#swift shifts

[swift-shift]

Now Playing: Space Girl — Frances Forever 0:00 ─〇───── 0:00 ↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

🪐hi! i'm eclipse, or swift [you can call me either] and i use any and all pronouns! i'm a reality shifter, in case that wasn't clear 🪐i'm a minor and i'm in high school! 🪐i've known about and been involved in shifting for a few years now and i never intend to stop 🪐i love any and all things space related 🪐i'm nonbinary and trans; i'm bisexual with a preference for women. cuz girls are pretty. and very kissable 🪐unlike janis from mean girls, i would love to be called a space dyke. just fyi. /hj 🪐speaking of "/hj", i love tone tags!! and emoticons 🪐i'm an alter in a DID system

DNI: bigots of any kind. trump/elon/etc supporters. antishifters. anyone under 13 cuz uh. this is tumblr what are you doing here? otherwise you should be fine just don't be a creep. i block freely :3

tag system!!

"#swift yaps" - random stuff

"#swift scripts" - things about me scripting

"#swift shifts" - general shifting things

"#swift asks" - asks i answer

last update: 6/22/25

[shepscapades]

[Set in Mid-Late Hermitcraft Season 8]

In which we learn a little something about Cub, a little something about Doc, and a little something about Xisuma.

[malfoysanctuary]

His, Without a Word

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Summary: There was never a need for grand declarations, he said everything with the way he looked at her, touched her, held her like the world spun only when she breathed.

There were certain constants at Hogwarts.

The Black Lake shimmered like obsidian under the moonlight. The Great Hall always smelled faintly of parchment and pumpkin. And Mattheo Riddle always had one arm slung over the back of her chair.

Y/n had stopped questioning it months ago.

It was just… him. The way his presence fit around her like a favorite jumper—worn-in, comfortable, quietly claiming. His fingers would occasionally brush the ends of her hair, twirl a loose strand while he read over her shoulder or whispered dry sarcasm into her ear during Potions.

It didn’t matter that he rarely spoke about how he felt. He didn’t need to.

He said it in a million small ways.

Like how, at the Slytherin party that night, his eyes found her the second she stepped through the door. He was already sprawled across the dark green velvet couch like it belonged to him—legs stretched out, drink in hand, low laugh curling like smoke from his lips.

And then he saw her.

His drink hit the table. His expression didn’t change, not really—but the atmosphere did. People stepped aside. He held her gaze until she made her way over, unbothered by the stares.

She wasn’t two feet from him before his hand found her waist and pulled.

“Missed you,” he murmured against her temple, low enough for no one else to hear, as he guided her down onto his lap like it was second nature.

It was second nature now.

His arm curled around her middle, fingers splayed possessively across her stomach, and his lips ghosted a trail down her shoulder. She felt it in her bones—the way he softened around her, how his whole body leaned in like it had craved her all day.

“You saw me three hours ago,” she whispered, smiling despite herself as she rested her head on his chest.

“Too long,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

And somehow—it did.

Later, when the common room was littered with passed-out students and flickering candles, Mattheo still hadn’t let go.

They sat tucked into the corner of the couch, a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky on the table beside them. His thumb was tracing slow circles on her thigh. Her legs were draped over his lap, his cloak thrown over her shoulders.

“I like parties better like this,” she murmured. “Quiet. Just us.”

His hand paused.

Then he turned his face toward her, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the softness in his eyes that only she ever saw.

“You make everything better,” he said, like it hurt. Like it terrified him how true it was.

Y/n blinked. Her heart stuttered.

“Mattheo…”

He cut her off with a kiss—gentle, slow, reverent. His fingers tangled in her hair, and she leaned into him like gravity wasn’t a choice anymore.

When they parted, his forehead rested against hers.

“I don’t say it much,” he whispered, “but I need you to know. I’m yours.”

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for weeks.

“I know,” she said softly. “I’ve always known.”

But peace at Hogwarts never lasted.

Rumors had a way of crawling out of shadows. And the name Riddle always carried a legacy.

The next morning, Y/n found a torn scrap of paper on her bed.

Does he tell you what he does at night? Do you know what he’s capable of?

Her stomach turned.

Mattheo never hid his darker tendencies. There were things he didn’t talk about. Things whispered in corners—his father’s name, the power he inherited, the choices he’d made before her. But he wasn’t him. Not anymore.

Still, that seed of doubt twisted inside her.

By the time she reached the courtyard, the sky bruised with storm clouds, she found him sitting on the stone bench, cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight.

“You got one too, didn’t you?” he asked without looking up.

Y/n’s breath caught.

“Yes.”

Mattheo nodded slowly. “They want you to be afraid of me.”

Her heart cracked. “I’m not.”

His eyes finally met hers.

Haunted. Fragile, beneath the mask.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “I haven’t exactly earned the benefit of the doubt.”

Y/n crossed the space between them and knelt in front of him.

“You don’t have to earn something that’s already yours.”

He stared at her.

She took his hand and placed it over her heart. “You’re in here, Mattheo. All of you. The soft, the dark, the scared, the furious. You don’t have to deserve love to have it.”

His hand trembled. Just slightly.

Then he broke.

The cigarette dropped from his fingers as he pulled her into his lap, arms locking around her like a lifeline. His face buried in her shoulder.

And for the first time in a long time, Mattheo Riddle let himself be held.

That night, no one questioned why Mattheo had Y/n tucked so tightly against his chest in the common room. Why his hand never left her back. Why he kissed her temple every time someone looked at her too long.

He didn’t need to say anything.

She was his, and he was hers.

Even in the silence, they spoke a language only they understood.

And no one dared interrupt it.

[stillgotscars]

you know what makes me so queasy? the progression from “i once was poison ivy, but now i’m your daisy” → “pick your poison, babe, i’m poison either way” and “i’m the death you chose, you’re in terrible danger”

[yuridovewing]

feel like the biggest buzzkill not liking longtail and swiftpaw being brothers, but it's just suuuuch a "oh there's no logical reason longtail would care unless he was family!" retcon to me. or a careless one. i'm a lot more interested in swiftpaw and brightheart being retconned to be cousins than i am about a forced brother relationship that does nothing but muddy up the family tree

[k4iswife]

Sometimes I am calm living my day to day and suddenly it comes to mind how lucky and chosen I was to be able to learn about shifting. What do you mean I can LITERALLY live all the lives I want? that I can experience everything and in every possible way? I am simply fascinated every time I remember it, I can't wait for the moment to come.

It is simply incredible, despite the passing of the years, what I have learned and the people I know who have taught me knowledge will always accompany me, I will always have the hope of knowing that there is something more to this world, to this reality.

I hope this also helps you, the person reading this, to open your eyes to how chosen we are, you didnt found shifting, shifting found you.

keep that in mind, you were pick like a rose. 𑁤

[daisyswift3]

WTAF IS GOING ON ALSKDKJDJ. ICE SPICE POSTED KARLIE ON HER TIKTOK AND THE MAGAZINE IS FROM 2015???? ROCKET WOMAN -> ROCKET MAN -> THE KARMA YELLOW BRICK ROAD OF IT ALL. THE ANGEL EMOJI 👼 -> KARLIE BEING A VS ANGEL. KARLIE WEARING THE AMERICAN FLAG -> TAYLOR POSTING RED, WHITE, AND BLUE ON HER MOST RECENT INSTA POSTS. IS STH HAPPENING IN JULY?? IT SEEMS LIKE A HINT AT JULY 4 🇺🇸

[sethiescope]

some of my favorite phones for the holiday. HAPPY NATIONAL TELEPHONE DAY!!!

[deerscradle]

⋆˙⟡🪶─ this song is so shifting coded i can't stress enough

[hyper-alice]

My tarot card reading omfg

My sister’s cards 😭

[swift-shift]

scripting that I have unlimited access to chicken nuggets btw. cuz i can.

[lycaeons]

just look at them.

[malfoysanctuary]

Wickedly Yours

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Summary: Mattheo Riddle finds solace in the one person he never expected to crave. But even love forged in shadow must weather the light, and your about to learn what it means to be loved by someone who was never taught how.

The castle never truly slept. Even at midnight, Hogwarts pulsed with secret footsteps, echoing laughter, the hum of magic breathing through stone and torchlight.

But Mattheo Riddle was still.

Still in the corner of the Slytherin common room, his jaw resting against the top of your head as if it belonged there—like you did.

Your legs were tangled with his beneath the emerald-and-silver quilt someone had tossed over the lounge chair. His fingers, those cursedly beautiful hands, brushed mindless shapes across your spine, occasionally pausing when you guessed them right.

���Dragon,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Mattheo hummed low in his throat, lips grazing your temple. “Too easy.”

“Then stop picking things you like to tattoo on yourself.”

“I only tattoo what matters.”

You didn’t ask if you mattered. He didn’t have to say it aloud—not when he needed to be touching you constantly, like his body didn’t know what to do in the absence of yours.

You didn’t expect it, the way he loved. Not from someone like him—sharp edges, cruel smiles, a legacy soaked in fear and fire. But beneath the snark, behind the dark eyes and wry humor, he ached for softness.

And you were the only place he’d ever found it.

It hadn’t always been this easy—this instinctual.

You remembered when it started. Fifth year. Cold evening, late October. You were sitting by the lake with a half-finished essay on Ancient Runes in your lap, wind biting your cheeks, knuckles red from the cold. You didn’t notice him until his shadow passed over your parchment.

“That's your handwriting?” he asked, cocking his head with interest.

You nodded, a little confused.

“It’s... pretty.” He’d said it like it tasted strange on his tongue. Like it was the first time he’d said something nice and meant it.

You didn’t know why he stayed that day. You didn’t know why he started sitting closer, why his hand always brushed yours when you passed him a quill, why his knees bumped yours under shared study desks like he couldn’t help it.

But you knew how you felt when he did.

Like fire, controlled.

Like something forbidden that tasted like fate.

Now, a year later, you were his favorite place to rest. Not even sleep—just rest. His body would go lax only when you were curled against it. Only then did the tension in his shoulders unwind, his eyes grow soft, his voice drop to that low, molten timbre only you ever heard.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you whispered one night, pulling his arm tighter around your waist.

“I can’t help it.” He exhaled into your hair. “You keep looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re going to forgive me for every bad thing I’ve ever done.”

You didn’t say anything. Just shifted until your nose brushed his collarbone, until your lips found the base of his throat and pressed a kiss there.

“I’m not here to fix you, Mattheo.”

“I know,” he said. “But you see me. That’s worse.”

He touched you like he needed proof.

A hand at the small of your back when you walked through the corridors. Fingers curling tight around yours in crowded hallways, almost possessive, like if he let go, the world would steal you. At night, when the castle was asleep and it was just the two of you, he’d trace soft, reverent lines over your skin as if memorizing a map only he had the right to know.

“I used to be so good at being alone,” he confessed once.

You glanced over your shoulder. He was sitting behind you, legs spread, you between them, his arms wrapped around your middle.

“And now?”

“Now,” he murmured, pressing his lips just behind your ear, “I don’t remember what that even felt like.”

There were things he couldn’t say. Parts of himself sealed behind wards even he didn’t fully understand.

But the way he loved you—showed you—was in the details.

The steaming mug of tea he’d place by your side when you stayed up late studying. The way he watched every interaction you had with other boys, jaw tight, gaze unreadable. The way he never left you alone in the Great Hall if he could help it—always finding a reason to brush your thigh beneath the table, to whisper something utterly unhelpful just to see you smile.

And then there was the drawing game.

It started as a joke. His fingers trailing across your back one night, you half-asleep, him far too awake, tangled in thoughts darker than the room around you.

“What are you drawing?” you had murmured.

He didn’t answer.

So you guessed.

“Snake?”

“No.”

“Crescent moon?”

“Nope.”

You rolled over, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me or I’ll hex you.”

He smirked, leaned in, and kissed you—slow, indulgent, maddening.

“Wrong answer. But I’ll allow it.”

Now it was a ritual.

Night after night, his hand would stroke patterns across your spine as you lay curled into his chest. If you got it right, he’d kiss you. If you got it wrong, he’d kiss you more.

“You’re just making up symbols to keep kissing me,” you muttered one night.

“Maybe.” His grin was wicked. “But you never complain.”

And you didn’t.

Because every kiss felt like him saying all the things he didn’t know how to say out loud.

One night, he woke you up without meaning to. His breath came in short bursts, his hand fisted in the blanket, sweat at his temple.

You turned to him, still groggy. “Nightmare?”

He didn’t answer right away. But when he looked at you—really looked at you—something in him cracked.

“I dreamt I couldn’t find you,” he rasped. “I searched the whole castle. Every room. You weren’t anywhere. You were just... gone.”

You reached for his face, thumb brushing the shadow of stubble along his jaw. “I’m right here.”

“I need to feel you,” he whispered. “I need to touch you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you.”

He swallowed hard. “If I could keep you next to me all the time, I would.”

You kissed him—forehead, then cheek, then lips. You let your fingers trace his ribs, his chest, anchoring him back to the present.

“I want that too,” you whispered.

And he held you so tightly after that, you could barely breathe—but you didn’t ask him to loosen his grip. You wanted to be his anchor.

His reason to breathe.

On your birthday, he didn’t make a spectacle. No grand gesture. Just a quiet knock on your dormitory door and a note.

“Meet me where we don’t have to pretend. Midnight. -M.”

You found him in the Room of Requirement, the walls transformed into a soft, starlit dome—floating candles, pillows stacked in a nest of comfort, a fire flickering in a hearth you knew hadn’t been there an hour ago.

You turned to him slowly. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you,” he said, and he meant it.

You crossed the room and took his hand. He pulled you down into his lap, cradling your face between his hands, searching your eyes like they held answers to questions he didn’t dare ask aloud.

“I don’t need anyone else to know,” he said against your skin. “Not yet. Not if it means losing this. Losing you.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“You say that like it’s a promise.”

“It is,” you whispered, your breath hitching as he kissed your palm.

You woke up the next morning with your head on his chest, your hand over his heart, and a parchment folded neatly on the pillow beside you.

Riddle’s Drawing Game – Final Round If you don’t get this one right, I’m kissing you until you do.

You laughed softly to yourself and tucked the paper into your journal.

You didn’t need to guess.

Because the answer was always the same.

You were his.

And gods help the world if anyone tried to change that.

[dolldiaries111]

Welcome to my blog 🤍

heyyy princesses! im dollie and my blog is going to be all about self improvement and how to become the best version of yourself!

I’ll be posting tips on shifting, beauty, confidence, academics, and basically making your lifestyle better bc no one but you can save yourself

here’s a little about me:

book girlieee🤭

certified pinterest girl💕

cabin 10🕊️

INFJ/ENFJ(I LOVE MBTIIII)

EYEKONNNNN

currently watching the vampire diaries and reading pll

girls girllll <3

I don’t know what my aesthetic is cuz im literally an aesthetic😌

I love lana taylor and marina <3

[stopper-my-heart]

Nothing like Heartstopper S2E8 removing some of Taylor Swift's "seven" lyrics just so that the singing can specifically come back in at "Or hide in the closet" while Isaac is processing difficult emotions related to the book he's reading (i.e., Ace: What Asexuality Reveals About Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex by Angela Chen).

Did I mention "Or hide in the closet" hits just as the camera focus finishes shifting away from Isaac?

This is fine

[sunnydaysshifter]

what if we called swiftie shifters shifties?