stolen half the pigs in blankets when no one was looking.
It was familiar. Loud. Warm.
And Leah couldn’t shake the quiet in her chest.
She smiled and laughed when she should. Shared inside jokes. Clinked glasses of mulled wine. But every time her phone buzzed — and it had, twice — her heart leapt before her brain could catch up.
Not her.
Not yet.
Y/N had wrapped her final show in Paris a little over two weeks ago. The videos were everywhere. Clips of her in a sparkling black suit, confetti raining, voice raw and radiant on that final verse of Truth Behind the Lies. Leah had watched it on loop the night it dropped. Not because she didn’t believe it — but because some part of her needed proof that it meant something.
Since then, they’d texted. FaceTimed. Sent each other photos — sleepy dogs, bad coffee, the occasional lyric scribble. But never once did Y/N say the words Leah quietly feared.
That she was staying.
That she was done with the hiding.
That she had chosen them — not just now, but for real.
And Leah didn’t ask.
Because she was terrified of the answer.
————
That evening, the chaos quieted. The dishwasher hummed low in the background. The tree lights blinked like a soft heartbeat in the corner. Leah curled up on the armchair in her childhood bedroom — oversized hoodie, socks mismatched, the usual post-holiday fatigue.
Her phone lit up.
Incoming FaceTime: Y/N
Her thumb hovered for a moment, then slid right.
Y/N’s face appeared — makeup-free, hair tucked under a wool beanie, background faintly blurred. Probably hotel Wi-Fi. Her smile, though? That was crystal clear.
“Hey you.”
Leah leaned back into the chair. “Hey. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Y/N echoed, voice gentle. “How’s the family chaos?”
“Still surviving. I think my mum won the crown game. Dad sulked and switched the telly to football.”
“That sounds exactly like what I imagined,” Y/N chuckled. Then her expression softened. “And you?”
Leah hesitated. Then nodded. “Holding steady.”
There was a pause, not awkward but weighted.
“I wanted to call,” Y/N said finally, “because there’s something I need to ask.”
Leah met her gaze through the screen. “Okay.”
“Do you trust me?”
The words settled like snow.
Leah blinked slowly. Her pulse ticked up.
She thought about how much she’d wanted this. How many nights she imagined hearing those exact words, and how strange it was that now — faced with them — she didn’t feel immediate ease, only the sharp edge of memory.
“I do,” she said, quietly. “My heart does. My head’s… still trying to catch up.”
Y/N nodded. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t push.
“I get that,” she replied. “Truly. And you don’t owe me blind trust.”
Leah tilted her head. “Then why ask?”
“Because I need to do something,” Y/N said, her voice steady now. “Something I’ve been working toward for years. But I also know it only matters if you believe in what’s coming — even if it’s not here yet.”
She glanced away for a beat, then back.
“My contract ends next week.”
Leah’s breath hitched.
“I’ve said no,” Y/N added. “To the new one. I haven’t told many people. But I want you to know first. Because… what comes next is me. Just me. Not Ellis. Not someone curated. And if you’re still here… if you want to be…”
Leah swallowed. “I do.”
Y/N exhaled, smiling softly.
“Then stay tuned.”
Leah raised an eyebrow. “What are you planning?”
Y/N winked. “Not telling. Yet.”
“Tease.”
“Always.”
They sat in silence for a while after that, smiling without words, until Leah’s mum called her from downstairs.
Y/N tilted her head. “Go on. Go win another crown.”
“I already did,” Leah said, smiling at the screen. “You just called.”
——————
Y/N, December 2026, London
The borrowed loft in Shoreditch didn’t look like a place someone would run away to. But it was the first space in months that didn’t feel like a set.
There was no concierge in a lobby. No hotel towels folded in triangles. No scent of vanilla diffusers from a label-sponsored suite.
Just brick walls, an old upright piano, a record player that skipped on Billie Holiday, and a mattress on the floor.
Y/N called it a beginning.
Olivia called it a tactical retreat.
The truth probably lived somewhere in between.
Her last show in Paris had ended not with confetti, but a blackout. Just her silhouette on stage, hand over her heart, breath shaking before the final verse of “Truth Behind the Lies.” The crowd was still chanting her name when the lights dimmed and her mic went dead.
She remembered walking offstage, chest aching like she’d cracked something open that couldn’t be sealed again.
“You alright?” one of the crew had asked.
She’d only nodded.
But what she meant was: I’m free.
————
December 29th. Two days before the year ended. Olivia arrived at the loft just after noon with two coffees and a sealed envelope.
“No lawyers,” she said, handing it over. “No press. Just this.”
Y/N stared at the letter. Printed on embossed paper. The kind that felt heavier than it looked.
Inside: a termination confirmation. The final formality. It stated the obvious — that her contract would expire on the 31st, that she was not renewing, and that while she remained bound by a non-compete clause until the end of 2027, she was free to distribute and perform any independently-produced material.
A long way of saying: You can do your thing. But don’t expect backup.
Y/N signed it without hesitation.
“You’re sure?” Olivia asked.
Y/N nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”
Olivia exhaled. “Alright. Then we begin again.”
————
She didn’t throw a party. Didn’t post a countdown. Didn’t fly to LA or stage a New Year’s Eve comeback.
Instead, she stayed up late with the piano in the loft, bare fingers skating over worn keys, writing lyrics that sounded more like prayers than hooks.
The song didn’t have a name at first. Just a line that wouldn’t leave her head:
You don’t have to say forever — just tonight with your whole heart.
It wasn’t a single. Not a chart-chaser. It didn’t even have a proper bridge.
But it was hers.
She called it “The Quiet Between Notes”.
When she played it for Olivia on the 30th, her manager blinked hard and said, “It’s not a hit. It’s a confession.”
“Then it’s perfect,” Y/N said.
————
On New Year’s Eve, she stood alone in the loft, a single lamp casting gold on the floorboards. She set up a phone on the old upright piano. Hit record.
No makeup. No editing. Just her.
A voice in the quiet. Fingers over keys. A song barely whispering through the static.
She uploaded it to Instagram at 11:47 p.m.
The caption read:
The real tour starts in 2027.
Happy new year. I’m home.
#BetweenTheLines
No tags. No links. No label watermark.
And she turned off her phone.
————
It wasn’t until 12:26 a.m. that she turned it back on again. The screen lit up like fireworks — texts, DMs, mentions, news alerts.
But only one message mattered:
Leah: I saw it. You’re brave.
She stared at it for a long moment. Her breath caught.
She replied:
Y/N: You were my first brave thing.
————
Outside, fireworks cracked over the Thames. But inside, she only heard silence — the kind that felt like space, not emptiness.
Not the end. Not yet a beginning.
Just a pause.
A moment between two truths.
A quiet between notes.
——————
Y/N, January 2027, London
It was cold again in London.
Not the Hollywood kind — performative and dry — but the sort of aching chill that soaked into her bones. Camden held its winter hush, all wet pavements and faded yellow lights. And in that quiet, Y/N felt something like clarity. Or the beginning of it.
The chapel Olivia found sat tucked behind a butcher’s shop and a record store — an old deconsecrated space with candles in glass jars and chairs arranged in imperfect rows.
No sound crew. No stylists. No stagehands.
Just her, a piano, and thirty-something guests who had said yes without needing to know what it was they were saying yes to.
That was the point.
This wasn’t a concert.
It was a confession.
————
The rehearsal earlier in the day had been quiet, almost reverent. Y/N walked the space slowly, fingers trailing the stone altar. She whispered her warmups. Olivia checked mic levels with her usual precision.
By 6:00 p.m., everything was still.
By 6:30, the first guests began to arrive.
By 6:57, Olivia stepped behind the curtain.
“She’s here,” Olivia said gently.
Y/N’s breath caught.
She didn’t need to ask who. Olivia would only ever say that about one person.
————
When Y/N walked on stage at 7:03, she kept her gaze low. A handful of familiar faces in the audience. Some from the start of her career. Some from its messiest middle. And in the third row, wearing a black coat and white jumper, eyes locked on her — Leah.
No smile. No invitation.
But presence.
Full, quiet presence.
“I don’t know what this is,” Y/N said softly into the mic. “But it’s real. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”
She sat at the piano.
She began.
Song One: Two Things
The keys felt like glass under her fingers, but the song spilled from her easily — the familiar melody of shared coffee cups, slow glances, the ache of “almost” in the hours between.
She didn’t look at Leah.
She didn’t have to.
Song Two: Camden
This one hurt. Not because it was raw — but because it had been real. The chords pulsed under her hands like a heartbeat. The lyrics, about streetlights and strangers, echoed down the chapel walls like a memory.
There was no applause. Just silence. Weighty. Present.
Song Three: Truth Behind the Lies
Y/N cleared her throat before beginning.
“This one… you’ve heard. But not like this.”
It was slower than the single version — stripped-down, almost acoustic. No layered production. Just the truth, raw and fragile.
When she hit the line “I said I’d be anything but honest, and still you knew”, her voice cracked, but she let it stand.
There was no fixing what had been real.
Song Four: The Quiet Between Notes
She looked up just before she played the first chord.
“This one is new. I teased it on New Year’s — called it The Quiet Between Notes. But tonight’s the first time I’m playing it in full.”
She closed her eyes.
The song wasn’t long. Barely three minutes. But it held every word she hadn’t known how to say — in Zurich, in Camden, in all the places between.
It was, finally, the truth.
The real one.
When the last note faded into the rafters, Y/N sat in silence, hands resting on the keys.
No applause. No movement.
Just that chapel stillness — heavy, knowing, kind.
She stood. Bowed once. And walked offstage.
————
Leah was waiting outside.
Not by the door, but against the brick wall of the alley, coat pulled tighter around her, eyes soft and unreadable.
Y/N stepped into the cold.
Neither of them spoke for a second.
Then Y/N whispered, “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
Leah’s smile was barely there. “I didn’t know if I’d survive it if I did.”
Y/N huffed a breath that turned to mist. “You always say the most devastating shit when I least expect it.”
“Practice.”
They didn’t kiss.
Not yet.
But they stood in the dark, closer than they had in months, like the silence between songs had finally given way to something new.
Y/N reached for Leah’s hand, brushing it lightly. “Thank you for coming.”
Leah squeezed back. “Thank you for letting me in.”
——————
Leah, January 2027, London
The night air in Camden was cool but gentle, pressing against Leah’s skin like a secret not yet spoken. She walked beside Y/N down a quiet street just past the chapel’s modest doors, the hush between them wrapped in something softer than silence. The city murmured around them — taxis slicing through puddles, faint laughter spilling from pub windows — but here, in this moment, the world was pared down to two pairs of footsteps and a hundred things neither of them dared say.
Y/N’s hand didn’t touch hers. It didn’t need to.
They walked two blocks together, not for any practical reason but because parting too soon would feel too sharp. When they reached the junction, where Leah had parked discreetly, Y/N slowed.
“This was…” Y/N started, then paused. “Thank you for coming.”
Leah’s gaze flicked to her. “I meant what I said. I wouldn’t have missed it.”
Y/N’s smile was faint, but real. “Even after everything?”
Leah didn’t answer with words. She just offered that small, brave kind of nod — the kind that says, I’m still here, aren’t I?
Y/N dipped her head. “Sleep well, Leah.”
“You too.”
And that was it. No cinematic kiss in the streetlight. No grand declarations. Just the quiet, aching civility of two people trying again — carefully.
————
Back home later that night, Leah stood in the kitchen of her flat, kettle boiling and her coat still on. She felt hollowed out in the best way — like the weight of something heavy had shifted just enough for her to breathe.
She sipped tea that had gone lukewarm too fast and scrolled Instagram. The hashtag #ChapelSessions was already trending. Clips of Y/N — Ellis, to the world — flooded her feed. Acoustic, raw, unguarded.
She found herself watching a fan video of “The Quiet Between Notes.” It was a shaky recording, someone clearly crying while filming, but it captured the way Y/N looked when she performed: eyes closed, hands trembling slightly, like the music was the only scaffolding holding her up.
The comments were a flood of awe and speculation.
“Ellis has never looked more herself.”
“Can tell those songs meant something. Every lyric felt lived-in.”
Leah shut her phone off before she could read more.
————
The next morning, she met Keira for coffee after Arsenal training. The café was mostly empty, a sleepy Wednesday kind of slow. Keira had her hood up and sunglasses on, despite the grey sky.
“You look like you’re hiding from the press,” Leah teased.
“I am. Not the press — your fans.”
Leah raised a brow. “What?”
“You’re glowing,” Keira said, stirring her tea. “It’s suspicious.”
Leah rolled her eyes, but her smile was traitorous.
They talked about football first — always football. Arsenal’s mid-season form. England’s upcoming training camp for the World Cup. Keira’s annoying new physio. It wasn’t until the second round of drinks that the conversation shifted.
“So,” Keira said, not looking up from her mug. “You seeing her again?”
Leah hesitated. “We talked. She sang. I was there.”
Keira snorted. “Not what I asked.”
“I don’t know,” Leah said honestly. “It’s not simple.”
“No, it’s not,” Keira said, finally meeting her eyes. “But sometimes, it doesn’t have to be solved all at once. You just… decide to stay in it. Or not.”
Leah looked out the window. The street was wet with half-melted sleet. A cyclist passed, head down against the wind.
“I’m still in it,” she said quietly.
Keira reached across the table and tapped her fingers once on Leah’s knuckles. “You look lighter lately.”
————
That night, as Leah curled under her duvet, her phone buzzed once.
It was a message from Y/N.
“Thank you for staying until the last note.”
Leah stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then she typed:
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
She pressed send. No hesitation.
She set the phone face-down on the nightstand and closed her eyes, hearing echoes of a voice she once kissed in the quiet.
It still lingered.
But now — maybe — it was beginning to stay.
——————
Y/N, February 2027, London
The flat in Shoreditch is all concrete angles and secondhand softness. It smells like fig candles and eucalyptus oil, things Olivia had left behind from her last visit. Outside, the February rain made no promises, streaking faint shadows across the windowpanes. Y/N sat cross-legged on the worn velvet couch, notebook on her lap, guitar untouched beside her.
She has been circling a melody for hours, fingers idle, thoughts anything but.
The Chapel Sessions had stayed with her like the hum after the final chord — not just the applause, but the stillness that followed. The way Leah stayed behind. The way they didn’t rush to label what the night meant, only that it had meant something.
They’ve texted since. Enough to feel it wasn’t a fluke. Not enough to make it real.
She scrolled up through their last exchange. A meme from Leah about the chaos of group chats. A voice note — a snort of laughter and a dry: “Imagine me, an Aries, in a room full of Geminis.”
Y/N had laughed. Alone, but it counted.
She opened her voice memos folder — the one she never names properly. Scrolled past “lyric_scribble_6” and “demo_alt.take” until she saw the one she saved from months ago. It’s Leah’s voice, low and a little sleepy, recorded during a late night when Y/N had asked her what she was thinking.
“I think…”
A pause. A yawn.
“I think you don’t realise how much of you stays, even after you leave the room.”
Y/N pressed stop.
Enough.
She closed the laptop, set aside her notebook. Breathed in. Then opened her phone.
No overthinking. No lyrics to shield her.
Just this:
Would you like to go on a date with me?
A real one.
Not just coffee in Camden or hiding backstage.
Just us.
She added a heart. Deleted it. Replaced it with a full stop. Then nothing. Finally, just the words — and she hits send.
She set the phone down and left the room.
By the time she returned, the light’s gone golden and the sky is already folding into dusk.
One new message.
I was hoping you’d ask.
She exhaled — long and quiet — and texted back:
Then let’s make it count.
——————
Leah’s POV · August 2027 · London
The plane ride home from Brazil was quieter than usual. The kind of quiet you don’t fill with noise, because everyone’s carrying something too heavy to set down just yet.
Leah sat by the window. Watched clouds crawl beneath the wings like they were in no hurry to be anywhere. And for once, she wasn’t either.
England had come close again. Finalists. Silver. One-nil to Spain. The same heartbreak, dressed in a different disguise. But this time, it didn’t feel like collapse. She had captained them with every fibre of her being. She had led, she had fought, and she had made peace.
She had left it all on that pitch in Rio.
And now she was coming home to something else. Something softer.
To someone.
————
The London summer was gentler than Brazil’s electric heat. The air cooler, the skies never quite certain of sun. But Leah didn’t mind. She wasn’t looking for spectacle.
She wanted the mundane. The real. The everyday that makes a life.
Her suitcase barely touched the floor before she heard the kettle click on in the kitchen.
“You drink peppermint now?” came the voice she had been missing in the quietest parts of herself.
Y/N — barefoot, hair damp, a mug in each hand.
“I’ve changed,” Leah said, walking over. “World Cup finals do that to a girl.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see how deep the change runs. I bet you still leave your phone in the fridge when you’re tired.”
Leah grinned and stole a sip from Y/N’s mug. “Only when I miss you.”
————
They weren’t in Camden anymore. Y/N’s temporary Airbnb had turned into a longer lease in Shoreditch — a top-floor flat that smelled of eucalyptus and the lingering echo of chords that hadn’t yet made it into songs.
They never made a public announcement. No hard launch. No coordinated Instagram post.
But everyone who mattered knew. Keira. Jess. Alex, of course. Olivia, who had stopped blinking twice whenever she saw Leah in the flat. Their families. Her mum had cried the first time she saw them on FaceTime together — not out of shock, just out of recognition.
Leah didn’t need the world to name it. She knew what she had.
And what they had — it didn’t want headlines. It wanted quiet.
The kind that lets two people find each other again without needing to perform the reunion.
————
One week after she landed, Leah found herself on the sofa, legs curled under her, still wearing the hoodie she’d taken from Y/N’s closet that morning. Not on purpose. Not entirely.
Y/N was sitting on the rug, tuning her guitar — back straight, eyes soft.
She had written three new songs since Leah returned. None of them had names yet. She played the third one now, the melody like a memory trying to remember itself.
“What’s it called?” Leah asked, voice barely above the hum of the strings.
Y/N shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Thought about calling it Postcards from the Edge, but that felt dramatic.”
“You are dramatic.”
“I write dramatic,” Y/N corrected. “I live quietly.”
Leah leaned her cheek against the couch arm. “Call it Coddled.”
Y/N turned, one brow lifted.
“You know,” Leah added, “for the way you always steal the duvet and kick me in your sleep.”
Y/N grinned. “Sounds more like a diss track than a love song.”
“Same thing sometimes,” Leah murmured, smiling.
————
They spent the next day doing nothing spectacular.
Y/N read through fan letters over toast. Leah answered emails from the FA. At one point, they went to the corner shop in mismatched shoes and matching sunglasses, and nobody batted an eye. Leah thought about how many years she’d wanted a life like this but never let herself picture it.
Not because she didn’t believe in love — she did. But because she wasn’t sure if someone like her was meant for a love that wasn’t complicated.
But Y/N made the complicated beautiful.
The morning coffees with half-sweet oat milk. The voice notes left mid-rehearsal. The way she always said Leah’s name like it was a line from a song.
The way they let the world exist around them without it having to define them.
————
Later that week, Keira came by. Brought biscuits and silence and eventually asked, “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Leah said. “Better than alright, actually.”
Keira watched her for a second longer, then nodded.
“You look lighter lately.”
Leah didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to.
————
One evening, they sat on the rooftop, wrapped in an old blanket from the tour van. London lights blinking in the distance. Y/N played Leah the same song again — the one with no name.
She didn’t sing the lyrics this time. Just played.
When the last note faded, Leah said quietly, “I think it’s called Us.”
Y/N didn’t correct her.
She just reached over, laced their fingers together, and leaned her head on Leah’s shoulder.
And in that moment, with no spotlight, no crowd, no fear — it felt like the beginning of everything they never thought they’d get to have.
————————————————————————
THE END 🤍
A/N: Leah and Y/N deserved softness. So this story ends where it was always meant to — not in a hard launch, but in quiet commitment. A kind of love that doesn’t need to announce itself loudly to be real. One that trusts the other person will still be there when the lights fade, and the music stops.
Thank you to every single reader who followed their journey.
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saebyeoksleftfoot · 2 days ago
Note
HII LOVE UR WORK can you write about reader feeling insecure about her face and body and semi comforts her ?? TY
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What You Don’t See
Pairings: Se-mi x F!Reader
Genre: FLUFF
Warnings: Negative body image, self critical image
Trigger Warnings : None (?)
A/N: idk but this is adorable! Love this reqq <3
++ I didnt have time to put dividers cuz its provably 3:36qm here once I post this..
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The small apartment hums with quiet. Just the gentle buzz of the fridge and the occasional soft footsteps of Se-mi's.
You sit on the floor of the bedroom, knees drawn to your chest, in front of the mirror that you usually avoid at night.
It’s stupid. It feels stupid. And yet here you are, frozen.
Makeup half removed, sleeves tugged over your hands, hoodie far too big on your frame. The kind that swallows you all up. Comforting and hiding all at once. It smells like her. That helps, a little.
But the mirror? The mirror’s never kind.
You don’t even know what triggered it tonight. A scroll through social media. A photo someone posted and tagged you in. The way your reflection looked when you laughed earlier, caught in the corner of your eye.
Whatever it was, it clung. And now you’re stuck. Picking yourself apart in silence. Bit by bit. Feature by feature.
"My skin isn't smooth enough."
"My face looks slanted ."
"No one says anything, but I know they think it."
"How could someone like her love someone like me?"
You blink hard.
It doesn’t help.
Then—
The softest creak behind you. A presence in the doorway.
You freeze, but you already know who it is.
“…You okay?”
Her voice is low, barely audible. She doesn’t ask like someone demanding an answer. She asks like someone who already knows it.
You don’t turn.
“Yeah.”
A beat of silence. Then:
“Lie,”
she says gently.
You want to disappear.
Se-mi steps inside. She doesn’t ask for permission. But everything in her body language speaks of patience, of waiting for your walls to drop on their own.
She crouches behind you, her arms sliding around your shoulders in the kind of slow, secure embrace that doesn’t jolt or jar. It just holds. Warm and steady.
“You do this when I’m not looking,”
she whispers near your ear.
“You think I don’t notice, but I do.”
Your throat tightens.
“It’s not… I’m fine, Se-mi, I’m just—”
“Don’t say you’re fine if you’re clearly not.”
Her voice doesn’t scold. It hurts, in that way people sound when they care too deeply. Too much.
She leans her chin on your shoulder now, arms snug around your middle, her touch feather-light — like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t.
Because you don’t want to.
Because your heart is already cracking open, slow and reluctant.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,”
you say quietly.
“Why?”
“Because I look—”
You stop yourself. Swallow it back.
“I don’t know. Just… wrong.”
"Weird.."
You mumbled quietly.
There. It’s out.
Shame creeps in instantly, hot behind your eyes.
Se-mi doesn’t answer. Not right away.
Instead, she presses her lips to your temple — the softest kiss, like it’s made of apology and love all at once.
Then another, to your cheek. One to the top of your shoulder. Her nose brushes your skin as she breathes in deeply, holding you tighter.
“Can I tell you what I see?”
she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, slowly, trying not to cry.
“I see someone who’s learning to survive in a world that never gave her space to feel beautiful.”
Another kiss. This time on your jaw.
“I see your smile when you don’t think anyone’s watching. I see the way you light up when you talk about things you love.”
She adjusts slightly, moving to sit fully behind you, her legs hugging your hips, her chest warm against your back. Her arms are around you again, firmer now, anchoring you to the present.
“I see hands that hold mine when you’re scared or anxious. I see the body that makes me feel safe when I feel overwhelmed. I see your heart — the soft, squishy, incredible heart that still shows up, even when you hate the skin it’s in.”
That’s when your tears finally fall.
Quiet at first. One, then two. They slide down your cheek without a sound.
Se-mi feels it — the change in your breathing, the tremble in your shoulders. And without hesitation, she turns you around in her arms, slowly, until you’re facing her, nose to nose, knees touching.
“Look at me,”
she says softly.
You do.
Even through blurry eyes, she’s so calm. Steady. She tucks your hair behind your ear, then brings both hands up to cup your face.
“You don’t have to pretend around me,”
she says.
"You don’t have to earn love here. You already have it.”
She leans forward, rests her forehead against yours.
“You are not too much. You are not too little. You are not wrong.”
You hiccup a little — a quiet, helpless sound — and she gently pulls you in, wrapping herself around you like a blanket. Like home.
You bury your face in her neck, shoulders shaking as you let out a quiet whimper.
She just holds you. No pressure to explain. No rush to fix.
“I love you so much,”
she whispers against your hair.
“I wish I could wrap myself around you until the whole entire world disappears. Just so you’d know — really know — how safe you are with me.”
You laugh — broken and wet, but real.
“That’s… dramatic,”
you murmur, voice soft and cracked.
She smiles into your skin, brushing her nose gently against your temple.
“Maybe. But I mean it. If I could make a home out of my arms, you’d never have to doubt where you belong."
She said softly before shifting,
Her hands never leaving yours, and gently guides you up from the soft carpet. Your legs are unsteady, but her touch is steady, anchoring you as you move.
Slowly, she leads you toward the bed, her fingers brushing over your skin — soft, reassuring. You follow without resistance, the warmth of her presence grounding you.
Once there, she lowers you down carefully, as if you’re fragile glass, and settles beside you, not pressing, just close enough to feel the steady beat of her heart.
She pulls the blanket over both of you, and curls into you with a quiet intimacy that speaks louder than words.
One hand strokes your back in lazy, soothing circles. The other finds your hand and holds it gently, her fingers curling around yours with deliberate tenderness.
Her chin rests lightly on your shoulder, breath warm against your skin.
“I love your body,”
she says softly into the quiet,
"Not just for what it looks like — but because it’s yours. Because it holds you. Because it’s where I get to be close to you.”
You don’t reply. You can’t.
You’re too full.
Full of aching, warmth, disbelief, and the fragile stirrings of hope.
Your breathing slows. Your hands find hers beneath the blanket. You squeeze once.
“…Thank you.”
She kisses your forehead.
“You don’t have to thank me. Loving you is easy.”
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✧- Tags: @niijiros @itzzzzzzyyyyydaaaaa @lostlikesaebyeok
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mac-ann-cheese · 1 day ago
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I saw someone in my reblogs saying that they were yearning for 19th century rusame. Then I shall deliver.
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Part 2 to this post!
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The above comic was created when I was compiling my notes into a coherent text. On some frames I got reallly lazy, sorry ( ̄ω ̄) the last sketch in the end I initially thought to put in the comic but scrapped it, and just coloured as a bonus.
Once more, I apologize if it was confusing to read the speech bubbles from left to right and vice versa. Just couldn't figure out the better flow of dialogue cause those ( ・ω・)👆fellas were constantly spinning in a circle. It's not because I drew them that way/j
As promised, this one is about Alaska.
I'm not like the other creators, I don't think there was some form of humanization of that region/////highly joking. Okay, now serious. I've read multiple fanfics (who hasn't) about rusameamerus sort of lovechild, but it didn't sit well with me. Don't know why. But, you do you! \( ̄▽ ̄)/
Basically, this is it. I interpret Alaska in the hetalia universe settings as no more than just a piece of land.... however. One thing that always confused me is the selective humanization of Japan's prefectures, which opens up a whole other can of worms (they even appear in the Gangsta AU!).. This could mean that all other countries have their corresponding administrative divisions turned into a bunch of people. Or Japan's just special (o˘◡˘o) I tell myself the latter. I remember the good ol' days when citytalia was a thing. Or still is....
Got carried away.
I should say that this post is just history. Not really headcanons.
I will refer to the information from E. H. Zabriskie's "American-Russian Rivalry in the Far East".
Before Alaska was officially colonized, a few random people visited it several times. The first Russians to discover the Alaskan Peninsula from Siberia were the sailors of Semyon Dezhnev’s 1648 expedition. There is an assumption that some of the sailors, after the shipwreck of one of the kochas (sailing and rowing vessels), could have landed on the American coast and founded the first settlement of Kyngovey, which turned out to be unviable (um... Alaskan Roanoke...?). It was discovered for the Old World in 1732 by a Russian expedition led by Mikhail Spiridonovich Gvozdev and Ivan Fedorov. For more than a century, Russian subjects had carried on a lively fur trade in the Alaskan region. Initially, it was developed not by the state, but by private individuals (almost the same as British India). However, starting in 1799, it was developed by a specially established monopoly – the Russian-American Company (RAC), which was given exclusive fishing and trading privileges on the American coast as far south as 51 degrees (half of Canada) north latitude for a period of twenty years. In 1824, seeking favorable relations with the US, Alexander I agreed to the Russo-American Treaty (the first formal agreement between the two countries). In the treaty, Russia limited its claims to lands north of parallel 54°40′ north and also agreed to open Russian ports to US ships entering the Bering Sea.
The company was founded to serve Imperial Russia's economic interests and to compensate for the loss of the Amur under the Treaty of Nerchinsk in 1689 (i.e., lack of any influence in the Asian region).
And I must say, in no way am I condoning the destruction and impoverishment of Alaska Native people. I'm just stating some facts that one might find interesting.
In the early 19th century, Russia generated revenue from the fur trade in Alaska, but by mid-century, it began to appear that the costs of maintaining and protecting this remote and geopolitically vulnerable territory would outweigh the potential profits.
The purchase of Alaska was the next important step in American-Russian relations. Before the middle of the century, the US had shown occasional interest in the Alaskan territory. Cause there were rumorrssssss about lots and lots of gold, coal, copper, and other vital minerals in Alaska (which were true), and, if they were found, the history of the California gold rush could repeat itself. Therefore, the RAC should lay low.
During the Crimean War, the Russian Empire feared that the Alaskan colonies and merchant fleet would be attacked by British forces located in Canada, so it arranged for the fictitious sale of its ships to the private American-Russian Commercial Company (ARTCC) of San Francisco, which imported ice to California (yeah, it was a thing). The main reason for selling was the remoteness of the land and the inability to defend it in case of an attack. The best solution was to sell it to the Americans to improve diplomatic relations.
Formally, the proposal to sell came from the Russian envoy to Washington, Eduard de Stoeckl, but the initiator of the deal this time was Grand Duke Konstantin Nikolaevich (the younger brother of Alexander II), who first voiced this proposal in the spring of 1857 in a special letter to the Minister of Foreign Affairs of Russia, Alexander Mikhailovich Gorchakov. Gorchakov supported the proposal. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was limited to studying the issue, and it was decided to postpone its implementation until the expiration of the RAC's privileges in 1861. The issue then temporarily became irrelevant due to the Civil War in the United States. There were also problems with determining the price, sometimes too little, sometimes too much, but in the end, both sides agreed on $7.2 million in 1867. Whatever the motives were that underlay the Alaskan transaction, both powers were well pleased with the bargain. The proceeds from the sale were spent primarily on purchasing resources for Russian railway transport (Transsib).
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(those sketches are like a year or more old. So that's why they're a bit wonky. Either way, I wanted to include them)
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ceristelle · 1 day ago
Note
IF your request are open (heavily exaggerating the ‘if’) could you PLEASE write TBHK with a mute fem reader who chooses not to speak but one day she says something super mundane and simple and it’s big to the TBHK characters but it doesn’t really matter to her and didn’t take a lot of courage for her to do, just something that she chooses to say because she trusts and cares for them.
thank yew 💕💕 (you don’t have to do it, but I’ve gotta get this thought out because it’s been in my head for weeks with Akane (male) and Teru + kou)
ᝰ.ᐟ AND THEN YOU SPOKE. → tbhk
you’ve always chosen silence. not because you were afraid, just because you never needed to speak. one day, you do. and for them, it means everything. ft. akane aoi, teru minamoto & kou minamoto
notes: i didn’t forget you, dw <3 all my posts are scheduled so when i got your req, i had to let it sit in my drafts until the queue cleared up 💌
warnings: female reader. other than that, none
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akane thinks he’s hallucinating at first.
you’re both sitting on the rooftop, watching clouds shift in lazy patterns overhead. he’s mid-rant—something about upcoming exams or how exhausting it is to be around someone who’s more interested in a screen than an actual person for five minutes straight—to which you suspect he’s referring to lemon, by the way—as you nod along, calm as always, sipping juice through a straw like none of the chaos bothers you.
and then he hears it. quiet. offhanded. simple.
“i like listening to you talk.”
dead silence. akane whips his head around so fast you wonder for a second if he snapped his neck. his face flushes immediately, ears turning a very specific shade of ‘i-was-not-prepared-for-this’.
“wh—wha—hold on.” he blinks rapidly, eyes blown wide. “you—you talked!? to me!? did i just hallucinate that!?”
you blink. “no.”
he’s not breathing properly, but leans forward like he’s trying to stare deep into your soul. “are you okay? are you okay!? did i just unlock a secret route or something??”
you shrug in response, deciding to speak a little more to see his reaction even further. “you looked like you needed to hear it.”
akane goes silent once again. you didn’t say it dramatically or even whisper it shyly like he might have imagined before. it just...was. like breathing.
he drags a hand down his face, visibly struggling to reboot. “...you can’t just say stuff like that. i’m fragile.”
when you clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the quiet giggle that escaped from your lips, he knows he’s doomed.
fully, and helplessly so.
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teru doesn’t press you. never has.
he carries himself with poise, the practiced charm of someone used to being listened to—but he never makes you feel like your silence is a void that needs filling.
when people ask why you don’t speak, he answers for you calmly without batting an eye. “she doesn’t need to. i understand her just fine.” and he genuinely means it.
so it catches him off-guard. not because he’s surprised by you, but because he knows you don’t do anything without reason. when you murmur something, clear and soft while he’s bandaging a scrape on your hand after a brief run-in with a low-ranked supernatural.
“...you’re really gentle.”
teru’s fingers still.
for a moment, he doesn’t even look at you. just watches the way your hand rests calmly in his, like this moment isn’t anything strange or new.
he exhales silently, soft and a tad shaky. “...you spoke.”
he glances up, and there’s no fear or shyness in your eyes. no hesitation. just pure trust.
his lips twitch at the corners, his voice quieter than usual when he speaks next.
“thank you.” he finishes wrapping your hand with more care than before. “i’ll try to live up to that compliment every time.”
and he means that, too.
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kou never minded your silence. in fact, he liked it.
you didn’t need words to make yourself heard—he could always tell what you were thinking, somehow. that look you gave him when you were amused? adorable. the not so subtle eye-roll when he said something stupid? fair. the small smile you saved just for him? deadly.
he got used to the quiet between you two. comfortable, even.
which is why when he hears it—your voice, so soft it barely cuts through the air—he almost drops the box he was carrying.
“thanks, kou.”
it was just after he helped you move something heavy. nothing heroic or wild. but the way you said it—calm, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, had his brain glitching.
“you—” he blinks in disbelief. “wait. you just—did you just say something?”
you nod once, unbothered. almost like you didn’t just launch him into emotional orbit.
“holy crap.” he’s so flabbergasted he even sets the box down. “you talked. you actually talked. to me.”
his voice cracks mid-sentence. his ears flush red as he clears his throat fast and rubs the back of his neck, a smile tugging at his lips that he tries so hard to suppress but fails.
“i mean—it’s not like you have to or anything, i just—wow.” kou looks at you again, this time like he’s seeing something new with how obviously awestruck his eyes are, glimmering in the light. “that was...really cool.”
you smile at him warmly.
he falls a little harder.
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leilasletters · 3 days ago
Text
Kiss Me, Kill Me
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🏈Jason Todd X Fem!reader📖
bad boy x smarter girl | detention glances & rooftop secrets | don’t fall for him, don’t fall for him, don’t—"he kissed her like a dare. she kissed him like it was the last mistake she'd ever make. and neither of them stopped."
masterlist
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Chapter 5
The universe, in its infinite cruelty, has decided that you deserve suffering.
Because this morning, on a perfectly normal Thursday, your AP Lit teacher says the words that will ruin your entire week:
“For this unit, you’ll all be working in pairs for the final presentation on modern themes in romantic tragedy. I’ve already assigned partners.”
You already know.
You already know.
And sure enough—
“Todd and (Y/L/N).”
You snap your head toward him across the classroom. Jason’s already looking at you. Smirking. Like he expected this. Like he manifested it with his criminal energy and cocky eyebrows.
You want to fling your annotated Wuthering Heights across the room.
You work in the school library during lunch that day. Or at least, you try to.
Jason, on the other hand, keeps talking.
Loudly.
“Okay, so I was thinking we do something easy. Like Romeo + Juliet. Baz Luhrmann style. I’ll grow sideburns, you get a gold gun. We’ll make out in a fish tank.”
You give him a look so deadpan it could bury him.
“No.”
“Come on. People love doomed love stories.”
“And I love not failing.”
Jason sprawls in the chair across from you, hands behind his head. The size difference between you is laughable—he takes up so much space without even trying. Meanwhile, your legs are crossed, your arms are folded, and your entire body is coiled like a trap every time he says something flirty.
He leans in. “What do you want to do? Something nerdy and depressing?”
You raise a brow. “Why, yes. How did you know?”
“Because you scream, ‘I wrote a college essay on Euripides for fun.’”
“And you scream, ‘I passed English because someone paid off the school board.’”
“Not wrong.”
You sigh and flip open your notes. “We’re doing A Streetcar Named Desire.”
Jason frowns. “That’s the one with the screaming guy, right?”
You blink. “You mean Stanley?”
Jason cups his hands to his mouth: “STELLA—”
You slap your hand over his mouth before the entire library kicks you out.
“Geez,” you hiss. “Shut up.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief under your palm. His mouth lingers a beat too long on your skin. You yank your hand back like it burns.
Jason’s smile fades a little.
And in the silence that follows, there’s something… charged.
Too quiet. Too heavy. Too real.
Over the next few days, things get strange.
Not bad.
Not good.
Just strange.
You and Jason actually work well together—annoyingly well. He listens more than you expect. When you bring up feminist theory and how Blanche Dubois is a symbol of post-war fragility and toxic femininity, he nods. He asks questions.
You almost forget who he used to be. Or maybe… you’re just seeing who he is now.
Sometimes your hands brush when you both reach for the same note card.
Sometimes you look up and find him already watching you.
Sometimes he says things like, “You’re a lot, you know that?” in this soft voice that doesn’t feel like an insult. Just a truth. One that he likes.
And sometimes—like today—it all goes to hell.
You're outside school after rehearsal, sitting on a bench, still in your uniform shirt and jeans, flipping through your notebook. Jason's late. Of course.
He finally shows up ten minutes before the bell rings for sixth period, wearing a black hoodie, jaw tight.
“You’re late,” you say, not looking up.
He sits beside you but doesn’t respond.
You glance at him.
His knuckles are bruised again. Fresh. His expression is locked down.
“What happened?” you ask carefully.
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Jason—”
“I said it’s nothing.”
You blink at the tone—sharp, cold. Not like him. Not like how he's been with you.
Your stomach knots.
“Don’t take it out on me,” you say tightly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I never said you did.”
You snap your notebook shut. “You’re acting like I’m the one who ruined your day.”
“Maybe I’m just realizing this was a mistake.”
The words hit harder than they should.
You go still.
He exhales, dragging his hands through his hair. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Too late.”
Silence coils between you again—but this time, it hurts.
You stand up, arms crossed. “You don’t get to play sweet one second and snap the next like nothing matters.”
Jason rises, too. “I’m not playing anything.”
“Then what is this, Jason? What are we doing?”
He hesitates.
And that’s the worst part.
He doesn’t say nothing. He just doesn’t say anything.
You scoff under your breath and grab your bag.
“I’ll finish the project myself.”
You walk away before he can stop you.
He doesn’t.
[JASON]: I’m sorry.
That night, he texts.
And then…
[JASON]: Things are messy right now.
[JASON]: It’s not about you. It’s just stuff. With my family.
[JASON]: I didn’t mean to take it out on you.
You stare at your phone for a long time.
[YOU]: That’s not good enough.
You don’t expect him to show up to class the next day.
After all, Jason Todd is nothing if not consistent—consistently late, consistently charming, consistently someone who burns bridges just to see if you’ll still meet him in the smoke.
But when you walk into AP Lit, he’s already there.
At your table.
With the project folder in front of him.
His head is down like he’s reading something, but his eyes flick up the moment you approach.
You hesitate. You’re not ready to forgive him. You’re not even sure you want to. But there’s something about the way he’s sitting—shoulders drawn in, not trying to take up space like he usually does—that makes your chest ache in that slow, reluctant way.
You sit.
Silently.
Jason clears his throat. “Hey.”
You don’t answer.
He pushes the folder toward you. “I, um. I rewrote our scene breakdown. It was bothering me.”
You glance down, confused. Your last draft had been solid. You’d worked hard on it. Even stayed up editing it line by line. But when you start skimming his notes… your breath catches.
He didn’t rewrite it to erase you.
He rewrote it for you.
It’s neater. Clearer. Your analysis is still there, word for word—but now it’s supported by new sources. New formatting. Your scattered bullet points have been organized, with a clean structure that matches the rubric to a T. And in the margins—tiny, cramped handwriting in blue pen—are Jason’s own notes.
Blanche uses femininity like armor here. (Just like you said—v smart.)
I don’t think Stanley’s the villain exactly? But I like how you framed it—maybe he’s society’s consequence?
Added that thing you said about mirrors & fragility from class — good point.
You freeze.
This is… thoughtful.
Embarrassingly thoughtful.
It’s not flashy. It’s not public. It’s not a “look at me” performance with a marching band.
It’s just him. Quietly trying.
He watches you read, picking at a frayed thread on his hoodie sleeve. When you finally lift your eyes, his voice is low.
“I know you said that wasn’t good enough. My apology.”
You don’t say anything.
He licks his lips. “But I didn’t want to let the project die just because I suck at talking.”
You set the folder down carefully.
“You didn’t suck at talking,” you say, voice even. “You just sucked at not shutting me out.”
Jason exhales—half a breath, maybe even relief.
“I’ve got some stuff going on. With my brothers. And Bruce. And school, and—” he stops himself, shakes his head. “No excuse. I was just angry, and I didn’t want to feel like I had to explain myself. But you didn’t deserve that.”
You nod slowly.
The classroom is loud around you—papers shuffling, chairs scraping, someone whispering about the math quiz in third period—but none of it registers.
Not when he’s looking at you like that.
“I’m not gonna grovel,” Jason says softly. “But I’ll keep showing up. You can ignore me, yell at me, punch me in the face—”
“I’ve considered it.”
He smirks a little, but his eyes are serious.
“—but I’m not gonna stop trying.”
That shouldn't sound as good as it does.
Jason’s grin falters, turns crooked. “Yeah, well. Maybe I want to be more than ‘not a complete asshole.’”
You shift in your seat. “You shouldn’t have to try this hard just to convince me you’re not a complete asshole.”
He pauses. “At least to you.”
You hate the way your pulse jumps.
Hate the way it means something.
Your fingers brush the edge of the folder. “You really highlighted my points in blue.”
“Only the brilliant ones.”
“You wrote jokes in the margins.”
“You laughed at like two of them.”
“I snorted.”
Jason leans forward slightly. “Best sound I’ve heard all week.”
You shoot him a dry look.
“I’m still mad,” you say.
“I know.”
“I’m not ready to forgive you.”
“I can wait.”
There it is again—that damn patience of his. Like he’s not in a rush. Like you’re the only thing he’s willing to take slow.
You exhale and open the folder again. “If we’re going to survive this presentation, you’re annotating the second half of the text.”
Jason raises a brow. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, and you have to print it.”
“God, you’re ruthless.”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you live.”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it any other way.”
You don’t smile.
But your lips twitch. Just a little.
And Jason sees it.
The classroom lights are dimmed.
The chalkboard reads:
STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE — FINAL PRESENTATIONS TODAY
Group 3: Todd + [Your Last Name]
You pace in the hallway just outside the door, holding the stapled script like it might bite you. You’ve highlighted your lines, annotated everything, even color-coded your cue notes—but your stomach still turns.
This isn’t nerves. It’s something else.
It’s him.
Because ever since that damn apology, Jason’s been different.
He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t push. He listens.
And worst of all—he’s… good at this.
You thought you’d be dragging him through this scene like dead weight, but Jason’s performance during rehearsal was tight. Tense. Devastatingly aware of you.
You hated it.
You kind of loved it.
The door creaks open.
“Hey.” Jason’s voice is low. “You ready?”
He’s in a plain gray tee and jeans—nothing flashy. Just that stupid leather jacket slung over one shoulder and the kind of look in his eyes that says he’s not just playing Stanley—he understands him.
You exhale sharply.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He tilts his head. “You sure?”
“Why? Scared I’ll outshine you?”
Jason grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The class is quiet when you step inside.
Your teacher sits at the front, a clipboard in her lap.
You and Jason take your places at the front of the room. No costumes, no props—just raw scene work. The moment you face him, everything else disappears.
He opens his mouth and begins the scene.
“You come in here and sprinkle the place with powder and spray perfume—” Jason’s voice is low, controlled, heat simmering beneath the surface, “—and cover the lightbulb with a paper lantern, and lo and behold the place has turned into Egypt and you are the Queen of the Nile!”
He’s staring at you.
No—through you.
Your reply snaps out like a whip. “That’s not fair.”
Your breath catches. You weren't supposed to feel this.
But Jason’s voice softens—just slightly. “I’m not sayin’ you’re lying. I’m sayin’ you’ve got to be realistic.”
His eyes lock with yours. And that’s when it happens
The scene bleeds. The lines fade.
It’s no longer just Stanley talking to Blanche. It’s Jason, voice laced with something quieter—something raw.
“And I’m not gonna let you lie to me,” he murmurs.
That line wasn’t in the script.
You blink.
Jason’s lips part like he hadn’t meant to say it that way. Like maybe he’s not sure what just happened either. But he doesn’t drop your gaze. He holds it, steady.
The room doesn’t exist.
Just your heartbeat. Loud. Wild.
You go off script too. “Then stop pretending you know who I am.”
Your teacher clears her throat from the front. You both flinch.
Jason breaks eye contact, dragging a hand through his hair. You turn sharply back to the script and finish the last lines in a rush—something about light and shadows—but your voice shakes.
The moment you say the final word, your teacher claps.
“Well done,” she says. “That was… heated.”
The class titters.
Jason gives a tight nod. His ears are red.
You grab your folder and head back to your desk, heart pounding.
Jason catches up with you just before you sit.
He leans down, voice quiet. “That wasn’t… I didn’t mean to—”
You cut him off, refusing to look up. “Don’t explain.”
“I’m not.”
You finally glance up.
His face is too honest. His voice is too gentle.
“I’m just saying,” he adds, “maybe it wasn’t just Stanley talking.”
You open your mouth—but no words come out.
You hate that he’s right. You hate that you wish he wasn’t.
You hate that your chest is still burning where his eyes were. Jason backs off slowly. “I’ll… see you tomorrow.”
You nod.
But you don’t look away until he’s gone.
After the Streetcar presentation, you think maybe he’ll back off again. But he doesn’t.
Jason doesn’t try to kiss you. Doesn’t crack a joke or send a text at 2 a.m. saying “so what was that?” He doesn’t even sit beside you in class. Instead, he lets the moment settle like dust—quiet, slow.
You find yourself watching him when you shouldn’t.
The way he leans back in his chair like he’s too big for the room. The way he mouths along with poetry under his breath, like he already knows the ending. The way his eyes flick to you whenever someone mentions the word love—like he’s waiting for your scoff, like he wants to hear what you really think.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because for once, you don’t know.
You don’t believe in love. Not the big, cinematic kind. Not the kind that makes people forget themselves. But the look he gave you during the scene? The line that wasn’t in the script?
It felt like something you shouldn’t touch.
So you do what you always do: you write it down. Three days before prom, your class gets a final creative writing assignment:
Poetry Slam Presentation.
Write a piece that explores a personal theme. Share aloud.
You pretend it’s stupid.
You pretend you don’t care. And then you go home and write until 2 a.m., your pen slicing across the page like it’s angry too.
Presentation Day.
You stand at the front of the room with your notebook. Jason’s in the back row, chewing the cap of a pen, legs stretched out like he’s not ready for this. You glance down at the title.
“Kill Me.”
You inhale.
Then begin:
kill me.
by [Your Name]
kill me with your stupid voice
your deep, careless, silver-tongued voice
that drips charm like oil on fire
too loud for a library
too soft when it counts.
kill me with your hands
that always hovered near mine
never touching
but never gone.
like you wanted to hold me
but didn’t think you deserved to.
kill me with the way you say my name
like it’s a dare
or a secret
or both.
kill me with your eyes—
kind and cruel,
like they want to read me
like they already have.
kill me because you don’t make sense.
because you’re the boy who made a bet
and then stopped smiling when i got hurt.
the boy who sang like a joke
and meant every note.
the boy who annotated my rage in blue pen
and said i was brilliant
like it was a fact, not a flirt.
kill me because you waited.
and i don’t know what to do with that.
no one’s ever waited.
kill me because i don’t believe in love,
but i’m starting to believe in
you.
Silence.
You close the notebook.
The room is silent.
Your teacher opens her mouth like she wants to say something profound, but even she is caught off guard.
Jason?
Jason’s just… staring. No smirk. No quip. Just his eyes on you. Locked.
You walk back to your seat like nothing happened. Like your heart isn’t about to cave in on itself. When you pass him, he whispers:
“…Was that about me?”
You don’t look at him.
You just say:
“If you have to ask, it wasn’t.”
And keep walking.
The day after you read “Kill Me,” Jason doesn’t show up to first period.
Or second.
He’s not in the cafeteria. He doesn’t text. And for someone who’s made a career out of being everywhere all the time, it feels… wrong.
The classroom feels colder without him slouched in the back row.
So when he finally shows up in English—five minutes late, hood pulled low—you don’t know what to expect. He doesn’t look at you. Not once.
But when your teacher calls his name for the Poetry Slam presentation, he stands.
And for the first time in forever, Jason Todd looks nervous.
He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket, walks to the front, then pauses—eyes sweeping the room, landing on you.
“This is… uh.” His voice is lower than usual. “This is for someone. You’ll know who.”
He doesn’t wink.
He doesn’t smirk.
He just begins.
kiss me.
by jason todd
kiss me like you hate me.
because i know you want to.
i saw it in the way your hands shook
when you dropped your pen and didn’t want me to see.
i saw it when you called me a walking cliché
but still let me walk you home.
kiss me like it’s the only time.
because i’ll take it.
i’ll take scraps, i’ll take seconds,
i’ll take whatever you think you can give me—
and treat it like it’s everything.
kiss me when you're angry.
when your voice gets sharp,
when your eyes flash like fire alarms,
when you say you don’t believe in love
and still look at me like i might be
the first thing to change your mind.
kiss me because you wrote about me.
because every line in your poem was a bullet
and i still wanted more.
because even when you said you hated me,
you knew i’d be listening.
kiss me like it’s a bet.
kiss me like it’s revenge.
kiss me because if you don’t,
i’ll keep waiting.
and waiting.
and waiting.
because that’s the thing, isn’t it?
i’d wait a lifetime for a girl like you
to believe in something as stupid as
me.
The class is silent again.
But this time, your throat is.
Jason folds the paper once. Twice. Tucks it into his jacket and walks back to his seat. When he passes your desk, his hand brushes the edge—just once—and he doesn’t say anything.
You want to. God, you want to. But the words don’t come. Instead, you just watch him sit. And you realize—somewhere deep and awful—that maybe he was always telling the truth.
He was just waiting for you to believe it.
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Two days before prom.
You find the note during detention.
The kind that shouldn’t exist anymore, passed like secrets in ruled paper, folded sharp and thin, slipped under your elbow as the teacher’s back is turned.
You uncrumple it without thinking. The handwriting is jagged. Familiar.
I wasn’t gonna ask.
Didn’t think I deserved to.
But you in that poem? You looked at me like I was already yours.So if you show up, I’ll be waiting.
If you don’t… I’ll still wait.
There’s no name. But there doesn’t have to be.
You press your lips together so you don’t smile.
And you fold the paper back up like it’s something you might want to read again later.
Prom night.
You don’t have a date.
You said no to everyone who asked, which wasn’t many—most too scared, a few too stupid. You told your mom you didn’t feel like it, that it was dumb, that you’d rather stay home and rewatch Little Women and scream about feminist rage.
But she made you the dress anyway.
It’s soft. The color is nothing like what you’d normally wear—something too pretty, too kind for the girl who argues with teachers and makes boys cry. But it fits. And it’s yours.
So you show up. For her.
Not for him.
That’s what you tell yourself.
The gym looks exactly how you expect: gold streamers, mismatched lights, a disco ball that spins like it’s trying to hypnotize you. There are too many people. Too many dresses. Too much laughter.
You hate it.
Until you see him.
Jason Todd, in a wrinkled black button-up and boots he didn’t bother to polish, leaning against the far wall like he belongs there. Not trying. Not performing.
Just waiting. Like he said he would. And when his eyes meet yours? He freezes. Like he didn’t think you’d actually come.
Like he can’t believe you look like that.
The song changes.
And suddenly, you hear it.
A slow, pulsing beat. Familiar.
Soft, dangerous, quiet at first—
But growing.
I wanna be your vacuum cleaner
Breathing in your dust…
Jason straightens. You take a step forward.
Neither of you says anything. Not yet.
And if you like your coffee hot
Let me be your coffee pot…
The room blurs. The music swells.
He’s standing in front of you now.
And you swear—for one breathless second—he’s going to say something stupid. Something like "I told you so,” or "You clean up okay.”
But he doesn’t.
He just holds out his hand.
You hesitate.
And then take it.
Because of course you do.
You don’t speak as he pulls you into the middle of the dance floor.
You don’t argue when his hands settle on your waist, unsure.
And you definitely don’t make a joke when you let your head rest lightly on his shoulder.
You just move with him. Breathe with him. Like maybe you’d been waiting too.
Let me be your 'leccy meter
And I'll never run out…
The words are ridiculous. You’d laugh, normally.
But Jason sways with you like he means every syllable. And suddenly, it’s not funny.
It’s terrifying.
Because if you look up now, you’ll say it.
All of it.
But then his voice—barely a whisper—cuts through the music.
“Why’d you really come?”
You lift your head.
And the truth spills out, small and brutal:
“Because you waited.”
Jason breathes in—sharp.
You expect him to kiss you.
But he doesn’t.
Not yet.
He just pulls you closer, like he’s memorizing the weight of you in his arms.
And murmurs: “I always would’ve.”
The lights spin.
The song ends.
But he doesn’t let go.
Neither do you.
The end.
[ ➤ taglist: @reagan707 @lassoinyourlap @ravenna-rvnclw @deadbeatphobos @freythecrazyfae ]
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cloverapple · 1 day ago
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okay so i understand your point that once I decide I'll have it, If I decide I'll wake yp in my dr I will, if I don't ses my dr that just means it's an illusion because its not possible for the intention to not work. But how/when does the physical change? I have been doing the similar thing for a while, intending to shift and then whennI still see my cr I say "I have shifted, I'm already there, I just don't see it yet because my brain is taking time processing the chage" but I tell this to myself for weeks and still the 3d doesn't change. I don't understand what to do now like I get it it's just an illusion or wtv but all I after MONTHS is my stupid cr and then it get s harder to keep this facade and then I start thinking maybe that wasn't enough effort or wtv but another part of my mid also thinks and says there's no such thing as enough effort, you didn't do anything wrong. I am conflicted if I did do everything right, why isn't the illusion fading away? why am I still here?
Anon, I want to hug you so bad because you sound exactly like me in the weeks before I finally shifted 😭
I was crashing out, spiraling, tearing my hair out because every method, every piece of advice, every “just let go and trust” post felt like bullshit. I couldn’t figure out why I was still in my CR, why it wasn’t working, why I felt broken, why it felt like everyone else could shift except me.
Turns out I wasn’t broken. There was nothing wrong with me. And there’s nothing wrong with you. At all.
I can’t promise everything I say will click for you as everyone’s different. I write for myself, for the me who couldn’t shift, who blamed my CR, my ADHD, my brain, who thought I was the problem, who spent hours comparing myself to strangers on the internet who could shift and made it look so easy.
And in the end, it was paying attention to the weird, nonsensical cracks in reality that moved me forward, not the neat “just persist and assume” advice everyone repeats. It’s not always pretty, but it’s real. And it might help some people because back then, I wish I had someone telling me I wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Maybe you’re not one of those people, and that’s okay. You should adopt what genuinely resonates with you and brings you peace, not what frustrates you.
But if you’re one of those people who’s sick of techniques that don’t work, of posts screaming “YOU ARE GOD” while you’re still stuck, of meditation that doesn’t stick, I want you to know this:
1) Wavering means absolutely nothing in the face of your decision and intention.
It’s like studying for a test, thinking you bombed it, spiraling the entire week about how you’re a failure and deluded—and then you get your score back, and it’s totally fine, and you realize you had nothing to worry about.
Of course, I’m not invalidating what you’re going through in your CR. I don’t know you or your struggles. But I do know you don’t need to ignore your CR for shifting to work. You can, and it’s a valid method that works for many. But ignoring reality is hard for some of us, and it might be hard for you too. That’s okay.
Don’t treat your CR like a place you need to get rid of immediately. It’s just one of many realities your awareness encompasses. Wavering doesn’t “put you back at square one.” You’re not living a facade. That implies your intention isn’t real when it is.
2) If you’ve been doing this for months, that’s months of proof that the intention is set. And you cannot deny that. You’ve intended to shift for months. That means the outcome is yours, and the only thing left is to get out of your own way. You don’t need to add more, try harder, or scramble for a missing piece. The action was done, and you can’t intend to succeed and fail. Sure, you can observe your outcome as failure, and that’s what keeps people in the loop, usually. Not seeing their DR after X amount of time = they’re failing.
3) Honestly, if everything I say sounds overwhelming? That’s okay too.
Let it suck. Let yourself say, “Okay, this doesn’t resonate with me right now,” and drop it. Let yourself explore, learn yourself, and place your power in yourself, never in any outside source. You’re not wrong. You’re not failing. You don’t have to rush. It’s already yours.
It makes total sense that you’re feeling frustrated seeing your CR day after day while knowing you’ve done everything right. It’s not silly or wrong to feel that way. It’s not wavering, it’s not failing, it’s not messing up your shifting. It’s simply noticing what you perceive is showing up, and that’s okay. It is okay to see your CR.
Don’t interpret seeing your CR as failure, even if you intend to be here for whatever reason, because it’s yours. It’s yours.
4) You’re using “seeing your CR” as proof that you’re not in your DR, when actually: “Seeing CR” isn’t proof of anything except your mind’s expectation that you should see CR until something else proves to you that you’re in your DR.
You’re in a loop that looks like: “Okay, I don’t see my DR, so I need to do something else, I need to keep trying, because this didn’t work.”
That loop is what I call continuity attachment, and it’s the mind’s familiar habit of:
“Do the action.”
“Check if the result happened.”
“If not, assume it didn’t work and try again.”
But the truth is: Creation (observation, shifting, deciding hat reality you want) is instant. The moment you intend to be in your DR, it’s done. You can’t intend to succeed and fail, period.
You know when you’re suuuper tired, get in bed, intend to sleep, and then don’t sleep? It’s not because you got in bed wrong, or didn’t intend to sleep. It’s because the moment you didn’t immediately fall asleep, you thought “oh great, now I’m not getting any sleep” and kept turning it over in your mind; how the bed’s uncomfortable, how you’re probably not going to sleep at all tonight, how tomorrow will suck because you didn’t get any sleep. All the while, all you needed to do was get out of your own way and let whatever happen. Say “fuck it, I don’t care if I sleep or not”....which ends up being the rest you needed.
You rest because you let yourself rest, you let your mind shut up because you don’t care anymore and know that this form of giving up sleeping is, in itself, the rest you needed. And then you fall asleep, which begs the question: were you always asleep?
5) Part of the illusion is that you need to see physical evidence to confirm it. The “waiting” and “checking” are illusions of continuity, where the mind says: “It must take time, so let me check if it’s happened yet.”
You aren’t doing anything wrong by noticing you’re still seeing your CR. It’s valid to feel upset, to want your DR now, to feel exhausted. It doesn’t stop you from shifting. It doesn’t cancel out your intention.
How I view it is: If I intended, then it’s impossible for me to fail.
And that: “Seeing CR can’t be proof I’m not in my DR, because if I’ve done the cause, the outcome must be there, and the perception of ‘not having’ is the illusion.”
6) Time is also part of the illusion. Creation/observation is instant, but the mind believes in gradual change, in waiting, in “processing” the shift. Once you see that’s not real, it begins to unravel. What you can do now:
You don’t need to “try harder.” You don’t need to “fix” anything. You don’t need to fight your CR, ignore it, or force yourself to feel a certain way.
Instead: Let it feel strange that you did the action but still “see CR.” Let that confusion open the crack in the illusion. Sit in the knowing that you already did it, and nothing else needs to happen. Let the comfort of that realization settle in, because it will unravel reality.
You are not failing. You have not messed up your shift. You are not stuck because you feel bad or notice your CR. You’re in the exact place you need to be, and now you’re seeing how flimsy the illusion is because you’re frustrated.
Nothing can take away what you intended. Let it be weird, let it unravel, and let yourself relax into the absolute bs it is that your action (intention) had “no outcome.” You need to look at proof? I don’t blame you. I love proof. But remember that the proof is the intention, not the outcome.
If you bake a cake from scratch, toss it in the oven, and go into another room, do you still need to go check if you have the cake? No, the proof is there even when you can’t see it.
“What if I’m still seeing CR after months?”
You can live normally, react to 3D, laugh, cry, be human, and still know you’re in your DR. Because your DR isn’t a place you get to by seeing it. It’s a place you’re in because you decided, and it was done.
Your method didn’t fail. It worked. The only reason it feels like it didn’t is because you’re checking your CR for proof, and you think that proof in your CR is seeing your DR. When the proof is that....you did it.
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chaezhll · 13 hours ago
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Thanos and Nam-gyu comforting reader after you have a nightmare that's specifically about them, but with a twist: the nightmare takes place inside the games, but the reader wakes up outside the games. Thoughts?
Right beside you. 💤🌙
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───────⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧──────────
◟📁 . / THANOS/NAM-GYU x !F Reader
◟📚 . / Oneshot [ꜱᴜꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ]
◟⚠️ . / !warnings! : post-traumatic symptoms, Survivor’s guilt , OOC , Love-triangle(?)
a/n ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ OKAY I LOVE THAT, !! anw i hc that if this were to ever happen , thanos would def be more quiet because hes not used to comforting people. i feel like he would possibly just be your anchor; meanwhile namgyu is the polar opposite , he tries his best to be there for you, and comfort you in every way he knows how because he just doesnt wanna see you upset :((, ANW I HOPE YOU LIKE MY VISION ON THIS xx!!
───────⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧──────────
you wake up with your heart feeling like its beating out of your chest. You don’t scream, you cant. too horrified and tired, Your breath is caught in your throat and you sit up fast, like you’re still in danger.
you're not.
you know that.
but even so, it doesn’t help.
your whole body is shaking . You’re drenched in cold sweat. The room is quiet, too quiet. you hated that.
You see nam-gyu stir beside you. he sits up, squinting at you in the dark.
“…Shit. Bad dream again?” as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes
You nod, but it barely comes out. You wrap your arms around yourself and try to control your breathing, but whatever you do doesnt help.
Nam-gyu shifts closer to you, he whispers to you while placing a gentle hand to your thigh“you’re here, with us. It’s okay. just a dream.”
your mouth opens, but the words feel heavy.
“It was about you two,” you manage. “we were back in the games. and you both were…”
You stop. the images from your dream are still there— thanos bleeding out nam-gyu screaming for help, and you couldn’t save either of them.
you know they’re still here, you can see them. But your body still feels like you lost them.
you feel rustling. thanos’ voice from the left side of the bed.
“you dreamt I died again, didn’t you.”
he hates talking about what happend in the games. He honestly feels like he would just like to pretend none of that ever happend. he feels like it would be easier to just forget it if they all acted like it was just a shared nightmare.
you find it embarrassing. you know youre not in there anymore. but why is your brain still so convinced you are?
thanos doesn’t look away nor does he judge you. He just watches you like hes trying to read what to do next.
nam-gyu finally reaches out and wipes your cheek. you didn’t even notice the stream of tears flowing down your cheek.
“I hate that your head is still stuck in there,” he says, in a low tone. “you got out. we got out. but you still cant get over it, huh?”
you press your palms into your eyes, not sure from embarrassment or still being shaken up “It felt so real. I couldn’t do anything to help . I just stood there… nd watched.”
“you always blame yourself in those dreams,” thanos mutters. “even when it wasn’t your fault.”
nam-gyu moves his hands to hold yours in a caring manor. “you don’t have to carry that burden alone. not when we’re right here to help you every step of the way, okay?”
nam-gyu keeps talking, softer this time. “and.. you know, you can wake us up. next time. You really don’t have to deal with this by yourself.”
“I didn’t want to—”
“doesn’t matter,” he cuts in,
“you’re the only person allowed to bother us.”
thanos finally says, “we’re not in there anymore.”
another pause. “And did you really think youd lose us? cmon baby, we are not that weak to die to that stupid game” he says in a slightly joking way, clearly trying to lighten up the mood
You look at them both. You’re still breathing a hard, but your fingers aren’t trembling as much.
and maybe they’re right. maybe you need help getting past this.
nam-gyu pulls you into a hug. He’s warm and grounding and doesnt let go even when your breath stutters again. Thanos doesn’t say anything else, but his hand settles on your back, firm and steady.
and you spent the rest of your night just enveloped in eachothers warmth
───────⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧──────────
thankyou for requesting btw!!
thangyu taglist : @i-might-be-vanny
(if you wanna be added to the thangyu taglist , just ask me or comment !! xx)
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shedelulululu · 2 days ago
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Inspired by this video which has haunted me for years (it's a very disturbing story told very jovially) I suggest you watch it but the tldr here is athletes trust their team doctors and don't ask questions about medications they're given!
So new team doctor! Mel King and NHL player! Frank Langdon cw: intentional drugging, sabotage via medications (below the cut)
Mel King does not get into sports medicine because she has a crush on the players. It's bothered her from the time she took to the ice herself at 3 years old that her interest was always centered around men. She plays into college, she's good enough to get a scholarship to an okay school, she's not good enough to go pro, she made peace with that long ago -- it's not until recent that there was any money in women's hockey and it's still not that good. She didn't think she had it in her to coach, she wanted something stable, she liked helping people, she's one of the few athletes to take advantage of the fact that her classes were paid for, and so majors in biochem and kinesiology, and kisses a lot of ass in order to get a residency in orthopeadic surgery, a fellowship in sports medicine, and abuses every connection she's made since the time she was born to earn herself a position affiliated with a team.
Mel King does not work for the Pittsburgh Penguins because she has a crush Frank Langdon. Really, she tried to get a job with the PWHL, she had friends in the league, but there's only a handful of US teams and none of them were hiring and while she has no doubts about being able to get a visa to work in Canada, the paperwork it would require for Becca too would be too much. She applied to work with every NHL team with an open position, she poked around her networks for anywhere they could squeeze her in, she even applied to a couple teams in other sports (that she restricted to staying in California). When she got the call from the practice associated with the Penguins offering her a job, she didn't think twice, she said yes.
She had one crush on one hockey player her whole life, she usually preferred the swimmers and tennis players, she ran into him once at party while she was doing her fellowship at UCLA (a couple of the Kings players took a liking to her and invited her out sometimes), they flirted a bit, well she certainly was flirting, but eventually he got pulled away, as is to happen when you're the second line centre and attractive in a way that makes you wonder why he'd pick a sport that could so easily ruin his face. It's not like anything could happen now anyways, he has a girlfriend, Abby, typical hockey WAG profile (blonde, long hair, perfect body, modest instagram following but not too large -- that was saved for athletes in sports people actually cared about like Basketball and Football) and she was nice to all the staff, even made sure to bring people cupcakes on their birthday. She had posted some vaguely antivaxx posts, Mel tried not to think about it too much, there was something in the water with women with a certain level of wealth.
He doesn't remember her, which is fine. He calls her Dr. Barbie, which initially she hates (does he really not respect her just because she's a woman?) he eventually catches wind of this and clears up that he has the utmost respect for Barbie (he saw the movie three times in theatres!), and she catches on that he has other oddly Mattel themed nicknames for the other doctors she works with (Dr. Hot Wheels -- he did have a red sports car, Dr. Bob the Builder -- ortho joke?). Sometimes he'll try a reckless trick shot in practice and point to her saying "this one's for you!" Which she can only assume to mean she's the one tasked with ensuring he didn't tear his ACL or rupture his patella in the process.
At first she's horrified to learn how much he trusts her -- or maybe she's horrified by her own reaction. She gives the players ambien as they disembark their flight in Seattle, in case they need help sleeping that night. The next day is an earlier game, 3 PM on a Sunday, there's a very early morning skate which she hangs around for, but mostly she's going over her game day checklist on the bench. Suddenly she hears the sharp sound of skates stopping in front of her, blue eyes wild and peering down at her "The pill you gave us yesterday is for sleep right?" She tilts her head to the side, "Yes" he grins back "Perfect you're the best". She doesn't think anything of it, until 10 minutes until the first period, she notices Frank's not skating right. His edges less precise, his body unresistant to hits. She then notices the players talking between the benches, clearly gesturing to Langdon. She should tell the coach to pull him from the game immediately, but she's not sure he'd listen, she doesn't think he trusts her judgement yet (he thinks she's overly cautious). In between periods she pulls him away from the locker room into the away exam room, and does a quick cognitive assessment, but she's already put the pieces together. "Langdon, did you take the pill today?" "Yeah, I always struggled to take naps when we play the west" "Langdon, the medication you took was an Ambien" he's slurring his words, "Yeah sure okay and?" She realizes then, after pulling him from the game and babysitting him that he trusts her unconditionally, and he might be a little stupid.
It's not Mel's fault she overhears a lot of 'locker room talk'. Honestly she tries to tune most of it out lest she develop animosity towards the players she's paid to treat because they talked about this 'rocket' that 'took both of them' and how the others should 'take her for a spin'. The guys with girlfriends and wives are no more respectful she's learned, some of them -- a lot of them -- cheat, others treat it all like a game, showing off what they have, one upping each other. Frank Langdon, while more tolerable than the others, is no exception. "Cap, what do you mean you just go home and pass out after every win? I'm so keyed up after, not even going out tires me out, I go multiple rounds with Abby after it's the only thing that wear me out. I'm pretty sure she only allows me to fuck her in her sleep now because she's too tired to keep up with me". So if after the next win she corners him before he leaves the arena with 'something to help his recovery' that totally kills his libido, she's just a doctor treating symptoms that her patient expressed concern with, nothing more. So when she's seated next to the WAGs at the next team dinner (which is a sexism thing because the other doctor travelling with her is next to the coaching staff) and overhears Abby complain that Frank never seems to want to touch her anymore, she doesn't smile (too hard).
Langdon doesn't make the All Star team, he honestly doesn't want to, it's extra work for a little bit of meaningless glory (it's not the fuck stanley cup or an olympic medal, why would he care?), and he'd rather take the vacation time. When he tells Mel his plans, she's surprised to hear that instead of jetting off to the Bahamas or Mexico like some of his teammates, he's visiting Abby's family in Louisiana. He tells her that she comes from a Big Oil family, they look down on him which he thinks is ridiculous because unlike their daughter at least he has a job and it pays fucking well thank you. She gives him two unmarked bottles of pills, tells him to take one of each in the morning during his trip. She doesn't bother giving him an excuse for why he has to take them, he never seemed to care anyways. The pills themselves will be mostly harmless for him, together they might interact to make him more irritable, on edge, prone to aggression, but it's not like he's ever minded side effects before. They don't come back from All Star break broken up, but he does ask her if it's possible to return a custom ring. She's happy to help.
Abby is absent from their next travel game. Frank Langdon is decidedly not morally above his teammates. She was invited out to the bar after this win, one of the rookie's girlfriend's (Cecilia Eze) had taken a shining to her and begged her to come out (she was a college sweetheart, she had a remote job and was studying for law school on the side, she didn't dislike the other WAGs but she felt she had way more in common with Mel than them). She watches as Frank disappears into the bathroom, followed by a woman with shocking red hair. Cecilia, who never got sick while drinking (oh to be 23 again), but did easily lose her filter, giggled when she looked between the bathroom and Mel "the guys look at you sometimes yknow? Have you ever noticed there's a line up of minor issues on days you're working?" Mel furrowed her brow, she was surprised when her coworkers notes were much shorter than hers but she never thought much of it, Cecilia barrels on, "There's this stupid bet, I berated them for it btw but I think they just took a note to be more discreet around me, about who is going to get you first." Mel raised a brow, shocked, she was pretty sure, but it's not like she really tired around them, she asked "Who is in the lead?" Cecilia barks a laugh "Well for a while it was Barzy because they never see him with girls over, they're too stupid to figure out he's gay, in second was Shensy because he had the most obvious crush on you even though you can barely even stand to talk to him for longer than a minute. But now that things have gotten rocky with Abby and Langdon..." she clasps a hand over her mouth "Oh I really shouldn't be saying this, Abby's been nothing but super nice and welcoming to me. But I mean..." her eyes dart back to the single stall bathroom door "Anyways, it's not a big deal, I don't think any of them think you'd actually agree, it is funny when they take home girls that could be your carbon copy though"
Mel doesn't think she's a calculated person, she recognizes the opportunities in front of her and takes action. After a particularly grueling bag skate, Langdon approaches Mel about optimal recovery and training workouts. Naturally she suggests pilates. Frank contemplates her suggestion "I'm not like against pilates, I know it's not just like a girl thing or whatever, I've been to a couple classes with Abby" he winces at her name "they're hard, but every instructor has this annoying fucking attitude I can't stand." Mel taught pilates in undergrad, it was good extra money, fit well with her classes, and she was able to score a position at the campus gym so they were really accommodating. So she offered to workout with him, they could start with just stuff on the mat and if he liked it they could talk to the team about getting a reformer set up. She goes back and forth between pharmacology texts, research articles, and online anecdotes, when deciding whether to give him a microdose of shrooms or opiates before every session. She just wants to make sure he feels good when they're together.
It's nice this routine they start to develop, pill, pilates, and drinking smoothies while they walk his dog in the park when they're done. "My bosses are really getting on my ass for all the extra hours I spend with the team. I'm super behind on the surgeries I'm supposed to scrub in on outside of working with the team." She reveals to him one afternoon. The next day she's informed that she's been relieved from her regular duties and she will now serve as Frank Langdon's personal physician in addition to being one of the team doctors. "You didn't have to do that for me" Frank laughs "Good. Because I didn't. C'mon you have to know you're my favourite. I did this for me."
They both dress really slutty (for work out wear) and get overly handsy during these pilates classes okay! What is she supposed to do? Not slot her body between his legs and help deepen his stretch? Not bring her hands around his hips to fix his position? Avoid tilting his chin forward so he doesn't injure his neck?
Cecilia let's it slip that Abby is frustrated that Langdon is never around anymore. She's worried he's fucking his new workout partner. Mel nods along, afraid if she speaks up it will become apparent that she's the partner.
They're out in Los Angeles, it feels full circle to be at a house party hosted by her favourite Kings player with her new team. She was talking to Frank, figuring she should finally let it slip, "You probably don't remember this, but we actually met here for the first time" "Oh I could never forget that night--" she was unceremoniously dragged into playing beer pong with the host, annoyed it interrupted their conversation but as the game went on it was freeing to hang out with someone friendly and so unencumbered by the dynamics of her job. Her partner had his arm around her, going for a shot and missing, she can feel it when Langdon enters the room, eyes boring into the side of her skull. Her partner finishing chugging his beer, takes notice of him "Hey! I hear you're the guy who stole King from the Kings" she groaned, they were always saying cheesy stuff like that when she worked with them, Mel coughed on her own beer, "Uh, I don't think you guys really get a say in that." Their opponents laughed at her, "Oh Mel, when it came to you we made our voices heard. I guess some pockets were deeper than others." He gave a pointed look towards Langdon, who didn't even have the decency to look sheepish. In a haze she finishes out the game, winning despite her partner, and drags Frank towards an empty hallway. She hands him a water bottle, "drink this, it'll help your hangover". That wasn't exactly true, but she finally had him where she wanted him and she needed to stick the landing here and now, lest the moment be lost. MDMA is perfectly safe when drinking alcohol. Now she just needed to get him alone so there was no one else to touch when the effects kicked in.
He was all over her that night, but he struggled to get it up long enough to fuck her. When they were back at home she stared longingly at a bottle in her medicine cabinet she swore was her boundary, a line she'd never cross, but a girl had needs and she was tired of playing the long game. Really, it would be recreational use to give it to him unknowingly, its not like he cared about all the drugs before, never interrogated her the next day, never avoided her. Gamma-hydroxybutryic acid was just a scary name for a little guaranteed fun.
When the league drug testers come around by surprise she swaps his sample with her own.
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Note
Felt like sharing my experience with antis if that is okay? To start off I'm very anti-contact, I don't actually want to hurt anyone and I am very hesitant about aligning with pro-ship or saying I was technically one at some point. it makes me feel guilty and uneasy when I say that I enjoy producing and consuming dark graphic content, and that I sometimes (rarely) get off to it (most of the time it's like absurdist horror to me, still fun to read but very uncomfy) I am the Shinji Ikari of Marquis De Sade, more or less.
So basically I wrote a dead dove/noncon fic and would constantly leave long AN's about how I was doing sort of to vent/cope/talk about my artistic process. I have a rape fetish and was sort of playing into it a little with the fic. I confessed to this multiple times in ANs that I'd often edit or delete depending on my embarrassment or shame with how long they were, because they were LONG! I will get to this again later.
I really enjoyed working on this fic, as it was just my art piece of the month and due to the fandom it was for being very popular I got a lot of hits, kudos and even comments! The comments were very positive and supportive and made me want to keep writing, and I was just really happy, maybe a little addicted to working on this story. Like it felt good to get this much attention for it. So I wanted to see if I could find other people in the fandom to talk about it with.
I actually got in contact with someone who was pretty big. They didn't know I wrote this specific fic yet and I warned them it was really dark, thinking they wouldn't get upset. I was very much so in the mindset that they wouldn't think much of it. Looking around I saw the space was pretty anti-proship and I was like gosh, okay... I mean this isn't really proship tho like I'm not showing this activity as good and it mostly focuses on the aftermath and how it hurt someone sooo then I should tag it to get the people who are creeps and actually wanna hurt people away from it!
That... didn't work. It actually backfired. This person in the fandom I reached hadn't gotten back to me when I sent them a summary of my fic (that I spent five hours on probably!) at the time, but I did get negative comments telling me that I was gross, and someone else reassuring me that the error in my tags was posted out of context and I just mistagged it and should fix it. I can't remember what specifically the tags said but it upset a lot of people and I saw how bad it looked so I fixed it, briefly acknowledged it then for whatever reason erased evidence of the mistake ever happening to prevent any further harassment.
The big person in the fandom got back to me! By which I mean she blocked me! Everywhere! Literally everywhere. Other people were blocking me too.
I wanted someone new to talk to. I was almost done with the story and I wanted someone to write with. I asked on twitter (where I found a lot of porn for the fandom I was in) if there was a discord for a specific ship in the fandom I wrote for and soemone sent me the link!
So I joined on my main account and the rules say "no proshippers, no dead dove writers. If we catch you for doing this we will kick you out of our server." I'm like okay so I won't mention I wrote this then! Just gotta make sure that one person isn't here....
She was. She was there.
So I dm the person who invited me. I deleted the discord this was on so I'll write the conversation from memory.
Me: Uh... is (fic writer) a member here?
Them: I think so, why?
Me: I'm sorry I can't join I wrote something messed up.
Them: What kind of messed up?
Me: Dead dove. But it's not fetish material or anything it's
Them: is it that one (main character) fic?
Me: :(
Them: Why didn't you just open with that?
Me: I'm sorry I'm really sorry
Them: You're lying by the way it says here that it is fetish material.
(they sent several screenshots of my now deleted author's notes.)
Me: Well yeah but like only partially.
Them: Do you have any sexual trauma?
Me: Yeah sort of. I was abused that counts right?
Them: Counts enough, I guess. Still this isn't a good way to deal with it.
Me: I'm sorry.
Them: And the way you tried to infiltrate the safer spaces by giving people a false sense of security? All the creeps DNI stuff? Completely messed up.
Me: I won't join your server I'm sorry. I didn't mean that I was just anxious I got scared.
Me: You aren't gonna dox me or come after me.
Them: No, we won't. Just don't post for this fandom anymore.
Me: Okay. I'm really sorry.
I forget where but they said "We don't want you here, dude." Which is just, fuckin suicide causing words. I also forgot to include the part where I said I regret writing it and they said "how can you regret writing a story you made 28 chapters for" and I said "I just needed to keep writing" they said "No you didn't" I left a lot out but that's the gist.
Anyway it's just awful to be made to feel like a monster because you don't know how tagging works and have a couple weird fetishes. Like, I see now how it looks REALLY bad but in all honesty I just thought I was writing a story that was a little messed up. I didn't consider that people might be upset by the poor handling of the subject, my fucked up sense of humor, or how it looks like I'm trying to hurt/shock them when in reality I was lonely, desperate for approval/attention and wanted someone to talk about my favorite show with.
Because of what happened, I'm now too scared to post about the show in question anymore. Like, I'm worried they might recognize my interests (I was dumb enough to not be anonymous and posted art on an account a few people saw and have a pretty distinctive style) and then like say "OMG ITS THE FREAK WHO POSTED THAT RAPE FIC DURING THE FALL OF 2024!" and like doxx me or something.
I'm like really scared. I genuinely love that show, even still, and I want to draw art for it and participate in the fandom without making anymore dark fetish content for it, but I'm really scared people will remember who I was in the past. Like I'm not even into an underaged character it's a grown ass man, I understand that rape is wrong, I mentioned a lot in the fic itself I don't want to hurt anyone, and I said it everywhere, I don't hurt people but these antis scare me I don't think they care that I'm harmless or a victim of abuse (so my fetishes changed a bit as a result) I don't think they care that I write this stuff as a way to relieve stress because the violence and cruelty is cathartic, freeing, let's me express my id freely.
I want to keep writing for this fandom, more dark stories, but I just, I'm scared to. I'm scared they'll see me again and hate me, hurt me. I want to draw, write, make art, make friends but these people they aren't welcoming and I completely understand why.... it's a largely american fanbase for an adult animated cartoon so I'm scared of the proship side since American cartoon fanbases are horrific.
I don't know, I guess I just want some comfort after all this happened, some reprieve? Some sort of reassurance that I'm not a bad person, I don't know. Some encouragement to keep liking this cartoon. I'm really sorry this note was so long. I'm sorry. That's all I can say. I'm a broken record at this point haha.
Fuckin hell I need therapy.
<3
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