Go Be “cringe” !!! U Wanna Be The Main Character Of Ur Dr?? Do It! U Wanna Be Ridiculously Overpowered???

anyways. i’m going to be so real because i am sick to death of people treating shifting/loa creators like personal therapists, servants, or human manifestation calculators. at what point does it click that we are actual people? not some floating concept meant to guide you through your entire existential crisis. not some customer service hotline for your shifting woes. you are not owed endless hand-holding and free labour just because you asked nicely (or, let’s be honest, didn’t).

and god, the entitlement of some people. no, it wasn’t funny when i was asked for explicit information about my dr boyfriend WHO IS SEVENTEEN AND A REAL PERSON. no, it wasn’t funny when someone asked if we have angry sex ?????. no, it wasn’t funny when someone literally told me to get r4p3d for being a ‘liar’ and then not even specifying exactly what i was lying about. or asking me to manifest that you die. or telling me that i'm your s/o. do you hear yourselves? do you see how deranged this is? i am a seventeen-year-old girl, i have said this multiple times, to go ahead and click on my profile, then on my little inbox box, proceed to type that, proceed to turn on anon, and proceed to send that is full on insanity.

i’m sick of it. i’m sick of babying you. and i can fully understand why some people turn into tough love creators, because you can discover everything by just going to my masterlist. i’m sick of explaining theory in dms, then in asks, then in comments, only for you to turn around and say, ‘but i still can’t shift, i still can’t manifest.’ i’m sick of posting an in-depth breakdown of why something isn’t working, only for you to ignore it and repeat the same complaint. if you don’t want to help yourself, i can’t help you. no one can help you. if you refuse to engage with the material, then that’s on you.

i am not a prophet. i am not your personal shifting coach. i am not your mother, your diary, or your emotional support system. i am someone who also doubts. who also struggles. who also has days where nothing works. i have over 580 asks right now, and do you know how many of them are just variations of the same question? how many of them are cruel, entitled, coy little jabs meant to bait me into giving some grand confession that shifting isn’t real? or trying to find some tiny detail to run me off the site? it’s exhausting. we are not required to keep going when you make this an unsafe space. the implication that we owe you proof, that we owe you our experiences, that we owe you some kind of public performance of shifting so you can sit there and scrutinise it for cracks. the entitlement is staggering.

shifting and loa creators are people. we cannot and will not manifest or shift for you. we are not responsible for your progress, and we are not responsible for giving you infinite, unpaid emotional labour while you refuse to actually put in effort yourself. stop being weird.

tag your fav writers here to show some appreciation! <3 i'll go first: @cherikolya @osarina @tonycries

me whenever i see someone with the same s/o as me sharing storytimes about them in their dr (i try not to get upset but i do anyway)

!! ALERT!!! WE HAVE A MAP LURKING AROUND IN THE LOA COMMUNITY!!!! !!

Today, I was minding my buisness until @racheldavis1 DMed me and started asking stuff like "are you a boy or a girl?" At first I ignored it but after it got more weird.

She started talking more about having kids and whatnot, to which I responded with I'm a minor. So of course, I asked if she was attracted to minors. And, well...

So, block this person immediately. Report them too. They've been lurking in the shifting community, I don't want anyone to be at risk here.

-Sonnet T

Okay, so breaking my silence on my shift.

All I can literally say is that there's no right or wrong way to shift. it's just whatever you feel comfortable with doing. Whatever you think will work for you, it will trust me.

I genuinely felt like I couldn't shift, like everyone else could, that there was something about me that just wasn't letting me do so, and boy, was i wrong. That night, I said to myself, "Whatever happens, happens." And gave it one last go.

When you shift, you don't feel the shift. You feel nothing (unless you scripted something else, idk). It feels like waking up literally anywhere else, like you're at a sleepover or something.

You don't get overwhelmed with joy because you were already there anyway. I was shaken up for a bit, I can't lie. I was confused a lot because I just wasn't used to the area. Like I would like because it is weird just to wake up in a completely different place. And I will shaken up the whole day about it. I was like. I won't say I was freaking out, but I was zoning out like every 5 minutes. It's just like, what? like I was looking at my hands. I was in awe, but I wasn't at the same time.

The funniest thing is that it all felt natural. I didn't say affirmations. I didn't do a lot of things that usually help people. I just let it happen as I was going to sleep.

Literally it.

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒: 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮!

Your inner reality is the true reality because it is the only space where creation happens. The external world—the 3D—is simply a reflection of what you've already accepted, assumed, or believed in your mind.

Everything you experience in the physical world was once a thought, assumption, or belief held in your inner world.

When you affirm something as true in your mind, you are imprinting that assumption onto your subconscious, which cannot tell between what's "real" or "imagined." The moment you declare something is so, it becomes a part of your inner reality. That’s when manifestation happens: the moment you choose to affirm and accept something as true, it already exists in your inner world and your external reality must reflect that.

So, when you affirm something, it’s not something that “will happen” later—it’s already real in your inner world. The physical reality is simply the reflection of your inner assumptions. For example, the physical reality you see right now is just your previous thoughts, assumptions or beliefs. The main goal is to accept it true in your mind; the physical reality changing is just a "side effect" bound to happen because it has no choice but to reflect back to you the reality you’ve created in your mind.

lowkey fuck casual shifting???

like, no, i don’t want to skim the surface, i want to plunge.

i want history, but not in the "oh, i saw marie antoinette at versailles" way. i want to stand in the french court and know, with visceral certainty, that the air reeks of sweat and powdered wigs and impending doom.

i want love, but not the diet coke variety. i want it unfiltered, unpasteurised, the kind that ruins lives and gets greek tragedies written about it.

i don’t want to dabble in magic like it’s a weekend hobby, i want to be crowned in a kingdom that runs on blood oaths and prophecy. i want to ride a dragon. i want to be a disney princess. i want to be a hollywood star with 5 oscars. i want to be a cartoon character. i want to be spiderman. i want to see hogwarts. i want EVERYTHING.

casual shifting is like ordering a steak well done. it’s like going to rome and eating at mcdonald’s. it’s like watching succession and thinking logan roy just needed therapy. no, i want the whole thing. i want to be scorched by it.

I think a problem some people have is that they look to the 3d for answers. Instead of checking the 3d, check the 4d. I know it can be complicated when the 3d is in your face, but once you know your mind creates your reality, it is more understandable and easier to grasp.

New phone? -> You’re texting your friends on it right now.

Sp-> You guys are on vacation in the Maldives right now.

Dream body? -> What do you mean “dream body?” That’s literally how you look, girl.

Just decide it is yours. It has always been yours. Have those thoughts, and continue to live that way and you will be shown that.

“like real people do” by hozier is so jason todd coded it has me writing purple prose at 1pm on a friday. i was listening to that masterpiece of a song and couldn’t stop thinking of jay’s childhood first love being there the night he came back. so out came this sort of au based on the ‘superboy punches reality’ version of his resurrection.

tw for depictions of jason’s torture and murder, his being resurrected and escaping his grave, reader’s severe depression and suicidal ideation surrounding her grief, heavy codependency implied between jason and reader, and general resurrection angst.

It was a dark and stormy night. Isn’t that how these things always go? Horrid cliches find unexpected ways of coming back to life. Much like the life that sparks suddenly within the boy in the casket. Black, dark nothingness becomes humid, suffocating air. He tries to sit up and meets silk-covered mahogany that traps him. The boy in the casket does not know where he is. He does not know who he is.

He remembers feelings. Something loud, bright, and hot that made everything go dark. Resignation, the urge to protect, forgiveness. The feeling of his skull cracking, his collarbone shattering under the blunt force of metal. The laughter the laughter the laughter it is driving him mad. The white hot pain of his legs snapping under the weight of the man that laughs. The guttural feeling of betrayal and fear. The smell of cigarettes. He is the sweet boy that wants his mother.

Hope, bright and incandescent. Rebellion and longing. Anger, angst, the horrible need to be understood by the people you love most. Ambition, pride, joy, encouragement; the warmth of family. He is no longer a fatherless son. Hope, wary but resilient. Fear, then relief, at the sight of the Dark Knight.

The boy in the casket remembers. He still does not know who he is. But he knows he has a father. He knows it because he is screaming for his father as he tears through the silk and scrapes the skin from his fingers against the hard mahogany. He screams for his father as he kicks through the wood, as the damp earth fills the enclosed space and steals the little air that remains for him to breathe. He is thinking of his father as he pulls his body through the hole he made. The jagged wood is digging into his side and he feels blood drip hot down his torso. It’s different from the wet cold that surrounds him and he focuses on that to stay cognizant. But the earth presses in and he is tired. He is so very tired.

He remembers something else. He remembers being tired once before, but he was warm then. He remembers being cozy under blankets. Innocent laughter and innocent kisses. The prettiest eyes he’s ever seen and the love that gleamed just for him shining within them. Then a voice. Melodic and beautiful and sweet as honey.

“C’mon, Jay, don’t fall asleep yet.”

You would not want him to fade back into the eternal sleep he just woke from. No. He cannot go back just yet. He tries to dig upward, but his body aches. The earth grows thicker, turns to sludge that drowns him. He shoves one hand over his face to claim a bit of air and is given a mouthful of mud instead. He chokes out one final scream. His head is getting fuzzy, lack of air making his skull feel cotton-filled and staticky. Still he digs up and up and up. But there’s no light. Just more earth. Maybe he does belong here. Maybe someone made a mistake and gave him a few moments that were meant for someone else. He makes one last push, that familiar resignation washing over him again as he closes his eyes. Then a hand wraps tight around his wrist and he’s showered in the cold midnight rain.

You have a secret. It’s personal and it’s abnormal and it’s yours. You’ve been sleeping on Jason Todd’s grave for the past week. No one knows. Well, Bruce Wayne knows. He must. His son’s grave is on his estate, after all, and the Bat’s security measures are the best you’ve ever seen. You don’t know why he’s letting his dead son’s girlfriend sleep on his grave, but you’re thankful he hasn’t kicked you out yet.

It’s been four years since Jason died. Four years and you still can’t accept it. You visit him every day. You bring him flowers and read him books and tell him about your life. You try to pretty it up a bit for him. You tell him about the new sundress you bought; it’s red, his favorite color. You tell him about the amazing bakery that opened up in the Heights and how you think he’d adore their chocolate chip cookies.

You don’t tell him that you’re so depressed over his absence that there are times when you go weeks existing only in your bed with sparse trips to the bathroom. You don’t tell him that you dropped out of college after your first year, that you failed in your joint promise to go to Gotham City University together. You just couldn’t handle it. The weight of your grief is already an iron chain around your throat, hooked to an eternal anchor. You didn’t need the pressure of perfect grades—an unshakeable requirement of your scholarship as you couldn’t afford to go to school any other way. You certainly don’t tell him that you’ve considered joining him, that sometimes that seems like the only thing you want anymore.

But it’s been getting worse. You miss him. Not in any way that’s healthy. At least that’s what you were told by the grief counselor your mother made you see. You miss him so badly that you’re sleeping on his grave come hell or high water. Tonight it’s high water. The cold rain soaks through your hoodie and sweats, but you don’t care. You’ve stabbed an umbrella into the ground and you’ve got an old blanket under you, so you’re all set. The bone-chilling cold of the water doesn’t matter. The way that it lures you to sleep doesn’t matter. Your body temperature is probably dropping and sleep to the freezing is deadly, but that doesn’t matter either. What matters is that you’re here with the boy you love.

You have another secret. This one’s worse, so terrible that you even scare yourself. You’ve been considering digging up Jason’s grave for the past thirty minutes. It started subconsciously. You didn’t even realize you were clawing into the ground until the grass was uprooted. You’ve made a good dent now, maybe six inches or so. It’s insane. You’re insane. But you ache to be close to him. Jason Todd took half of your soul with him when he was lowered into the ground. The better half; the half of you that was light and joyous and filled with love. You want it back. You want him back. You don’t know what you would do if you dug up his grave, but you know that you’d be closer to him than six feet.

You lie in the rain and contemplate why you’re here. You’ve missed him this fiercely every day for the last four years. It’s just this past week that you’ve been drawn to sleep on the earth above him. Like a moth to flame, like Ariadne’s golden thread leading out of the darkness of the labyrinth. Or maybe you’ve finally lost what’s left of your mind. You think you have when you hear noises from beneath the earth.

“Finally talking to me, Jay?” you ask.

Melancholy sarcasm is made weak by the way your teeth chatter and how your shivering leaks into your tone. But then you hear it again. It’s faint, deep below and muffled but it’s there. Then a thudding noise. Over and over and over. Your heart kicks to life. Adrenaline shoots through you and the cold seeped into your body melts with the heat of it. Jason is dead. He’s been dead for four years. But something is alive in his grave. Your hands sink into the small hole you’ve already made and you shovel the earth out in a manic rush. You dig and dig and dig. Your arms are elbow deep when you feel fingers brush against your own. You should be afraid. You should run. Instead you reach further, grasp hard around the wrist and pull. The ground gives way and your reality shatters in an instant. You’ve just pulled Jason Todd from his grave.

He’s bigger than you remember. His body weight is crushing as he collapses on top of you. (You’re smaller than he remembers. He has a crystal clear image of looking up into those pretty eyes and now he can barely feel you squished underneath him.)

He’s covered in sodden earth from head to toe. There’s blood seeping warmly from his torso into your red hoodie. (Your arms are caked in mud. Why? What were you digging for?)

Even with his difference in size—he must be well over a foot taller and at least one hundred pounds heavier—there is nothing that compares to the pure shock of looking into his eyes. Piercing gunmetal blue that you see every time you close your eyes is now a deep seafoam green. And yet looking into them you still feel like you’re home again. (Those pretty eyes are still the same. They still have that gleam of love when they land on him. But they’re also red and bloodshot like you’ve been crying. Please don’t cry. He doesn’t want you to be sad. He loves you. He doesn’t know your name but he knows that he loves you.)

You’re both as still as the memorial statues of Martha and Thomas that loom protectively beside Jason’s grave. Shock settles in.

“Jason. Oh my God. Jason, you’re—“ your voice breaks before you can say the words you thought would only come in dreams.

“Alive,” he croaks, voice dry and grating from lack of use.

He is alive. He is alive and breathing and with you again. You don’t know what caused this, why a dead boy crawled from his grave in the body of a man, but you’re not going to ask questions. The only answer you need is lying in your arms. Tears stream down your face, only differentiated from the rain by their warmth.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” you murmur into his mud-soaked hair as you cradle his head in the crook of your neck.

“Here,” he echoes. “Real?”

It doesn’t feel like it. His head is hazy and clouded but he’s starting to recall things. Like a steady trickle of water coalescing into a stream, into a river, into a flood. He remembers your name. He remembers stolen tires and bat ears. He remembers chamomile tea with a butler and stories of old theatre productions. He remembers how all the classic romance novels in his freshman English class looked just like the pretty girl sitting at the desk to his right. He remembers sweet giggles and shaky hands and soft kisses. He remembers. But he can’t speak it. He can’t find the words or the comprehension. He sees these things in flashes, feels them in his bones but he can’t make his mind and body catch up. So he lurches forward, stiff and clumsy, and tries to replicate the warmth of your kisses that have survived death itself.

You kiss Jason Todd for the first time in four years. You taste your tears, the damp earth, and the blood from where he’s bitten his own tongue. You have never tasted anything better because for right now it tastes like him.

“Real. We’re real.”

A sweet surprise and a gentle reminder. The other halves of your souls have been returned, and you are both allowed to exist again.

shifter coded