#the hair color most people associate me with

[m1ckeyb3rry]

── 𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 // 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

Series Synopsis: You were once a spoiled duchess-to-be, set to inherit a city on the brink of a war you knew nothing about — that is, until the war came to your doorstep and the aftermath of a brutal accident bound your fate to Seishiro Nagi’s forever.

Chapter Synopsis: Nagi comes bearing news. // Your father makes an announcement about the new family in Maradine.

Series Masterlist

Pairing(s): Nagi x Reader, Yukimiya x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 2.3k

Content Warnings: death, killing, ptsd, reader is not a good person, actually nobody really is??, they all make mistakes as is to be expected, war is mentioned and the build-up/aftermath is discussed heavily but the actual conflict not so much, non-linear narrative, like HEAVILY non-linear there are two timelines for each chapter (pre and post war), probably ooc, angst, nagi is endgame sorry y’all, alternate universe (early 1900s-ish vibe but not in our world because f historical accuracy), original characters (probably…idrk yet but it’s me so)

A/N: hey guys…so here i am…with the prologue to a new story instead of an update to anything i already have out BYE I’M FLEEING FROM SHAME i’ve been wanting to do something a bit more serious for a while though so i’m excited to give this a try!! some more elaboration on the tags/summary: this is like vaguely historical-ish but not completely, and it’s kind of like two stories being told concurrently?? one being reader’s life as an adult post war and the other her life as a child/teen pre war. every time there’s a ‘break’ in the chapter that indicates a timeline switch!! hopefully it’s kinda obvious which is which especially as we go along…anyways hope you all enjoy

“Kenyu Yukimiya is dead,” Nagi said. Medals sparkled against his breast, the gold a harsh contrast to the dark wool of his coat, and his arms were folded behind his back, which he kept ramrod straight, so unlike the slouch you once associated with him. “They thought it would be best if I were the one to inform you.”

He waited for you to say something, looking much like a mannequin all the while, his pale hair lifeless, his driftwood eyes dull and blank. His careful mouth was pursed into a plain expression which might be considered a frown on another person, but not on him.  Never on him. After all, Nagi did not frown. Nagi did not smile. Nagi did nothing.

“It should’ve been you,” you said.

“Yes,” he said, as prompt and detached as always. “It should’ve.”

Barlezia was a sweeping country, and perhaps you were biased in saying so, but there were none in the world that could claim to be its equal. In the north there were towering mountains which scraped at icy skies, a heavy blue-grey fog settled over their peaks, and to the south there was a vast sea, warm and aquamarine, which led to Drieji in the east and Abraria in the west.

It was on this sea, the Canonora, that the shining city of Maradine was located. Far enough from the northern capital of the nation to have taken on its own character, its own wealth, Maradine was the jewel of Barlezia, a place full of men with horses and women with parasols. Built upon a slate cliff, with houses lining the roads winding down to the pebbly sand, it jutted so far out into the water that some people spent their entire lives on their boats, only venturing onto land for the rare storms that might otherwise drown them.

Near the top of the cliff, where the marble government buildings were sequestered away from the rest of the city, there was a villa. It was the largest of its kind, the walls a deep red terracotta trimmed with white, the floors all glazed porcelain, the many colors and shapes painted onto the tiles making up larger designs of flowers, animals, and other such wonders. The villa overlooked the ocean and a canopy of trees, and it was widely regarded in all of Maradine as the most beautiful in that most beautiful of places, the filigree on an already intricate crown, the diamond in a choker of gold.

This was the villa where you were born, and this was the villa where you would, you presumed, die. Some forefather of yours had constructed it in a time where such art had been celebrated, where Barlezia had ruled the world, and it remained as a remnant of that age, a stronghold against modernity, even though your country had long ago bowed in deference to the ideals and traditions of those in the west.

“Child! Get down from there!” 

The woman that took care of you in lieu of your parents, who were often busy — your father with his politics, your mother with her parties — was slender and frail and too old for keeping up with anyone with any measure of youth. Her hair was entirely grey, and her face was perpetually lined, with sun, with shade, with age and wisdom and worry. You knew her simply as Nanny, and as she was the only one who ever had the courage to chastise you, you found you disliked her very much.

“My tenth birthday is approaching, so you ought not to call me a child any longer,” you said, your legs swinging from your perch in the boughs of a fig tree, the collar of your neatly-pressed dress splotched dark with the juice of the fruit you held in your hands.

“If you continue to behave like this, I certainly will!” she said, her hands on her hips. “Shall I call the manservant?”

The manservant was willful and rough; you doubted he would have any qualms about dragging you to the ground with his bare hands, were he so inclined. Taking one last bite out of the fig, you threw it to the ground, where it burst at Nanny’s feet, and then you clambered out of the tree with as much grace as you could muster.

“You horrid creature,” she hissed at you when you smiled at her, your skirt wrinkled and torn at the hem, your fingers sticky and purple. “How am I to present you to your father and mother in this state?”

“How you always present me, I expect,” you said, batting your eyelashes at her, skipping lightly towards the door. “With more fuss than required.”

She grabbed you by the ear before you could get very far, yanking it sternly, earning a howl out of you. Stomping your foot, you glared at her and waited for her to let go, which she only did when she was assured you would not flee again.

“I will send along a message that you will be late to breakfast. To your room, missy, I won’t have it thought that the young duchess is some mannerless, ill-behaved ruffian,” she said, ushering you towards your quarters as if you were a sordid secret.

“Maybe you need to be better about watching me, and then my manners will improve,” you said, and because you were not doing anything untoward, only saying it, the most she could respond with was an exaggerated sigh.

She bathed you for the second time that morning, quicker than the first, and then she dressed you in something without pattern or finery. Certainly it must’ve pained her, for the ruined dress balled up and thrown into a wastebasket had been much prettier than this one, but there was nothing she could do about it, bar glaring at you as she yanked it over your head.

Nanny wasn’t always so foul-tempered; it was only when you tried her patience, as you did today, that she got to be in such a mood. Else she was a tolerable woman, if not a kind one, and generally softer with her motions. She had mentioned to you a long time ago that she had children of her own, two daughters and a son, the youngest of whom was closer to your mother’s age than your own. You supposed it meant she had some experience with child-rearing, hence why your parents had chosen her amongst the many applicants, and you sometimes wondered if she had treated her own progeny the way she treated you.

Once, you had asked her. She had told you, with a click of her tongue, that she was far stricter with them; however, as you could not fathom anything more chafing than her treatment of you, you found it hard to believe.

Although you were older now — nearly ten years of age, as you liked to remind everyone — you were still not considered enough of an adult to eat with your parents and the rest of adults at meals. Instead you would sit in your room and make faces if the food was not to your liking, discreetly glancing at Nanny out of the corner of your eye and throwing away what you couldn’t stand when you were sure she was not looking. The exception was meals which were meant to be occasions or announcements, wherein your presence was absolutely and unquestionably required.

Today was an announcement, not an occasion, or at least that was what Nanny told you. You did not know the nature of the announcement, only that she was more nervous than usual as the two of you walked to the breakfast room, where your parents would be waiting for you. Up until then, you had been convinced that she had only had two modes of being — fed-up and obedient — so the discovery of this third intrigued you far more than whatever news you might be given.

“Nanny,” your father said. “Y/N. Good morning.”

He did not comment on your tardiness, and neither did he have to; his disapproval was the silent type, which radiated into the air and shimmered like steam, cowing in its intangibility. Your mother offered you a half-smile, as trained and perfect as yours one day would be, and you smiled back at her, your entire focus going into ensuring it was not crooked.

“Good morning, father, mother,” you said, settling into the large chair at your mother’s right, your feet just barely brushing the floor when you were settled with your spine to the cushioned back. “I apologize for the delay.”

“It is inconsequential,” your father said, which was as much of a reprimand as you’d ever get out of him. “We have more important matters to discuss now that you are finally here.”

“There is to be a party,” your mother said. This was nothing out of the ordinary, for your mother, as the Duchess of Maradine, was invited to every party that could be reached from the villa in less than a day. What was strange was that both she and your father thought that you needed to be informed of this occurrence.

“I see,” you said.

“It’s that family from Aprissari,” your father said, sneering at the mention of Barlezia’s capital, the city nestled in the mountains to the north of the country, which may have been the center of your nation’s power but was nowhere near as prosperous as Maradine, never had been and never would be. “The Yukimiyas. The wife is an opera singer and the husband is far more involved in foreign affairs than he has any right to be.”

“And they are rich,” your mother said, patiently and coolly. “Richer than mere commoners. Rich enough to be considered members of the nobility, if we are not careful.”

“We must build proper relations. An alliance, so to speak, but also a reminder that they are no longer in Aprissari,” your father said. “It must be clear to them and to everyone that in Maradine, their money is meaningless if they do not have the approval of the L/N family.”

“Their son is only a little older than you,” your mother continued, perhaps noticing that you no longer held much interest in the conversation, which had diverted to topics of which you had little understanding and even less interest. “The party is being held in honor of his twelfth birthday, and you are to befriend him as best you can.”

“It won’t be difficult,” your father said, and the reluctance of his conviction was the first clue you had that the arrival of these Yukimiyas meant something more to your family than you could possibly know. “You are Y/N L/N; there’s not a child this side of the country that wouldn’t want to be your friend. But you must do it.”

If Nanny or the manservant or anyone else in the L/Ns’ employ told you something so harshly, you would’ve protested or found some way around it, but this was not anyone else. This was your father, Duke L/N himself, and so it was as much a royal command as it was a request from someone who loved you. Perhaps it was even more the former than it was the latter; based on the wideness of your father’s eyes and the lowering of your mother’s lashes, you wouldn’t be surprised if it was the case.

“Yes, father,” you said. “I shall do as you say.”

“Good,” he said. “Finish eating and then attend your lessons as usual. We shall leave once the sun sets.”

You ate at a record pace. Your parents were exchanging looks that said they wanted to speak to one another alone, and it was only your presence which was hindering them, so you endeavored to make yourself scarce as fast as you could without seeming rude. 

Excusing yourself quietly, your head bowed until you left the room, you followed Nanny towards your chambers, deep in thought, turning over the directive your parents had left you with. Befriending the son of the Yukimiyas. For you, who had never had a friend your own age, it was more difficult of a task than your parents must’ve anticipated, so with a tug on the end of Nanny’s apron, you halted in your tracks.

“You heard my father, right, Nanny?” you said. “I have to befriend that boy.”

“That you do,” Nanny said, and then there was a fourth aspect to her which you unlocked: sympathy, glimmering in her irises like a sunrise on the crest of a wave. 

“I don’t know how to do that,” you said. She patted you on the head, brusque and perfunctory, like she was dusting flour off of her hands, yet somehow affectionate, in her way.

“You’ll have to learn, missy,” she said. “Ties with the Yukimiyas may be invaluable in the years to come.”

“Whatever do you mean?” you said. She placed one hand against the wall, her thumb tracing an idle circle over it as she contemplated something or another.

“There are as many ideas of what’ll happen to the continent as there are fish in the Canonora Sea,” she said. “Whether by will or force, Barlezia shall, like every other nation, choose which they back. If they choose wrong, then Maradine will bear the brunt of the consequences. That is all.”

“But what do the Yukimiyas have to do with it?” you insisted.

“Nothing and everything, child! You will understand when you are older. Now hush and go to your lessons,” she said, breaking from her trance and pushing you into your room, where one or another of your tutors would, invariably, be waiting for you.

You wanted to rail at her, to tell her that you weren’t too young, that you deserved to know as well as she did what might yet happen to your own city. Before you could say anything more, however, she shut the door behind you, leaving you standing alone by the wastebasket, where a rusty stain the color of fig juice continued to spread down the sleeve of your crumpled dress.

[wwilloww]

sh. | chapter twenty four | pjm

PAIRING ot7 x reader RATING Explicit. 18+. GENRE smut. fluff. angst. nonidol au. wildnerness au. roommates au. friends to lovers. SUMMARY Six months of quarantine have kept you apart. Somehow the distance sparks something new in each of you: questions, unfinished conversations, threads once chased now left cold. So when your roommate invites you to come with him to a mysterious house in the mountains with your friends, how could you even think of saying no? WC 5.8k

WARNINGS AND TAGS semi-public sex. penetrative sex. aftercare. angst.

AN hey ;) missed you. thank you to @sugalaritae for helping me with this chapter. thank you to each of you for the continued support.

← || series m.list || →

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: THE SHADES ARE DRAWN

When you think of joy, you think of the color purple.

For a long time, you didn’t like the color purple. You found it garish. Didn’t love the associations with royalty, that a color could belong to a class of people defined by something as fickle as wealth or birth. 

But like many things in your adulthood, the color purple eventually grew on you. You had to admit: the soft gentle violet of a sunset—the color that dances between other colors, here a moment, gone the next—it was thrilling to chase it through the sky as the light sank low on the horizon. And you also had to admit that baby-soft lilac color, doting on the first flowers that pressed up through the tough winter grounds in early springtime, reminded you that winter does end. Warmer days do come. And finally, when you realized purple felt like a memory visiting you again, sweet and warm, you simply couldn’t withhold your affection for the color any longer. 

Purple reminded you of the flickering feeling of life beneath Hoseok’s skin as his hand clamped down on yours above your head as you touched each other in the early hours of the morning all those days ago, a bead of sweat perched on the bridge of his nose as he thrust into you, the quiet sounds of sleep rising from the friends sprawled around you in the living room— 

You shake yourself back to reality. 

For someone who’s getting fucked pretty much everyday, you sure do daydream a lot about getting fucked. 

But joy—purple—lilac, whatever: that color has been flirting at the edges of your reality these past few days. After your conversation with your friends about the difficulty of the early days of quarantine, a weight feels lifted off your shoulders. It had felt like you were hiding some kind of secret—or even yourself—away from the people who loved you most. You hadn’t realized how guilty you felt about that until the truth had been revealed. And since telling them about your struggles with mental health, not a single member of the household had treated you any differently, like you were broken or wounded. Instead, you noticed them coming to sit with you and talk with you about what happened, how they can help. They asked you questions, they wanted to know what it was like. But that you don’t mind. 

On top of that, things with Hobi have been so easy. 

Things have been easy with everyone. 

Since your time spent with Jimin the night after the bonfire, you had felt a kind of kinship with him. Shared glances across the dinner table, even when Hoseok’s hand is wrapped around yours beneath the table. Jimin seemed to hover closer, gifting you with little touches, his hand on your lower back while you wash the dishes, plucking a hair off your lip before dinner with a small smile. Small moments of laughter, an inside joke about underwear, shared with a whisper in your ear when no one else can hear. 

But despite that proximity, you also can’t help but notice that despite your new casual ease with him, since the bonfire, he has seemingly pulled back from the others. At the dinner table, he’s quieter. When you all are cleaning or taking care of household chores, he’s much less directive than he usually is. He had even forgotten about his promise to make you come the day after your last romp. But when you remind him , a cheeky smile on your face when he comes in after a hike (and fail to mention that Hoseok had made you come several times in the wee hours of the morning), he grins and pulls you deeper into the house, away from the prying eyes of your six shared housemates. 

Jimin is kissing down your neck in the hallway after dinner one night—you make a mental note about how he loves to kiss you where anyone can stumble upon your intertwined forms—his hands slipping under your shirt, down your leggings. You gasp when his fingers tease at your folds. You can tell he’s going to take his sweet time with you. 

“Jesus, can we just fuck for once?” you gasp into his mouth as his index finger slides inside you. You don’t even bother to lower your voice. “I’m wet enough, I need you. No more games.” You give him your best doe-eyed plea.

He hesitates, deciding if he wants to drag things out for his own fun or give you what you want. “Is that what you want? No games, no waiting, just me?” 

“It is,” you say, trying to keep the sexual frustration from making you sound too whine-y. 

“Then that’s what you’ll have.”  

He doesn’t even bother to take you to his bedroom. There, in the hallway, where anyone might find you, it’s fast and hasty work, pulling your top off, shimmying your pants to the floor.  Jimin too, makes quick work of his button-down, while your gaze traces over his torso, the tattoo right above his ribs, and the little happy trail that leads exactly where you want to go. 

“See something you like?” Jimin asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Always,” you say, capturing his lips for a kiss that, after the fact, feels wonderfully—wonderfully?—domestic. Slow and gentle and warm. Time slows. The air stills. Then, the pace shifts again and your mutual clothes are tossed hither and thither across the hardwood floors of the hallway and your greedy hands reach for one another once more. 

Undressed now, Jimin flips you so you face the wall, your hands pressed against the cool plaster, your back to him. He steps between your legs, using his foot to push them a little further apart so he can fit between them. His hand comes down to your lower back, pressing ever so slightly so that you arch into him, pressing your ass back just enough to meet the hard flesh of his cock. 

You gasp as it meets the slickness of your center, the burning warmth of him sending shivers down your spine. 

Does this ever get old? 

He doesn’t tease you much this time, just glides his cock through your folds to collect the moisture there, uses one hand to spread it across his dick, and begins to press in. 

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he asks. “Me inside of you? Filling you?”

“Yes, Jimin, god yes.” 

He slides home, his cock spearing through you, the head of it tugging at your walls, which tighten around him. He grunts, and you drink up the sound. Jimin, to your previous surprise, wasn’t the most vocal in bed, but today something seems like it’s loosened inside of him, and sounds of pleasure begin to fall from his lips as he fucks you. 

He’s thick inside of you, and your fingernails dig into the wall as you search for something to hang onto as he rams into you at a quick and desperate pace.  

“I knew you’d like it,” he says. “Fucking where anyone can see you, anyone can walk in and find you writhing on my cock, calling out my name.” 

“Yes, yes,” you pant. 

It’s true. 

There’s something about the risk of it all. The thrill of not knowing. The high of being fucked by one man only to have another walk by and want you just as much. 

“Op!” 

The note sounds from the end of the hallway, and you tilt your head just enough to see Jin standing at the entrance, a pan of steaming muffins gripped between two large oven mitts. He seems to be on his way to do a round through the house, offering baked goods like a trolly cart lady.

What timing.

His gaze roves over your joined bodies, drifting downward to where Jimin’s cock is plunging into you. He lets his stare linger. You warm beneath the blatant attention, his obvious interest in what’s happening before him. You can see him hardening through his jeans. 

Then, he clears his throat, stands a little straighter. 

“I’m going to assume you two don’t want muffins.” His voice is low, smooth, and sweet like pastries. There’s a kind of even-tempered curiosity, backed by his usual confidence. 

Jimin’s pace doesn’t cease, doesn’t falter, despite the intrusion. It’s like his movements are saying, you’re all his, and no one else’s. And not even the temptation of a fresh-out-of-the-oven blueberry muffin or a very broad shouldered friend of yours can take that away from him. 

“Maybe later,” Jimin grunts. 

“Later, yeah,” you gasp as Jimin grinds into you from behind.

Your cheeks are warming from the mix of Jimin’s ministrations and Jin’s near-casual but definitive interest in your coupling. Jin watches like he’s taking you in, and behind his calculated gaze, you can see his mind spinning, figuring. Perhaps he’s imagining himself joining your pairing, but more likely than not, you think he’s thinking up a new way to tease you later—with a laugh at the end of the sentence or with his fingers inside you.

You’re trying to hold back a whine and simultaneously hold onto any last bit of dignity you might have remaining. Though, when you think of it, every day that goes by you believe you might have less and less. But who is chasing dignity these days anyways? When the world has stopped spinning entirely?

Jin catches the small sound of pleasure that finally eeks out of you and he smirks, his eyes flicking from where yours and Jimin’s body’s join up to your eyes. He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. But you understand. He doesn’t want you to look away. There’s something even more indulgent in this gaze, his eyes meeting yours. Though he’s no longer looking at your sex, you somehow feel even more naked: your pleasure, bared to him, and his pleasure, taken in yours. 

Though the small gesture has dropped your mouth open as new sounds of pleasure emerge, though you’re now gasping in surprise as Jimin pushes deeper and Jin holds your gaze—you feel more present than ever. Alive—like your lungs are full, like you’re breathing fresh air. 

As Jin reached down to adjust his belt—it’s just a flicker of movement as he adjusts his now hard cock—you understand the promise in Jin’s eyes. You. Me. Soon. 

“I’d ask to join you all,” Jin says, again, even-toned. You clench around Jimin, an action that doesn’t go unnoticed, as he chuckles from behind you. “But I have more pressing matters to attend to: Taehyung is hangry.” 

Jimin nods behind you, his hips still hammering into you. 

“‘Course.” 

“Well. It was lovely chatting. I’ll leave you to it. Maybe I’ll catch up with you again later.” He sends you a directed wink. 

Your heart skips a beat at the thought. Since the orgy, you still hadn’t spent any one on one time with Jin. Or Taehyung, for that matter. You wonder if there’s meaning in the distance between you three—or if you’ve merely been distracted. After all, how are you supposed to reasonably split your time between seven very horny, very lovely men? 

“Uh—uh—y—eah.” Your voice is jolted from you in time with Jimin’s thrusts. “Please.”

As he turns, he refuses to take his eyes from yours, a pleased smile lighting on his lips. For a moment the shared gaze reminds you of something far off, yet familiar: something from the world that has come to pass you by. Perhaps it reminds you of the feeling of meeting a stranger on the street or in a crowded bar. The spark of recognition, of seeing someone new light up with something old: desire. He wants you. And now, more than ever, you want him. He knows this, and it’s what makes him smile.  Jin disappears again, and you’re left with nothing but Jimin’s hard cock pounding into you. He leans closer, pressing his pouty lips against your ear to whisper, just to you: 

“You were so good, baby, you didn’t even ask me to stop when he came by,” Jimin grunts. “You just took it like a good little kitten. Did that feel good? Having him watch me fuck you?” 

You don’t say anything, just whine as he continues to fuck you, harder now, his balls slapping against your clit. With each hit you feel a spike of pleasure flood through you. It’s enough to make you, somehow, even more needy than you already are, but not enough to satisfy you fully. 

“I watched the way his eyes went down to where I’m fucking you. I know he was imagining himself inside you. How does that feel? Knowing he wants what I have?”

You moan.

“Answer me,” he says, one of his hands winding around your throat. He pulls you up so your back is pressed to his front, and he’s squatted slightly between your legs, thrusting up into you. It’s an animalistic, needy positioning, and you feel lightheaded with it all. 

There’s a kind of possessiveness in Jimin’s language that feels brand new. He’s hitting that soft spot inside you with each thrust and it feels so good it almost hurts. As the ache and pleasure melt together, you can’t help the burning building in your belly, flashing with white light with each of his thrusts. He slips his hand around your front, fingers toying with your clit. 

“Fuck—It feels so good, Jimin.” 

“You’re in a house full of men who want you, who would fuck you like I’m fucking you in the middle of the hallway, in the kitchen, in the pool—wherever they could get you if they got the chance. How does that make you feel?” 

It makes you feel a thousand things. But all you manage to speak is: 

“Wanted.” 

“Good. Because you are.” 

There’s something about those words that hit an entirely different soft spot—one in your chest. Your heart aches, but your attention is quickly pulled away. You clench around him and he moans in your ear. His pace quickens, grows harder. There’s a desperation to him you haven’t seen before. Like he needs this. Like he needs you. 

The thought is enough to push you over the edge and, hands falling forward to brace your fall against the wall, you suck in quick gasps as your orgasm rockets through you. Knees wobbling, you clench tightly around Jimin, a movement which prompts a growl and a moan from him as his pace stutters. 

“You want my come? I know you do, I know you do—“ 

He presses himself against you, filling you from the inside. He holds himself there, his grip tightening around you. You’re coming down from the height of your orgasm, your body warm and ringing in sensation as he fills you up, hips pumping ever so slightly. 

He murmurs against your neck, slumping forward. 

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, his front pressing to your back, sweat mingling, breaths synching—the only sound in the long hallway. You hum as your skin cools from hot to warm against his, as his hands trace over your body. Finally, he pulls out. You can feel his come shift inside of you. 

“I like when you’re full of me,” he pants, slouching against the wall next to you. “Keep me inside.” He pats your pussy, where his come is beginning to slip out and down your thigh. 

“That’s what all of you say,” you giggle, but in reality: you like it too. It makes you feel marked. Wanted. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Jimin says, pulling his pants on, and, throwing his shirt at you to cover up (as if now, of all times, is the proper time to dress yourself). He leads you through the house back to his room after scooping up your belongings. You hastily button the shirt—well, two of the buttons—and follow after him. Without looking behind at you, he reaches behind him, his palm opening, fingers spread wide: an invitation for you to hold his hand. You take it. 

You pass Yoongi in his studio. He glances up at you from his work, his hand half lifting to say hello before he realizes the state of you and Jimin: sweat-studded, warm, and marked all over by sex. His hand freezes. His eyes lock on Jimin. You’re not sure if you’re imagining it, but you think you see Jimin falter for half a second, before leading you on. No words are exchanged, just that long, long glance. 

When you arrive in Jimin’s room, all the blinds are shuttered and the bed is unmade. It’s a little unlike Jimin, you think. But while he struts to the ensuite bathroom, you tread toward the windows, tugging on the blinds so that the windows pop open to reveal the mountains washed in nightfall. As you watch the moonlight shift over the rolling terrain, something in your chest shifts, opens. This view never ceases to make you feel at peace, you think, as your breathing slows and your body relaxes. There’s not a place on this earth that you’ve visited that makes you feel the way looking at the mountains does.  

Jimin announces his return with a slight cough and holds out a washcloth to you.

“Want me to do it?” he asks.  

“S’ okay,” you reply and take the washcloth from him, reaching between your legs and wiping yourself down. “I thought you wanted me to ‘keep you inside.’”  

“Sometimes I say things just because they’re hot,” Jimin says, as he makes his way to the bed and flops down. “And sometimes I say things because it’s important to be hygienic.”

You watch him for a moment. Your gaze catching on his movement, off somehow: his weary eyes, his tired limbs. 

Since you initially arrived at the house, you had been the receiver of the most delightful aftercare you’d ever been privy to, even with your more experienced sexual partners of previous years. There was something about a friend who knew you, really knew you, that added a personal and knowing touch to satisfy the physical and emotional aches that followed sex. 

But as you look at Jimin, you realize: when had he ever received that kind of aftercare? You were so wrapped up in your own experience, that you had forgotten to check in with him. He opens his arms, inviting you into bed with him, inviting you into his embrace.

“Hold on,” You say, holding up a hand. “I have to take care of something. Just give me ten minutes and I’ll be back—In the meantime, close your eyes a little?” 

Jimin nods. A little smile flickers at the corner of his lips. But he lets his head fall back onto the pillow and his eyes flutter shut. You can’t help but stare for a moment too long before you’re turning on your heel and skidding through the hallways, past Yoongi’s studio—empty now—past the spot where just minutes ago, you’d been fucked against the wall. You don’t pause. 

You’re on a mission. 

You stop by the kitchen first, surprising a closely pressed Namjoon and Yoongi, who break apart when they notice you entering. 

“Oh, sorry—” Namjoon hastily apologizes. “I mean, I’m not sorry—I mean, welcome.” 

“Welcome?” Yoongi raises a questioning eye. 

“Yes. Welcome to the kitchen.” Namjoon answers, opening his arms wide in an awkward reception.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say, grinning. “Proceed.” 

“We weren’t doing anything,” Namjoon says, perhaps a little too quickly. You look between the two. You notice how Yoongi’s hand is immediately next to Namjoon’s, his fingers flickering, as if yearning for touch. And Namjoon’s foot is halfway between both of Yoongi’s. Perhaps they weren’t doing anything, but it’s clear that that statement wouldn’t be true for long.

 But you just smile and gather your intended materials and set off, knowing they’re both watching you and your half-covered ass as you leave the kitchen.

Next, you head to the master bedroom, the room where Hobi (and sometimes you) have been sleeping. You traipse into the bathroom, rifle through the cabinets. 

“What are you doing?” a voice calls from behind you. 

“Hobi.” You smile, turn, and step towards him, pressing a kiss to his surprised features. 

“Are you staying here tonight?” There’s a bright light of hope dancing in Hoseok’s eyes. 

“Ah, I dunno,” you say truthfully. “Probably not. I’m just getting some things for Jimin.” 

“Oh. I see.” You can’t help but notice the little note of disappointment in his voice. “Tomorrow? Can I have you tomorrow?” 

You grimace at his choice of words. 

“Sorry—can I steal you away tomorrow?” 

You nod, pecking his cheek and gathering your materials into your arms. 

“Tomorrow.” 

You leave Hoseok in the bathroom with your second set of materials and hurry back to Jimin’s room. 

“Okay, okay! I’m back!” You call from outside the door. “But close your eyes! Don’t look!” 

You can hear the peals of Jimin’s light, sleepy laughter echoing out from the bedroom. 

“What on earth are you doing?” 

“It’s a surprise! Are your eyes closed?” 

“Yes!” 

With your foot, you push open the door and creep inside, slipping quickly into the bathroom where you deposit all of your goodies. You quickly set it up, but Jimin is impatient, calling every other minute from the bedroom, checking if you’re ready yet. You shoo him off enough times, until finally you’re ready. You give your project one final look-over, and with a satisfied nod, open the door. 

You slide into the bedroom and pull him from the bed, pressing your hands over his eyes as you shuffle him to the bathroom door. 

“Okay… now, open!” 

You release Jimin from your grasp and let him take in the scene of the bathroom. For a moment, he’s entirely silent. Then he says: 

“What is all this?” 

“It’s for you.”

Before him waits a steaming bubble bath and a little tray filled with snacks and a hot mug of tea. Soothing, spa-like music croons from a small speaker. You’ve laid a freshly laundered bathrobe near the tub too, but it’s just then that you notice he has his own, hanging on the door behind you.

“I mean I hope so,” he chuckles. “But really, what is it?” 

“Aftercare,” you say. “You’ve been so good about checking in and taking care of us, and I wondered—I didn’t know if anyone was doing that for you. I wanted to do that for you.” 

Jimin grins and turns back towards you. He wraps you up in a hug, before pulling back enough to kiss you. 

“Thank you.” 

There’s a softness in his eyes you’re not used to seeing. 

When you undress Jimin this time around, there’s nothing sexual in the act. And that kind of scares you. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you undo his pants and slip them off, and is silent as you help him into the bath, though he groans indulgently at the feeling of the steaming water meeting his skin. He sinks in, up to his shoulders in the deep tub filled with bubbles and bath perfumes. 

“This is perfect.” 

You settle behind him, on the outside of the tub. “Can I wash your hair?” 

“Really? You want to?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No one’s done that since I was a kid.” 

You smile. “Really? Then it’ll be my little gift to you.” 

“This is more than a little gift,” Jimin says, swishing his hand through the water to point to everything all around him that you’ve set up. And then more quietly, “It’s almost… romantic,” he muses. You stiffen at the words, and if he can sense your discomfort, he continues, “It’s just… nice. Kind. Good. Thank you.” He twists towards you, grabbing your dry hands in his wet ones. “Thank you. Really.”

You smile at him and twist his shoulders back so he’s facing forward once more. 

“Now. Let me take care of you.” 

You settle behind him and roll up your sleeves, grabbing the bottle of shampoo and squeezing some into your hand. You lather it up, enjoying the silky smooth glide of the liquid between your palms before massaging some into his hair. You’re careful, gentle, with your movements, fingertips circling on his scalp. His inky black hair parts like a dark sea between your fingers, and you soon get lost, mesmerized in the repetitive action. When he groans softly, the utterance pulls you back to the present, and you can’t help but think it’s one of the sexiest sounds he’s made. 

When you’re done lathering up his hair, you reach for a cup, dipping it in the water. 

“Tilt your head back,” you guide, and he does, exposing his neck and the round bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. You see the strain, so you reach with your hand behind his head, tangling fingers in hair, and hold him firm.  Carefully, you pour the water over his hair. A steam of suds run and sink into the field of pinkish bubbles. 

“Hmmmm,” he hums as you repeat the action, and you watch as his eyes flutter shut and his shoulders loosen, dropping. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him this relaxed. It makes you smile, thinking that you’re the one doing all this. Maybe you do enjoy being in control more than you thought.

When you’re done with his hair, you stand and wipe your hands on a towel. 

“Well. I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your bath—“

A hand wraps around your wrist. 

“Don’t go.” 

“What?” 

“Don’t go. I’d pull you in right about now if I wasn’t worried about you slipping and getting a concussion.”

You laugh. 

“Join me,” Jimin says. “There’s plenty of space for both of us. And I bet you need it as much as I do.” 

You eye the bathtub. He’s right in both regards. The bathtub is huge, still steaming, and your body is yearning for a nice long soak right about now. 

“But I want this to be about you,” you say. 

“It can be about me. And what I want right now is for you to join me.” 

“Ha, fine.” You nod, and begin to unbutton the shirt he’d given you. Carefully, you slip into the bath, settling at the other side of the tub, directly across from him. 

He presses his toes to yours. Smiles at you. 

“Thank you for this. Really.” His foot pushes against yours, almost playfully. 

You sit in silence for a long moment. His head lolls back against the wall of the tub, and you watch him. He’s so beautiful like this: resting, relaxing. When you reach out towards him to run a hand across his leg, inching higher, he grabs your hand and stops your movements. He intertwines your fingers together, and there’s a small bolt of panic when you realize this moment isn’t intended to be sexy. It’s just supposed to be the two of you. You ease your thoughts by reminding yourself that this is just your friend. Your friend, naked in a bubble bath with you, his hand caught in yours. So you shift your attention to him, instead.

There’s an ease around him that you haven’t seen in a couple of days. On one hand, you don’t want to spoil the moment, but at the same time, you can’t help but speak up. 

“You know, I can’t help but wonder,” you begin, swirling a hand through the bubbles. “When we were having that discussion the other night, around the fire. When I shared—That there was a time when I, um, didn’t want to be here anymore.” You’re not sure why the words are suddenly heavy, difficult to get out. But you continue. “And you were there, and you looked so incredibly sad, like what I was saying meant something more to you. More—like—” You brush your hand across your face. “Goddamnit, I don’t wanna assume—and I can’t get the words right. Like it meant what it meant to me.” None of your words are making sense. You try again. “That it meant something personal to you. But then you never said anything. During the conversation, you never said anything at all.” 

Jimin looks down. Blinks. He lets go of your hand. His mouth twitches like he’s going to say something, but then he presses his lips together. 

“I, um.” He trails off. 

“It’s okay,” you say hurriedly. “We really don’t have to talk about it. I’ve just been noticing you pulling away a little more since then. How quiet you’ve been. And the shades in your bedroom. They were drawn.”

“The shades?” Jimin’s brow presses in confusion. “What do the shades have to do with anything?” 

“When I walked into your room there was something off. The room was so dark. Maybe it’s silly. Maybe I’m just making assumptions though—” 

“What?”

You take a breath and steel yourself. Out with it. 

“It feels like you’re pulling away.” 

Then, you hold your breath as you wait for him to reply. There is a long moment where you fear everything will shatter. And then he laughs, but there’s an edge of tension, like a chord pulled taut, ringing through the usually twinkling sound.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” you say quickly.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I should, I mean, I probably should talk about it. It’d probably be good for me. But I don’t want to just unload on you. I don’t just want to leave you with all… this.” He motions to himself with a circular motion. 

You reach forward, and grab his hand again. Give him a little squeeze.

“All this—“ You motion to him in the same manner. “Is exactly everything I want to deal with.”

“It’s too much,” he smiles sadly, splashing his hands in the water, not looking at you.

“You’re not too much, Jimin. Your feelings aren’t too much.”

He sighs. 

“Thank you. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way—but, thank you.” You two share a long gaze before his shoulders slump and he leans forward, resting his head in his hands. The water stirs around him. “Where do I even begin?”

“I dunno. At the beginning?” 

He nods, and you watch as his gaze shifts and he seems to go somewhere far away. 

“I guess the beginning was alright. Of quarantine, I mean. I thought there was a sense of freedom to it all. Not having to go into the office. A disruption in the routine. All expectations and plans and requirements taken off the table. Which felt like freedom. It was like suddenly no one was looking at me any more, no one was expecting anything from me except to just live, day by day. But then there was this anxiety that set in.”

You nod and he looks to you for validation before continuing. “Like I felt like I needed those things to be a person. The expectations, the shoulds, the pressure to go where, when, with who. I think I needed them feel like a person, or to feel like I knew where I was going. All of a sudden, all of the places and people and ideas and expectations that had shown me where I needed—where I should go—were gone. I was wandering my apartment in circles, going crazy, missing everyone, feeling like I was missing out on everything, even when there was nothing going on. And I knew the whole time that what I was feeling wasn’t real—but I couldn’t shake it.” 

You nod sagely. 

“I understand that. That sounds really difficult.” 

He nods blankly, and you can tell that it’s about to pour out. 

“And it sounds so stupid, but I missed sex. I missed sex so much.” 

“That’s not stupid, Jimin.” 

“It felt like a part of me was taken away. Like a huge part of the way that I communicate— it just disappeared. And I was left with nothing. I thought you guys would laugh if while you all were baring your hearts to each other, I was just sat there like, ‘I missed fucking.’ That it would be offensive to compare it to what all of you were going through.” 

“Jimin, whatever you were going through, we want to hear. We wouldn’t have laughed.” 

“Maybe you should have though.” 

“C’mon. You can’t just sit here and say that being stripped of your entire social life, the way you connect to people, to the world, you can’t say that loss is worth laughing at.” 

Jimin is silent for a long moment. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” 

“I mean, everything, everything disappeared. I feel like what you’re describing isn’t just about sexual gratification or getting your rocks off. It’s everything. We went from this world where, living in the city, every day is full of these little bumps with strangers, right? You go to the grocery store and flirt with the girl by the oranges. You go to the bar and you hear about someone’s breakup, and then you make out with them in the bathroom.” You get Jimin to crack a smile at that—remembering together. “We lost so much. The sex. The flirting, sure. But there was something else, too. The connecting with strangers. The connecting with people we loved.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sex is important, but what you’re describing is connection. Direction. Your whole world changed. How can you say that that’s not a huge loss?” 

Jimin finally looks at you. He blinks. He stays silent. Then: “It was so lonely. I was so lonely.” 

“Of course you were.” 

“I think I didn’t know who I was without sex.”

“Don’t you think it goes a little deeper than that?” 

“I didn’t know who I was without all the relationships in my life.” 

You nod. You understand. What you say next almost surprises you. “I don’t think we’re meant to know that kind of thing. I don’t think we’re meant to be so distant from everyone.” 

He nods, then says, “Then why do you make yourself so distant?” 

Oh.

Fuck. 

“We’re talking about you, Jimin,” you say quickly. 

“We’ve talked about me. We can talk about you too.” 

“I don’t want to—“ 

When Jimin says your name, it rings right through you. It quiets you. It sends you somewhere soft and silent. You sink down in the water, letting it come up, just above your nose. You look at him from that level, that quiet piercing gaze going right through you. He just waits. And waits. When you can’t hold your breath any more, you push up, letting the water glide off you. 

“I don’t know, Jimin,” you say, finally. “But whatever it is, I don’t know what to do with it.” 

← || series m.list || →

©wwilloww Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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[westywallowing]

I'm dying my hair ginger again guys

[3liza]

I think it must be for the lack of going outside of your room on this website that debates about personal presentation and appearance literally never have any material analysis. sorry it's counterrevolutionary to shave my legs or wear makeup or a bra or style my hair in certain ways or "worry" about visible signs of aging but have some of you just never encountered real world situations where those things caused measurable problems dealing with other people, jobs, money, respectability, access to resources, or the ability to influence important situations? this starts happening when you go outside a lot. there's a debate on my dash rn about balding and finasteride in which not a single person has mentioned the potential negative social outcomes of losing your hair and how that can affect socioeconomic status and personal risk. maybe someone doesn't need to be "vain" to care about keeping their hair and consider the risks of medication for it. maybe they've seen how bald people get treated and referred to and made a cost benefit calculation that they can't afford, sometimes literally, to eat that cost, with everything else they've got going on. maybe I wear makeup when I have to go talk to doctors and other gatekeepers because people make assumptions about your class and mental status when you have "bad skin" and "eye bags". maybe a lot of women who wear uncomfortable restrictive bras and shave whatever and buy skin products and do gua sha have already been sharply punished when someone saw leg hair or a mustache or puffy greasy skin or god forbid their nipple through their shirt. not everyone can just say "fuck it, I can afford to eat one more social cost that will measurably impact my ability to get medical treatment or pay rent". sorry this sounds like an economics lecture, that's because it is

if you are about to tell me a long story about how you personally have not been affected by perceptions of your appearance actually so you can conclude it never happens at all, please don't. sometimes you get lucky, that's it. and on this website I think it's less likely that you're lucky and more likely that you're oblivious

[romantically-yours]

I desire romantically doing makeup with somebody

[agoodflyting]

Why Aziraphale is completely ridiculous in the Bastille scene (and I love him so much for it)

A while ago I posted a comparison of Aziraphale and Crowley's costumes in the 1793 flashback in Good Omens and I wanted to add these little tidbits. (Because they haunt me.)

I feel like most people know this but IF YOU DON'T, Paris in 1793 is right in the middle of something called La Terreur.

HISTORY LESSON If you didn't learn this in school the French Revolution was when, after years of escalating social tension, a coalition representing the working classes of France revolted against the monarchy, violently overthrew King Louis XVI, and declared France to be a republic.

The new National Convention governing France ruled that King Louis XVI and his wife Marie Antoinette were traitors to the people of France because of how they had spent ridiculous amounts of money on luxuries for themselves while vast numbers of the lower classes were literally starving to death. (keep the bold in mind - wealth and class disparities were one of the key causes of the whole-ass revolution)

In 1793 (year of the flashback) both the King and Queen were executed by guillotine for their crimes.

This kicks of something called The Reign of Terror (La Terreur if you want to be French about it). A multi-year-long period in which the National Convention goes on a bloody witch hunt for any and every member of the middle or upper classes who could even possibly be considered a traitor by those same standards.

If you A) had money or privilege, and B) had ever used your money or privilege to treat yourself, you were getting executed. Over 25,000 people died during the Reign of Terror, half of them by guillotine. In fact, the iconic guillotine was used because it was physically impossible to keep up with the sheer number of people they were executing in Paris every single day.

Some things that could get you killed (actually and completely seriously) during the Reign of Terror:

Implying in any way you were sympathetic to the monarchy

Having a noble title

Having expensive things

Wearing expensive, luxurious clothes (*cough* AZIRAPHALE)

helping or sympathizing with anyone who did any of the above

a working-class person saying you were mean to them once

And then there's this bitch...

I AM NOBILITY PLEASE KILL ME So we have established that Paris in 1793 is in the middle of a frenzied, state-sanctioned bloodbath in which the working classes are massacring everyone even remotely nobility-adjacent. And in the middle of this frenzy, Aziraphale proceeds to roll up in Paris in this outfit:

How will this outfit get him killed? Let me count the ways...

First off- at this point everyone with even the tiniest shred of self- preservation is hiding the fact that they are in any way associated with the monarchy. The wealthy are straight-up abandoning mansions. The middle-class are plastering over decorations to make their house look 'poor'. The only people dressed remotely decent are the guys leading the National Convention and that's just because nobody can stop them. Everyone else is in 24/7 peasant cosplay or else they are covering themselves in cockades and sashes on to show they're pro-Republic.

Aziraphale is basically a giant shiny white sign saying I AM NOBILITY PLEASE KILL ME.

First off the lace jabot and lace cuffs are both associated with the old-school wealthy in the 1790's.

His coat is also decorated in gold braid and silver buttons, which are both marks of wealth and luxury.

He basically looks like he works for Louis XIV - not just rich, but old school rich.

We know it's his natural hair color, but hair powdering (with clay and starch) had been a big trend with the rich all throughout the 18th century to get that clean white venerable look . To someone who doesn't know it's natural, it would very much look like he's wearing hair powder.

He's wearing shades of cream and white, which are very hard to keep clean and clearly states that the wearer is rich and can afford the upkeep necessary to keep an outfit like that stain-free.

He's wearing white knee-breeches and stockings, also called culottes. See above about laundry and how rich you had to be to wear white, but also working-class men wore long pants like this:

A large faction involved in the Revolution were the Sans-Culottes (no-culottes aka we wear long pants LIKE GOOD OLD WORKING MEN). Culottes are specifically associated with everything the revolution hated. That's right - Aziraphale is literally wearing The Fanciest of Fancy Pants in a city where a group called The Men Against Fancy Pants are running around murdering people.

And then there are his shoes.

Oh god his shoes

I could do a whole post about Aziraphale's blessed little white satin pumps and how ridiculous they are.

Actually I might just do that because this is getting so long and I still have to talk about the brioche.

So I can't remember if it's in the script book or if it's from Neil Gaiman's tumblr, but it's apparently canon (?) that Aziraphale was going around in that outfit asking people where he could get crepes and brioche when he was arrested.

The Affair of the Brioches

So... uh... we've all heard the line attributed to Marie Antoinette- how when she was told that her people were starving because there was no bread left in Paris, she famously said...

It's morphed into 'let them eat cake', but the line is first recorded as, "Then let them eat brioches."

While it's unlikely she ever actually said it, the important thing is that... people in 1793 would have thought she said it. It was used as political smear to show how arrogant and out of touch the monarchy was. Marie Antoinette in particular was reviled by the people of France, who thought she was the main cause of their economic problems. That's why she was executed too.

Bread and brioche and the lines between poverty and privilege were a big thing in Revolutionary France. There was a lot of political connotation to what you ate. The French Revolution came about because of decades of suffering among the lower classes of France. It wasn't something that some dudes just decided to do. The people of Paris have been through years of the absolute worst, most oppressive poverty and starvation you can imagine, all while watching the rich throw money around crazy.

So let us recap.

Aziraphale is dressed so ridiculously posh that he looks like a joke parody of a nobleman... and he is bumbling around Paris during the Reign of Terror. Asking people. For brioche. How I imagine everyone looked at him:

It is so astoundingly tone deaf and tactless. He is basically cosplaying as Marie Antoinette and then going around asking the poor for cake.

I just.... Aziraphale. babygirl. no. oh no. You're lucky they even bothered to take you to prison. I am amazed Crowley ever let him live that down.

I have no conclusion other than this. Aziraphale is ridiculous and I love him so much.

YES YOU REALLY SHOULD SIR.

[mywitchyblog]

Reality Shifting and Race Changing Explained: A Deep and Comprehensive Analysis of the Practice through the Perspective of a Person of Color.

Introduction :

Reality shifting, a practice where individuals consciously move their awareness to alternate realities or dimensions, has gained significant popularity and attention. Within this phenomenon, race changing—where shifters assume a different racial identity in their Desired Reality (DR)—has become a particularly contentious topic. Proponents of race changing see it as a way to explore different perspectives, foster empathy, and experience personal growth. However, critics raise concerns about cultural appropriation, identity integrity, and ethical implications. This essay will delve into the shifter's perspective and debunk arguments against race changing in reality shifting, examining the diverse viewpoints and underlying controversies.

Disclaimer : before interacting pls read the entire post carefully if you do not understand a part of it do not hesistate to tell me and i would gladly explain you in more details.

And as the title says im a person of color (POC) so i will give my opinion on the matter. I am lowkey (more high key lol) pissed that i see white people telling and talking about it as if they opinion is law its time you let people directly concerned by the matter speak on a subject that concerns them.

Taglist of people who might be interested in this post that i will update progressively i will also at the end provide a pdf version of the document if this post reaches 100 reactions if it reaches 150 to 200 i will also provide the one against age changing) :

@shiftinghoe @shiftersroom @leydenkilgore @jolynesmom @shiftinginferno @norumis @angelscatastrophe @thanossnap

My Age changing Post for those interested

Masterlist

Part I: The Shifter's Perspective

A-Immersive Nature of Reality Shifting

Reality shifting goes beyond elaborate daydreaming or role-playing. It's a full-fledged immersive experience where individuals become their "Desired Reality" (DR) selves entirely. This deep embodiment isn't just physical; it encompasses cultural, emotional, and even historical elements.

Shifters often perceive themselves with entirely different physical characteristics in their DR. This goes beyond appearance – they feel comfortable and familiar in their new bodies, experiencing unique sensations and abilities tied to their DR race. Imagine an East Asian shifter feeling their epicanthic folds affecting their vision or an Afro-Caribbean shifter experiencing the textures of their hair and the specific needs of their skin.

But it's not just physical. Shifters become integrated members of their DR culture. They might find themselves fluent in the language, complete with cultural nuances and dialects. They possess an intrinsic understanding of traditions and social norms, not just intellectually, but on a lived level. Family histories, community connections, and social networks become as real and meaningful as those in their original reality.

Perhaps the most profound aspect is the emotional and psychological alignment. Shifters report feeling emotions differently based on their DR cultural background. Their worldview, values, and beliefs shift to reflect their new identity, offering unique perspectives. Many even have a full set of memories associated with their DR life, from childhood experiences to major events.

Shifters don't just inhabit a new identity; they become part of a complex historical and societal narrative. They understand the weight of historical events that shaped their DR community and experience firsthand the societal advantages or disadvantages of their DR race. They feel a deep sense of cultural pride alongside the challenges and discrimination that may come with it.

For example, a Japanese shifter might not only speak the language fluently but also understand the intricacies of keigo and feel the emotional weight of concepts like "gaman" or "uchi-soto." They could have memories of local festivals, the excitement of catching goldfish, or the solemnity of a New Year's visit.

Similarly, a Latinx shifter might effortlessly switch between languages, understand the cultural significance of quinceañeras, and feel a deep connection to their abuela's traditions. They could have vivid memories of family gatherings filled with traditional foods, laughter-filled conversations, and the warmth of close family bonds.

This immersive experience allows shifters to see the world through a completely different lens, gaining insights otherwise impossible. In their DR, their new identity isn't a costume – it's as authentic and valid as their original self. This creates a profound sense of belonging and allows them to explore different aspects of identity in a meaningful way. This depth of experience is what proponents of race changing in reality shifting often highlight as a potential benefit.

B-Personal Growth and Empathy Development

Reality shifting, particularly when it involves changing race, offers a powerful pathway for personal growth and empathy development. Proponents believe this to be one of its most valuable benefits. Here's a breakdown of its potential:

Expanded Perspective: Shifters inhabit a different racial identity, gaining visceral, firsthand experiences. Imagine a Black shifter feeling the sting of racism, or an Asian shifter navigating the pressures of the "model minority" stereotype. This fosters a deeper understanding of racial dynamics beyond textbook knowledge.

Cultural Competence: Shifters become immersed in a new cultural context, enhancing their cultural competence. They gain insights into cultural nuances, values, communication styles, and nonverbal cues. For instance, a shifter embodying a Middle Eastern identity might understand the significance of hospitality, appreciating the cultural roots of seemingly excessive generosity.

Challenging Biases: The immersive nature of shifting exposes personal biases. Shifters confront and work through unconscious biases and stereotypes that may seem harmless from the outside, but feel hurtful or limiting from a different perspective. This uncomfortable process can be ultimately transformative.

Emotional Intelligence: Experiencing life through a different racial lens boosts emotional intelligence. Shifters develop empathy for the struggles and joys specific to different races, better understand emotional cues across cultures, and gain enhanced self-awareness through reflecting on their reactions in their new identity.

Social Justice Awareness: Shifters often report a heightened commitment to social justice and equity. Experiencing discrimination firsthand motivates them to become allies in their original reality. Understanding privilege (or lack thereof) associated with different races fosters nuanced discussions about systemic inequality.

Personal Identity Exploration: Race changing in shifting can prompt deep reflection on personal identity. Shifters might question aspects of their original identity, explore their cultural heritage and family history, and gain a greater appreciation for the fluidity and constructed nature of racial categories.

Linguistic and Cognitive Benefits: Shifters who become fluent in new languages experience cognitive benefits like enhanced cognitive flexibility from thinking in different linguistic frameworks and improved problem-solving skills as they navigate cultural and linguistic differences.

Artistic and Creative Inspiration: The rich experiences gained through race changing can serve as a wellspring of artistic and creative inspiration. Writers might create more authentic characters, while visual artists gain new perspectives on color, form, and cultural symbolism.

Professional Development: Insights gained through race changing can translate into professional growth. Shifters develop a stronger ability to work in diverse teams, enhance their cross-cultural communication and negotiation skills, and gain a deeper understanding that can be valuable in multicultural environments.

Healing and Trauma Processing: In some cases, embodying different racial identities has helped shifters process personal or intergenerational trauma. For instance, a shifter with a family history of racial oppression might find healing in embodying an identity free from that specific trauma. Conversely, embodying an identity that has experienced historical trauma might help shifters connect with and process their own unrelated traumatic experiences.

Part II: Debunking Arguments Against Race Changing

A-Cultural Appropriation

One of the primary arguments against race changing in reality shifting is that it constitutes cultural appropriation. This issue is complex and sensitive, requiring careful consideration.

Cultural appropriation involves adopting elements from one culture by members of another, often without a full understanding or respect for the original culture. This practice is typically characterized by a power imbalance, where the appropriating group holds more social, political, or economic power than the culture being appropriated. It also involves a lack of attribution, where the source of cultural elements is not acknowledged, leading to stereotyping and commodification of cultural symbols, often out of context and for profit.

Applying this argument to reality shifting, critics assert that when individuals assume a different racial identity in their desired reality (DR), they may trivialize the lived experiences of that racial group. They argue that such individuals might cherry-pick enjoyable aspects of the culture while avoiding its challenges and potentially reinforcing stereotypes or misconceptions about the culture.

However, several counterarguments challenge this perspective. Many shifters approach race changing with the intention of understanding and empathizing with different racial identities, rather than exploiting them. The immersive nature of shifting often involves a deep engagement with the culture, as opposed to the superficial adoption of isolated elements.

Moreover, cultural appropriation typically involves a dominant culture taking from a marginalized one, but in shifting, this power dynamic isn’t present. Shifters embody the new identity fully, integrating their experiences into the fabric of the DR, which can make their engagement more authentic.

Unlike typical cases of cultural appropriation, shifters often report experiencing both the positive and negative aspects of their new racial identity, including potential discrimination and societal challenges. This level of immersion extends far beyond wearing traditional clothing or using cultural symbols, as it involves a comprehensive engagement with the culture's values, traditions, and worldview.

Reality shifting is a personal and introspective practice, usually conducted privately or in small groups, rather than as a public display that might perpetuate stereotypes or commercialize the culture. This personal and nuanced approach differentiates it from more harmful forms of cultural appropriation seen in popular culture or commercial contexts.

Despite these counterarguments, there are still ethical concerns to consider. The ability to "opt out" of a racial identity at will is a privilege not available to those who live that identity full-time. There is also a risk of oversimplification or misrepresentation, even with the best intentions. The personal nature of shifting does not negate the potential for internalized stereotypes or biases to influence the experience.

Instead of viewing race changing in shifting as clear-cut cultural appropriation, it might be more accurate to see it as a complex form of cultural engagement. This practice has the potential for both positive outcomes, such as increased empathy and understanding, and negative outcomes, like reinforcing stereotypes or trivializing experiences. It requires careful reflection and ethical consideration from practitioners and might be evaluated on a case-by-case basis, considering the shifter's intent, approach, and outcomes.

The argument that race changing in reality shifting constitutes cultural appropriation could be seen as a false analogy fallacy, inaccurately equating the personal, immersive, and often respectful experience of shifting with the exploitative and superficial nature of cultural appropriation as traditionally understood. Some proponents suggest that, when conducted respectfully and thoughtfully, race changing in shifting could be seen as a form of cultural exchange rather than appropriation. This perspective posits that the immersive nature of shifting fosters genuine understanding and appreciation, with shifters often feeling a responsibility to respect and honor the cultures they embody. The insights gained can contribute to more meaningful cross-cultural dialogue and understanding in the shifter's original reality.

In conclusion, while the argument against race changing in reality shifting raises important ethical considerations, the issue is more nuanced than it might initially appear. The deeply personal and immersive nature of shifting, coupled with the often sincere intent of practitioners to gain understanding and empathy, sets it apart from more straightforward cases of cultural appropriation. Nevertheless, it remains crucial for shifters to approach the practice with respect, self-reflection, and a willingness to grapple with its complex ethical implications.

B-Fetishization

Another significant criticism of race changing in reality shifting is that it may lead to or represent a form of racial fetishization. This concern is both sensitive and complex, and warrants a thorough examination.

Racial fetishization involves reducing individuals to stereotypical racial characteristics, objectifying people based on their race or ethnicity, and exoticizing racial features or cultural elements. Often, though not always, it includes a sexual component. Critics argue that race changing in shifting might encourage shifters to focus on stereotypical or exoticized aspects of a race, leading to a superficial engagement with racial identity that is more fantasy than reality. This practice could potentially reinforce harmful stereotypes or racial preferences.

However, several counterarguments challenge this perspective. Many shifters who engage in race changing are not primarily motivated by sexual desire or attraction to stereotypical racial attributes. Their goal is often to understand and embody the full spectrum of experiences associated with a different racial identity, rather than to indulge in fantasy or stereotypes. The immersive nature of reality shifting encourages shifters to deeply engage with and appreciate the culture they are exploring. This process frequently fosters empathy and understanding, rather than objectification, as shifters report experiencing both positive and negative aspects of their new racial identity, extending beyond surface-level engagement.

Additionally, many shifters approach race changing as a means of personal growth, aiming to challenge their own biases and expand their worldview. This experience often leads to increased cultural sensitivity and awareness, rather than reinforcing stereotypes. In their desired reality (DR), shifters often experience a fully realized and complex identity that includes family histories, cultural practices, societal challenges, and individual personality traits, going far beyond mere racial characteristics.

Despite these counterarguments, it is important to acknowledge potential risks. Shifters might unknowingly bring racial stereotypes or biases into their DR experiences. There is also a risk of focusing on more "appealing" aspects of a racial identity while downplaying its challenges or complexities. The ability to "try on" different racial identities at will is a privilege that could lead to a form of racial tourism if not approached thoughtfully.

From a psychological standpoint, the experience of race changing in shifting could be seen as a form of identity exploration rather than fetishization. It serves as an exercise in perspective-taking and empathy development and provides an opportunity to confront and work through internalized racial biases.

Culturally, it is worth considering whether race changing practices in shifting might lead to more nuanced representations of diverse racial identities in media and art, foster more open dialogue about race and identity in society, or risk oversimplifying complex racial issues.

Ethically, shifters should be encouraged to reflect critically on their motivations and experiences, seek diverse perspectives and real-world knowledge about the races they embody in their DR, and be mindful of the line between appreciation and fetishization. The argument that race changing in reality shifting constitutes fetishization could be seen as a straw man fallacy, as it misrepresents the shifters' intentions and the nature of their experiences, reducing a complex and often empathetic practice to a simplistic and objectifying one.

Some proponents argue that race changing in shifting could help deconstruct harmful racial categories by highlighting the constructed nature of race, encouraging people to see beyond racial stereotypes, and fostering a more fluid understanding of identity. Comparing this practice to other activities, such as actors portraying characters of different races, virtual reality experiences designed to foster racial empathy, or imagining oneself in someone else’s shoes through literature or film, reveals that race changing in shifting may differ fundamentally from these practices in its approach and intent.

In conclusion, while the criticism of fetishization raises important concerns about the potential risks of race changing in reality shifting, a closer examination reveals a more nuanced picture. The deeply personal and often transformative nature of these experiences, combined with the typical intent of fostering understanding and empathy, sets it apart from more straightforward cases of racial fetishization. Nevertheless, it is essential for shifters to approach the practice with self-awareness, respect, and a commitment to genuine cultural engagement rather than superficial or stereotypical representations.

C-Race Changing is Racist

The argument that race changing in reality shifting is fundamentally racist is a serious allegation that requires careful examination. This perspective is based on several concerns: it may trivialize the real struggles and discrimination faced by racial minorities, allow individuals to "play" at being another race without encountering the associated societal challenges, perpetuate the idea that race is something that can be donned or discarded at will, and reinforce the notion that race is merely about physical characteristics or stereotypical behaviors. This criticism often stems from worries about cultural insensitivity, fears of minimizing systemic racism, and the historical context of racist practices such as blackface and yellowface.

However, this argument can be contested on multiple grounds. Firstly, many shifters engage in race changing not to mock or belittle other races but to gain a deeper understanding and empathy for those experiences. The immersive nature of shifting often results in increased awareness of racial issues and a stronger commitment to anti-racism in the shifter's original reality. Furthermore, shifters in their desired reality (DR) often experience life as an integrated part of the culture they embody, including facing discrimination and navigating societal challenges associated with that racial identity. This depth of experience goes beyond superficial engagement.

Additionally, race changing can lead to significant personal transformation. Many shifters report profound growth, challenging their own biases and increasing their cultural competence. These experiences foster a deep sense of connection and solidarity with different racial groups. Race changing could also be viewed as an immersive form of education about racial experiences, potentially offering more impactful learning than traditional methods.

Despite these counterarguments, it is crucial to acknowledge potential issues. Shifters have the privilege of opting out of their new racial identity and returning to their original reality, a luxury not available to those who face racism daily. There is also a risk of oversimplifying complex racial experiences into simplified narratives. Without proper reflection, shifters might misuse or misrepresent aspects of the racial identities they embody.

To address these concerns, shifters engaging in race changing should approach the practice with humility and a willingness to learn. Complementing their shifting experiences with real-world education about racial issues and using insights gained to actively combat racism in their original reality can help mitigate potential problems. Critical reflection on their experiences and motivations is also essential.

From a psychological perspective, race changing in shifting can be seen as a form of perspective-taking, which has been shown to reduce prejudice, an exercise in empathy development, and a way to confront and work through unconscious racial biases. Sociologically, it is worth considering whether widespread engagement in race changing might lead to increased racial empathy, contribute to a more nuanced understanding of race as a social construct, or challenge existing racial categories.

A comparative analysis with other practices such as diversity training programs, role-playing exercises in anti-racism workshops, and the concept of "passing" in racial identity reveals that race changing in shifting might differ fundamentally in its approach and intent. The argument that race changing is inherently racist may be seen as a hasty generalization fallacy, drawing broad conclusions based on limited understandings of shifters' experiences and motivations.

Some proponents argue that, when approached thoughtfully, race changing in shifting could be an antiracist practice by fostering a deeper understanding of diverse racial experiences, motivating action against racism in the shifter’s original reality, and challenging fixed racial categories. Considering how race changing intersects with other aspects of identity, such as gender, class, or sexuality, further complicates the discussion and could lead to a more nuanced understanding of intersectional identities.

In conclusion, while the argument that race changing in reality shifting is inherently racist raises important ethical concerns, a closer examination suggests a more complex picture. The potential for increased empathy, understanding, and antiracist action indicates that, when approached thoughtfully and ethically, race changing in shifting might contribute to combating racism rather than perpetuating it.

Part III: Community Dynamics : 

A. Shiftok Culture and Hypocrisy

The community of shifters on platforms like Shiftok has become a significant space for discussing and sharing experiences related to reality shifting. However, this community is often marked by striking inconsistencies in its attitudes and practices, particularly when it comes to race changing. These inconsistencies reveal underlying biases and a selective application of ethical standards within the community.

One of the most glaring examples of this hypocrisy is the community's disparate treatment of shifts involving fictional races versus real-world racial identities. Users enthusiastically support and celebrate shifts into races from popular fiction, such as elves from "Lord of the Rings" or Veela from "Harry Potter." These shifts often involve adopting stereotypical characteristics of these races, such as ethereal beauty or magical abilities, without any criticism. Similarly, shifts into anime characters, even when these characters are explicitly Japanese or of other Asian ethnicities, are widely accepted and applauded.

In stark contrast, when a user mentions shifting to experience life as a different real-world race - for example, a white person shifting to be Black, or an Asian person shifting to be Latino - they often face harsh criticism and accusations of racism or cultural appropriation. This double standard extends to cultural practices as well. Users might criticize someone for shifting to experience a traditional Japanese tea ceremony as a Japanese person, calling it appropriation. However, they remain silent when shifters adopt fantastical versions of cultural practices, such as magical rituals in The Vampire Diaries Universe, which are often based on real-world cultural elements such as Hoodoo and Voodoo.

The inconsistency becomes even more apparent when considering shifts into races that face oppression or discrimination in their fictional universes. Shifting to be a Na'vi from "Avatar," who face colonization and violence from humans, or becoming a vampire who must hide from hunters and deal with societal prejudice, are widely accepted and even romanticized. These shifts often involve experiencing fictional forms of racism or oppression, yet they don't receive the same scrutiny as shifts involving real-world racial experiences.

This romanticization of struggle is particularly problematic. Users might enthusiastically describe the thrill of being a hunted vampire or the nobility of fighting against oppression as a Na'vi, while simultaneously criticizing those who wish to explore real-world experiences of discrimination through shifting. This glamorization of fictional oppression trivializes real-world struggles and reveals a lack of critical thinking about the implications of different types of identity shifts.

The community's acceptance of shifts into historical periods further highlights this hypocrisy. Shifting to experience life in different historical eras, which inevitably involves a change in cultural context, is generally supported. For instance, shifting to be a noble in Victorian England is rarely questioned, while shifting to be a person of color in modern-day America might be condemned. This inconsistency reveals a troubling bias in how the community views and values different cultural and racial experiences.

Perhaps the most striking example of this double standard is the widespread acceptance of shifting to become a Na'vi from the movie "Avatar." This shift involves taking on a completely different racial identity, often with spiritual and cultural elements inspired by real-world Indigenous cultures. Yet, this is rarely criticized, while shifting to be an actual Indigenous person would likely face significant backlash.

These inconsistencies in the Shiftok community undermine the credibility of criticisms against race changing and point to a need for more consistent and reflective ethical standards within the shifting community. They reveal that many users are more comfortable with the idea of exploring different identities and experiences of oppression when they're framed as "fictional," even though the immersive nature of shifting means these experiences are just as real to the shifter as any "real-world" shift would be.

This hypocrisy not only stifles meaningful dialogue about race and identity within the context of shifting but also reflects broader societal discomfort with addressing real-world racial issues. It highlights the need for the shifting community to engage in more nuanced, thoughtful discussions about the ethics of identity exploration, the nature of reality in shifting, and the responsibilities that come with experiencing different racial and cultural perspectives.

B. Judgmental Attitudes and Ignorance

The shifting community, particularly on platforms like Shiftok, often displays a complex web of judgmental attitudes and ignorance about the nuances of shifting practices. This creates a challenging environment for shifters exploring different identities, especially when it comes to race changing. (in this part and all the other parts of this essay, “real world”=CR aka this reality ik they are no such thing as the “real world” but for the sake of the argument i employed that term).

Many users within the community are quick to condemn those who shift into different racial identities, particularly when these involve real-world races. This rush to judgment often stems from a superficial understanding of shifting practices and a lack of empathy for the motivations behind such explorations. Harsh comments, gatekeeping behaviors, and in extreme cases, online harassment, have become unfortunately common responses to shifters who engage in race changing.

However, this judgmental attitude is starkly contrasted by the community's acceptance and even celebration of shifts into fictional races or non-human identities. This inconsistency reveals a deep-seated ignorance about the nature of shifting and its implications. Users often justify their acceptance of shifts into fictional races like Elves or vampires from various mythologies by arguing that since these races are fictional, they're somehow "safer" or less problematic to explore. This reasoning, however, fundamentally misunderstands the core principle of shifting: that all realities, whether based on fiction or the "real world," are equally real and valid from the perspective of the shifter.

This ignorance leads to a troubling double standard. Shifters who explore the experiences of fictional races facing discrimination - like the Na'vi battling colonization or werewolves hiding from hunters - are often met with enthusiasm. The community readily engages with these narratives of struggle and oppression when framed in a fictional context. Yet, when shifters attempt to explore real-world experiences of racial discrimination, they face harsh criticism and accusations of appropriation or fetishization.

This attitude demonstrates a lack of critical thinking about the ethical implications of different types of shifts. The community fails to recognize that from the perspective of shifting theory, the distinction between "fictional" and "real-world" races becomes arbitrary. The experiences of discrimination, cultural immersion, and identity exploration are just as real and impactful for a shifter whether they're embodying a Na'vi or shifting into a different human race.

Moreover, this ignorance extends to a misunderstanding of the depth and complexity of shifting experiences. Many critics within the community underestimate how fully shifters can embody and experience a different identity, regardless of whether it's fictional or based on a real-world race. They often fail to grasp the profound impact these experiences can have on a shifter's perspective, empathy, and personal growth.

The judgmental attitudes and ignorance prevalent in the community have serious consequences. They stifle open and honest discussions about race and identity within the shifting context. Shifters who feel judged may withdraw from the community or hide their experiences, limiting opportunities for collective learning and growth. The hostile environment can discourage exploration of different identities, potentially limiting the personal growth and empathy development that shifting can facilitate.

Furthermore, this environment of judgment and ignorance often leads to the mischaracterization of shifting experiences. Complex and nuanced explorations of identity are frequently oversimplified or dismissed. The potential benefits of respectful identity exploration through shifting are overlooked, while stereotypes about shifting and shifters are reinforced.

To address these issues, there's a clear need for more education within the community about the nuances and complexities of shifting experiences. Promoting a deeper understanding of the psychological and experiential aspects of shifting could foster more empathy and less judgment. Creating spaces for open, non-judgmental discussions about controversial shifting practices could help combat ignorance and promote a more nuanced understanding of the ethical implications of different types of shifts.

By confronting these judgmental attitudes and areas of ignorance, the shifting community has the opportunity to create a more inclusive, understanding, and supportive environment. This could not only improve the experiences of individual shifters but also contribute to more nuanced and productive discussions about identity, race, and the ethics of shifting practices. Ultimately, addressing these issues is crucial for the growth and maturation of the shifting community as a whole.

C-Understanding Morality and Multiracial Identity in Shifting

The concept of infinite realities in shifting brings about profound implications for our understanding of morality and identity, particularly when it comes to race. Each Desired Reality (DR) has its own unique set of morals and cultural norms, presenting a challenge when applying Original Reality (OR) ethics to these varied experiences. This moral relativism in shifting creates a complex landscape where what is considered ethically acceptable in one reality may not hold the same value in another.

The shifting community's approach to fictional races inadvertently highlights this moral complexity. Many shifters enthusiastically embrace identities like Na'vi from "Avatar" or vampires from various mythologies, often without the same level of ethical scrutiny applied to shifts involving CR races. This discrepancy reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of shifting itself. If we accept the core principle that all realities are equally real and valid, then the distinction between "fictional" and "real-world" races becomes very blurry to a point where said distinction vanishes since what is fictional in this reality is 100% real in that DR.

This paradox becomes even more apparent when we consider that many of these fictional races face discrimination, oppression, or complex social challenges within their realities. Shifters who take on these identities are, in essence, experiencing forms of racism or societal prejudice, yet these experiences are often romanticized or seen as less problematic than explorations of real-world racial discrimination. The Na'vi fighting against human colonization or Mutants from the X-men hiding from societal persecution are, within the context of shifting, as real and significant as any historical or contemporary struggle against oppression.

The romanticization of these fictional races raises its own set of moral questions. For instance, the glorification/romanticisation of vampire culture in shifting could be seen as problematic on multiple levels. It potentially trivializes issues of consent and power imbalances, and could even be construed as a form of necrophilia, given the undead nature of vampires (vampires are dead not alive ergo necrophilia in a way. This argument that I use is to further emphasize the hypocrisy of the shifting community since yall wanna talk about fetishization and romanticisation). This level of ethical scrutiny is rarely applied to fictional race shifts, despite the community's readiness to criticize CR race changing on similar grounds.

For multiracial shifters, this moral landscape becomes even more complex. A multiracial individual might choose to shift to embody only one aspect of their racial heritage in their DR, reflecting their sense of connection and belonging to that part of their identity. This choice doesn't negate their other racial identities but rather reflects the fluid and personal nature of racial identity itself. However, the community's inconsistent approach to race in shifting can create additional challenges for these individuals. They may find themselves navigating not only their own complex identities but also the arbitrary distinctions and judgments imposed by the community.

The multiracial shifting experience underscores the limitations of rigid racial categorizations and highlights the need for a more nuanced understanding of race and identity within the shifting community. It challenges shifters to consider how their experiences across different realities might inform and expand their understanding of racial identity in their OR.

Moreover, the moral relativism inherent in shifting raises questions about the nature of ethical growth through these experiences. If a shifter encounters and adapts to vastly different moral frameworks across their DRs, how does this impact their core ethical beliefs? This moral fluidity could lead to a more nuanced and empathetic worldview, but it also risks ethical inconsistency or moral relativism taken to an extreme.

In conclusion, the intersection of morality and racial identity in shifting presents a rich area for exploration and discussion. It challenges our understanding of ethics, identity, and the nature of reality itself. By engaging with these complex ideas, the shifting community has the opportunity to foster more nuanced, empathetic, and inclusive approaches to race and identity. However, this requires a willingness to apply consistent ethical standards across all forms of shifting, whether they involve "real" or "fictional" races, and a commitment to deeper reflection on the moral implications of these profound experiences.

Conclusion : 

Ultimately, we can argue that race changing in reality shifting isn't inherently problematic and can, in fact, be a powerful tool for personal and societal growth. The ability to experience life from diverse racial perspectives has the potential to challenge deeply ingrained biases, foster genuine empathy, and contribute to more nuanced discussions about race and identity in our society.

However, we must tread carefully to ensure that these practices do not veer into appropriation or fetishization. This requires:

Approaching race changing with respect, humility, and a genuine desire to learn.

Engaging in thorough self-reflection before, during, and after shifting experiences.

Complementing shifting experiences with real-world education about racial issues and histories.

Being mindful of the privilege inherent in being able to "opt out" of a racial identity.

Using insights gained from shifting to actively combat racism and promote understanding in one's original reality.

Fostering open, honest dialogues within the shifting community about ethics and best practices.

Developing clear community guidelines that address the complexities of race changing.

By maintaining this careful balance, race changing in reality shifting can serve as a unique and valuable tool for promoting intercultural understanding, challenging racial prejudices, and fostering a more empathetic and inclusive society. As with any powerful tool, its value lies not in the practice itself, but in how we choose to use it. With thoughtful consideration and ethical guidance, race changing in shifting has the potential to contribute positively to our ongoing dialogues about race, identity, and human experience.

[sleepynegress]

*sigh* Featurism...

So, I woke up to this shit on the Twit app and I've only hit on this issue before, but today I'm digging in. Colorism is something that is not addressed often enough, but intersected within that and even more rarely spoken about, is the issue of featurism. The young actress above just got cast as Juliet in the latest big staged prestige production of Romeo and Juliet, opposite Tom Holland. And as usual the blue-checks, everybody else including "black", and even Black regulars are all-in on the cruelty.

...But I want to breakdown a nuance that is too often skipped over when this happens. The two people named with her, give away the featurism game, here; a particularly nasty form of often internalized racism. I guarantee if the young actress looked like this?

She'd definitely still get racist attacks, but the particularly nasty shit I'm seeing attacking her looks wouldn't come. In fact, I could see some people thinking they are defending her with "but she's pretty!" or more specific... "obviously she's mixed" comments. -Something pretty much every Black woman with features that don't align with a narrow perception of blackness hear often (and we'll get to why I specified women in a minute). And don't get it twisted...

These aren't exclusively nor standard white features either (see: the many ethnic features w/in white ethnic groups that also get hit to a lesser and non-racialized degree such as large "hook" and/or Romanesque noses for example, which is definitely about anti-semitism, anti-Romani sentiment, and other disparaged/discriminated against ethnic minorities in Europe) and yes, blue eyes are naturally occurring within non-mixed and dark-skinned Black people due to a mutation called Waardenburg syndrome. But there is a REASON why fetishizing even certain ethnic features within the African continental diaspora has been a thing for a long time...i.e. "the dopest Ethiopian" from the Tribe Called Quest lyric is pictured as this:

and this:

and not this:

...despite them all being Ethiopians of various tribal ethnicities.

A wide-nose, a tighter curl, coil, or zig-zag pattern of hair, fuller lips and often, but not always (because I've given examples above where features "mitigate" skin color) darker skin. Zendaya is grouped with Tracey and Francesca Amewudah-Rivers, despite being both lighter in skin color and having a Black parent and a white parent because her nose isn't what has become the standard surgical look...that too many celebs have. This includes the ones who got so-called "ethnic" work or just a slight 'refinement'. No, her nose is born w/it, made for that good African air, as I call it. Nostrils prominent, nose bridge wide:

I went make-up free as well, because even make-up practices these days, go for that narrowing highlight technique i.e. just below it's subtle.

Sza is a an example of it taken to extremes, even with the Hollywood standard "ethnic" refinement she did get.

The thing is... I don't blame or attack her for that. Because you see above that is just a taste of what happens. Lil' Kim was relentlessly bullied by the men in her life for her ethnic features for her whole life...and that is why she is off-limits to this day for me when it comes to all the work she's had done.

...And this is where I explain why I specified men being mostly exempt. It's because "Blackness" including all the physical features associated with it, is by default masculinized. ...Which is why Idris Elba is considered one of the most handsome men in the world, w/o the caveats that even Lupita Nyong'o often gets. Nobody calls Samuel L. Jackson ugly. He is even idolized and fetishized by a specifically white male gaze for how culturally "Black" he is perceived to be for all the wrong reasons, his signature "motherfucka" for example (and I could go off on a whole other tangent here, but digressing). All this to say... Featurism sucks. It's not talked about enough. Blackness in all variations is Beautiful. Tracy Chapman looking as young she does?? Hell, mark it down to both her dark skin (a natural UV protector) and not messing with her given features (and being a lesbian, men will age you. lol -I got jokes-):

P.S. THANK GOODNESS for Tems and her rising prominence as a beauty as well:

P.P.S. Even Jay-Z the billionaire rapper has had the comments over the years about his lips and nose, hence that lyric in Beyonce's Formation.

[marigoldwriter]

NEW HEADCANON IDEAS:

— Wonderland has an aerial flow of letters: Okay, I know it sounds crazy, but think with me, when Red's invitation to Auradon Prep goes to Wonderland, it flies thanks to Fairy G's magic, and in many glassheart/charminghearts fanfics (I don't know what to call them anymore) Red writes letters to Chloe and to Bridget (the good one), and I always wondered how they got to these people, and this is the answer, they fly! In fact, the aerial system of letters works similar to that of airplanes in our world, their magic allows them to know where to go, and what to avoid. Letters that fly/have magic are only those written by people who are in Wonderland and by Wonderlandians out of Wonderland, or by magic users (such as the Fairy Godmother, who use magic to carry the letter). Letters use Rabbit Holes to get to Wonderland faster if they come from Auradon.

— The Royal Family of Hearts's hair colors are changeable according to age: I think one of everyone's biggest questions about the film was how Bridget's hair changed from pink to red. Well, my idea of this is, Bridget's hair turned red as she grew up because it's in her family lineage, it's a trait that skips generations, most people in the family of Hearts are born with red hair, but some, carrying traits from their older ancestors, are born with pink or white hair, and as they age, it turns red. This trait skipped Bridget's mother's generation, and it skipped Red's generation. If Red has children, one of them will probably have pink hair, and as they grow up, their hair will turn red. An example I took from this wasn't only Bridget herself, but also Mirana (I LOVE HER SO MUCH!), the White Queen, from Alice in Wonderland movie, her hair was blonde when she was little, and turned pink when she grew up, and when she became an adult, it finally turned white.

— Birthmarks of the Royal Family: This hc was created originally by @chadtheroyalidiot, that was wonderful idea. People from the royal family of Wonderland, or the royalty there itself, have a heart-shaped birthmark, for me, Bridget's birthmark is a pink heart and is on her left thigh, and Red's is a red heart and is on the front left part of her waist.

— Curly or straight? Hair types linked to feelings: Again about hair! Everyone knows that Bridget changed from water to wine (or rather, from sugar to salt) after Uliana's prank, and that includes her hair, which was full of waves and became straight. Since I don't like the idea that Bridget wakes up early every morning to straighten her hair, I had a better idea. Have you ever heard about MLP, you know, Pinkie Pie? So, I have an idea that when people in the family of Hearts are experiencing intense bad feelings, such as hurt, hate, hopelessness or sadness, their hair becomes straight. And when they feel intense good feelings, like joy, hope, happiness, love and delight, their hair gets wavy and also curly. "Oh, but in the movie nothing happened to Red's hair", but it happened to me. Yeah, that's it :)

— Characteristics required for a full royal name: I'm basing this on a post by @c-rose2081, I was inspired by and thought about this. A full name for the royal family of the Hearts there must be exactly three names, one of them highlighting exaltedness and loftiness, one related to immortality, mostly, or something like unfading, non-forgetfulness, and the latter being associated with strength, as it means 'warrior' or something look like that. It's an ancient tradition in the family that continues to the present days; the children of the current ruler, especially the heir, must have a name that commands respect and even a little fear in their subjects.

— Emotional influence on colors: I see this in a fanfic, the autor is @/Watcher (RomanticallyApocalyptic)! The royal family is all kind of crazy, we know, they're the royalty of Wonderland, of course they'd be crazy, but they have certain magics that are influenced by emotions (just like half the shit in this family), one of them is color changing; A very specific example, which was from this fanfic I read, is Red, Red can't stop thinking about Chloe, and because of that, all of her drawings, even if she paints them with the strongest red, end up in a shade of blue. An example of this could be Bridget when she was young, like, she couldn't stop thinking about Ella (because, please, everyone knows!), and her treats all came out blue, no matter how much pink food coloring or pink ingredients she used. It has to be a specific color that reminds the person of what they like, and it has to be something that the other person does regularly. A random example: a person, a Hearts, has the habit of writing, poems, texts, letters, anything, and they can't stop thinking about a person who has as a registered color, Idk, yellow; so, like, the ink in that person's pen turns yellow.

— Princess Red's name: Okay, I know Red's name is Red, but, I just can't accept that someone like Bridget, always so creative and theatrical about so many things, bad things, would just name her daughter "Red". It doesn't make sense to me. She used to create recipes when she was younger, and even as an adult, she continued to be very creative about things (like a coup). Anyway, to me, Red's name is Redell, Princess Redell (Idk what other two names to give her yet) Hearts I. Redell means "Red Meadow" (I read somewhere that it also means "wolf counsel" and "red clearing"), and, in my hc, Red Meadow is the name of the battlefield where the War of the Roses (I think was first mentioned in the book "Descendants: Beyond the Isle of the Lost", I read in the wiki) took place. Even today, the grass and earth there are red and people say that you can still smell blood in the air. I can totally imagine Bridget naming her daughter after such a bloody memory. When Red grew old enough to understand the meaning of her name, she started calling herself just 'Red', and she even had a fight with her mother, one of the first times she defied her mother.

— The Tradition of Beheading: Everyone knows the Queen of Hearts' catchphrase, "Off with their heads!", like, when I saw the Alice in Wonderland movie for the first time, I spent a week repeating it. Anyway, let's get to my idea; beheading, as ugly as this form of execution may be, is actually a very old tradition in the royal family, it can't just be stopped since it's something that's part of the aristocracy of Wonderland, and it's been rooted for ages in the bloodlines of the royal family and the Wonderlandians. Like, just like prison is the most common form of punishment for a crime in our world, in Wonderland, it's very common for rulers to sentence people to beheading, in fact, generally most people who commit crimes in Wonderland have at least three chances to redeem themselves before being sent to beheading, Bridget's reign was much more extreme and violent than the normal.

(if you use it, just give me credit, please 😁)

[nethhiri]

Part 5

Warnings: Sex (inappropriate use of scythes), murder, blood play, the usual

Your breath caught in your throat and he looked at you expectantly. You were still shocked that he had spoken at all. Were you imagining it? 

"K-Kamazo."

He buried his face in your hair and groaned, "Good girl."

You shivered at the praise. You had done well to take care of him and remain by his side instead of taking the opportunity to flee. The reward was finally getting to hear his voice. That's how you associated it anyway. 

The man, Kamazo, continued to knead the fleshier parts of you, your thigh, your hip, your breasts. He tried to knead your stomach, too, but there wasn't much there yet. He seemed to let out a semi-disappointed huff before nuzzling back into your neck. Whenever you were snuggled up to him, he tended to rest his hand on your stomach. Sometimes he rested his head on your tummy, also. You thought maybe he had a bit of a thing for tummies, and other soft parts. His snores gradually manifested as you lay with him. You felt more comfortable if he fell asleep first, nervous about what he might do while you slept. 

The next day, Kamazo decided it was best to move again. The next place was basically the same deal as the previous, obviously used as a brothel by most. Kamazo didn't like to go out in the daytime, preferring to move by night. You didn't really know who or what he was hiding from. Someone was helping him hide, as he seemed to have a special relationship with some of the inn owners, never having to pay them. They probably worked for the same people that the man did. You were still unclear on what he actually did when he left you alone, other than kill people. Was he killing people because he had to in order to do his job or was that his job? Was it for fun? 

For the next few days, you were, again, remanded to the room. Again, with nothing to do. He hadn't spoken again either. The next time he tried to leave, you tugged on his sleeve ever so lightly, staring up at him with pleading eyes. It felt strange to talk to him when he didn't speak, so you had kept silent. Kamazo paused, considering you. He moved to the side, allowing you to go through the doorway first. You honestly didn't expect him to concede that easily. As you walked out of the inn, lecherous gazes followed. You startled slightly as Kamazo put a possessive hand on your shoulder. It was enough to stop most, but one particularly drunk man paid it no mind, walking right up to you.

"Who do you belong to, little whore? I wouldn't mind a turn next, if you wouldn't mind telling me who owns you. Just like I like them, scrawny and pathetic looking," the man said, reaching out to touch your hair.

Kamazo grabbed the man's wrist faster than you could see, narrowing his eyes in disgust. "This one... is mine."

"I take it you're her master, eh? How much? I can pay well. I can even take her off your hands for good."

You heard a splintering crack and the man was brought to his knees screaming in pain. 

Kamazo released the man's wrist, now broken and bruised. "Only mine." His eyes slid to yours, as if to say "Isn't that right?".

You subtly nodded as your cheeks heated up, completely flustered by his words. You avoided looking at the injured man, likely to vomit if you stared at his twisted, deformed wrist any longer. Kamazo continued to guide you along with his hand on your shoulder. No one else bothered you after that. His grip loosened little by little as you walked on, hand eventually falling to his side. You were distracted by all the lights, sounds, and smells of the city. You didn't properly get to experience it the last time you were there. Every so often you lingered around one of the food stalls, trying to imagine what these curious looking foods would taste like. Sometimes you paused to look at some of the things vendors were selling, dazzled by the brilliant colors and skillful creation of the little knick knacks. You suddenly remembered that Kamazo probably had a job to do and you were holding him up. Your eyes searched for him in a panic, afraid you might be angering him by holding him up. But when your eyes found him, he was simply watching you, lazily walking along. You realized he was following you, no longer leading you anywhere in particular.

Heat rushed to your cheeks again, embarrassed that you were so interested in these stupid little things. He probably thought you were pathetic, just like the man from earlier had said. A grown adult woman shouldn't be intrigued by something so childish. You had never seen anything like them and were amazed that someone had made these intricate crafts and sculptures. Bashfully, you returned to Kamazo's side. He hadn't done or said anything, yet you still felt guilty for straying, especially since you should be on your best behavior for being allowed out. You didn't want to mess it up, or he might not let you tag along again. Your eyes flicked up at him periodically, discreetly trying to see if there was any annoyance on his face. On the last glance, your eyes accidentally locked with his, and you quickly looked away. 

The man, Kamazo, paused at one of the stalls and handed you some kind of meat on a stick. At first, you took dainty bites, but the hunger took over and you were ripping big chunks out of it soon enough. It was delicious. How long had you been missing out on how good food could really be? You walked and ate, noticing you were headed away from the center of town, out towards one of the neighboring offshoots. Kamazo guided you once again, steering you towards one of the alleys. What was he doing? Maybe he only let you come because his plan was to kill you. He sensed your unease and gave you a single reassuring pat on the shoulder he held. He led you to a random barrel, one of many in the alley. Unceremoniously, he lifted the lid, picked you up, and plopped you into it. Kamazo grabbed your hand and put something into it. Then he brought his finger to his lips and nodded to the thing in your hand. Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. Cautiously, you looked at the thing in your hand. 

It was a small, light object. An acorn? Not quite. It didn't have a stem, but it did have a tail. It was wooden, painted gray and pink. It was... a mouse? It was a tiny, wooden mouse. You looked at Kamazo, who repeated the gesture, and shut the lid gently, leaving you in darkness. You strained to look through a crack in the wooden barrel, but he was already gone. You held the tiny figurine in the palm of your hand. He wanted you to be quiet as a mouse, that much was clear. But what brought tears to your eyes was the fact that no one had ever paid that much attention to you. When you had stopped to peer at the various things stalls had to offer, this particular figure had caught your attention. It was the smallest figure on the table, hidden by so many other bigger, brighter ones. Maybe you felt a kindred spirit in it, but you had been drawn to it. Kamazo must have been watching you. He wasn't only watching you, though. He was paying attention to everything you did. And even if it was out of suspicion or wariness, it still made you feel special, not even special, just human. Where everyone up to this point in your life saw you as dirt, he saw you as human.

Kamazo was gone for a long time. You dozed on and off while you waited for him, readjusting your position in the cramped barrel periodically, the little wooden mouse tucked safely away in your clothing. You were startled awake by being lifted out of the barrel and thrown over the shoulder of the man. He was a little rough in his handling of you. He smelled like sweat and blood, and it was clear why. His clothes were damp and stained. At first you thought his wound reopened, but it was fine. It wasn't his own blood that was splattered across him. His breathing was heavy but not in a way that suggested exhaustion.

Kamazo brought you to a seemingly abandoned portion of town. He was rough in setting you down, practically vaulting you from his shoulder. Buildings were in disrepair and not a soul was present in the streets. You looked around and back at him, confused about why you were there. He had a scythe in each hand and his grip was shifting on them both. You could see dark red stains coating hm even in the moon light. His expression made you uneasy. There was a hunger behind it, something that wasn't really him, something darker. You were right. Maybe he was really leading you out here to kill you. But why would he when he fed you and gave you a gift? You didn't understand. You were questioning whether you thought he would really hurt you or not when you felt a sting on your cheek. He hadn't moved, or at least you didn't see it. Your fingers touched your cheek and pulled away covered in scarlet blood. Your heartbeat pounded and flew into your throat and your legs felt like they were frozen. He could have decapitated you if he wanted to, or spilled your guts into the dirt, but he hadn't. He wanted to play with his prey. 

He took a step toward you and you bolted in the opposite direction, heading towards one of the buildings, thinking you could hide. You couldn't even feel your legs moving. Your body was running on autopilot, pulling from survival instinct. He wasn't chasing you yet, but you heard his eerie laugh echo louder and louder, and heard the metallic drag of his scythes against each other. Why now? Why now was he choosing to hurt you? You didn't have time to think about it. All you thought about was getting somewhere safe. You ran around the back of a building, away from his line of sight, and went inside a different one. Quickly, you searched for a refuge, and found one in a small closet. You put your hand over your mouth to silence your loud breathing. 

You thought, perhaps naively, that he was warming up to you, or possibly the other way around. You were wrong for not running away sooner. You were shaking with fear. Your mouth ran dry and tears wouldn't even show themselves, for fear of being caught. There was the slightest creak of wood. That was the only sound you heard before the door in front of you splintered to pieces. Without thinking, you dove under him, through his legs, and ran as fast as you could. This time you could hear him behind you. He seemed to get within grabbing distance and then lag, toying with you. At any second he could grab you, but it never came. You kept running and running, never far enough ahead of him to run into a new hiding spot. You could feel the wind from his blades right behind you. If you slowed down, he would render you into ribbons. Your throat and lungs burned with exertion. Finally, you turned down an alley and had just enough time to see an open window to dive through. You thought you had escaped when a hand closed around your ankle, jerking you back into the alleyway. On the way out, you hit your head firmly on the side of the window, dazing you. 

Your body went limp and your head swam. You were being maneuvered like a doll into place, bent over an old crate. After all the running, you were too tired to put up much of a fight. You doubted you would even have the energy to walk. A cool, metal line was pressed into the back of your neck, the dull edge of Kamazo's scythe. The chilled wind hit your backside as fabric was pushed up onto your lower back. Your entire body tensed as Kamazo's hand groped your ass. It sounded sick, yet you were glad it was him and not some other stranger.

Kamazo spit on your bared pussy. Something cylindrical was pressed into your folds. It was cool and smooth. Kamazo's hand grabbed your hip and pulled you against it, rubbing your clit against its firm surface as it slid between your lips. You soon realized it was his other scythe. It was braced between his shoulder and the crate while your weight kept it in place. His other scythe was still being threatening pressed against the back of your neck so that you would stay still. You heard his heavy breaths as he continued to drag your folds over the shaft of his weapon. Its pressure against your clit was unrelenting. Your body was reacting naturally to the sensations. You felt the handle become slicker as you were forcefully ground against it. The pressure in your lower stomach was building shamefully quickly. The friction felt unbelievably good, especially since you had been worked up a few days back and never met your release. You whined and squirmed, unwilling to give in like this, even if your body wanted to. Your head was clearing and although you were out of physical fight, you still had some mental fight left, or you thought you did.

Kamazo laughed behind you, the signature laugh of the cursed fruit. He stilled your hips, creating that same disappointing feeling you had when you were left unfinished before. Before you realized you were doing it, you were moving your hips on your own, desperate to get that friction back. How sad that you gave in that quickly, reduced to an animal in heat. If he was going to kill you anyway, what would be the harm in getting yourself off one more time? Right? Did you hit your head that hard? Was it only lust? Kamazo sucked in a breath and groaned as he watched you. Even if he had planned on killing you, how could he not want to keep such a cute, weak, compliant thing?

He helped you out, pushing the shaft harder against you and supporting your hips. Once he felt the rhythm you had worked into, he helped you move as well. Your whimpers were tired and weak. The feeling of the scythe's handle sliding against you was driving you wild. Your cunt clenched onto nothing as it begged to be filled. Maybe you would beg for that, too. You were kidding yourself if you claimed to have dignity. You turned your head as much as you could so you could look a him, hoping your eyes were enough to tell him what you wanted. You couldn't say it out loud.

Kamazo leaned down, drawing his tongue across the wound he made on your cheek. He licked the blood slowly from your skin, growling an approval. The scythe against the back of your neck disappeared and was replaced with his hand gripping it. His tongue continued up your cheek to your ear and sucked at the lobe. His breath tickled the skin of your neck, giving you goosebumps. Another laugh from him made you shiver. It was uncomfortable hearing it that closely, and yet it was turning you on. Maybe you liked the danger, or maybe it was the power he had over you. Either way, the was a fire burning in your core and you were close to releasing it.  

His grip tightened around your neck briefly before sliding to your hair and pulling it to the side, forcing your head to turn further so that he could see your face. Your gaze was completely locked on to his. You couldn't look away from him. It was hard to visualize him fully from this angle, but you could see the way he looked down at you, like you were his prize, his toy. He didn't look at you like you were nothing. He looked at you like a possession. He owned you. It was clear now if it wasn't before. If he wanted to play these games with you, you would let him, no, you would happily play along, just to be looked at like you were something. 

The sounds that escaped your mouth grew louder even through your exhaustion, to the point where Kamazo covered your mouth with his hand. All your squealing was muffled by his massive hand that reeked of blood. You were so close to the edge, he could probably feel the muscles of your legs twitch as he supported your hips. Grinding against the pole of his scythe while he watched you wantonly chase after your release was humiliating, yet it finally pushed you to your climax. Kamazo removed his hand to hear you cry out and you couldn't help but whine his name when your eyes rolled back. Waves of pleasure and tingling warmth flooded your body from your core to your fingertips. Your entire body went limp as you gave in to the orgasm. 

You were only vaguely aware of Kamazo shifting behind you, too overwhelmed with the aftershocks of your orgasm to care what he was doing. Now there was something else cylindrical sliding between your folds, but it was his own shaft this time and not his weapon's. You expected that he might warm you up with his fingers, but he had other thoughts. His tip pressed into your entrance, making your toes curl in anticipation. You started to regret your eagerness and haste to have him inside you when he pressed further inside. You were plenty wet and willing from cumming, yet his size was larger than anything you had had before and there was a burning stretch to emphasize that. You squirmed and mewled at the discomfort, prompting Kamazo to push two fingers into your mouth as a gag. Your hands were clenched into fists. He pushed further inside, letting his own moans fall from his lips. You could feel him barely restrain his instinct to thrust right away, pulling out just a little bit only to sink back in. 

You were stuffed full as he bottomed out. There were only a few seconds spent letting you accommodate to his size, which you were grateful for, though you could have used a minute or two longer. Stuffing your mouth with his fingers was swiftly forgotten as he grabbed your hips with both hands in a bruising grip and roughly fucked into you. He fucked you fast and hard, clearly having lost any patience he had watching you cum on his scythe. It stung at first and quickly converted into pleasure as his cock bullied places you didn't even know you had. He was lost focusing on his own release, yet he was inadvertently pushing you towards another of your own. Every pump of his hips was tightening the coil in your abdomen again and you found yourself meeting his hips with your own.

"P-please. More," you pleaded, so close to another climax.

Kamazo answered with a laugh, though it was interrupted by pants and grunts.

A string of curses fell from your mouth, nearing your end. "I'm- I'm-."

The sentence couldn't be finished, cut off by your moans as you came. This time your cunt had something to clench down on, pulling moans from Kamazo also. Your walls fluttered around him and the inside of your thighs became wet, however it was unclear whose fluids they were wet with because as you came, Kamazo shot his own load inside you. His hips stuttered and his balls tightened, body folding over yours in the throes of his own climax. He had meant to finish on your back, the grip of your pussy being too irresistible to contend with, and instead painted your walls with his seed. 

He rested his forehead against your back while he caught his breath, his hands rubbing your hips to soothe where he had no doubt left bruises. The comforting gesture was unexpected to say the least, especially since you assumed he was just going to kill you afterward anyway. Several minutes went by with only the sound of panting taking up the night. Kamazo laughed and pulled out, straightening out his clothing. Then he did the same for you and helped you to your feet, catching you as your knees buckled. Your legs were shaking from the combination of running and holding you up against the crate for so long. He gave you a moment to steady yourself. You tried walking a few steps without much success. Your legs were like jelly, your cunt was a little sore, and you were trying not to let all the cum run down your legs. 

Without protest from you, Kamazo scooped you up bridal style and headed in the direction of the inn. Your eyes held a lot of questions as you gazed at him. That dark look had disappeared from his face. You still weren't sure what he planned for you. Every time you thought he would kill you, he didn't, and every time you thought he might have a soft spot, he did something frightening. Kamazo glanced down at you and ran his thumb over your cheek. He acted like he was going to lick it off, but put it to your lips instead. It had a smear of your blood on it. Shyly, you flicked your tongue out and cleaned it from his thumb, eyes averting from his own.

"I'm not going to kill you." 

Your eyebrows furrowed together. It was unsettling how perceptive he was, like he knew what you were thinking. To your disappointment, he did not offer any elaboration. 

After several minutes you worked up enough courage to ask, "Why?"

Kamazo didn't answer, though he let out another laugh, one that sounded sad. 

Next

Tag List: @nocturnalrorobin @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @fendifendi @eustasscapitankid @iggy5055 @hannahbarberra162 @mapachito

[sophiebaek]

An over-analysis of the Yerin Ha as Sophie Baek announcement video

Because I literally can't be chill about the official announcement and love being delusional, here's me reading into everything!

Fitting for our first shot being of Yerin walking and stepping into her role as leading lady

Very similar to how we will see Sophie entering the masquerade ball

The silver shoe is a direct reference to The Lady in Silver and also feels very Cinderella

I've already seen people complain about the nails and chill. Clearly this is not Yerin in costume as Sophie. I think production has heard the criticism loud and clear about the s3 styling; there is a whole new makeup and wardrobe team for s4 (which is good in sense that it'll be different from past seasons but also that they're getting a team that knows how to do make up on Yerin. I've had my make up done in western styles and it just does not suit my face and features.)

ANYWAYS my point are the rings :)

We see two silver rings that represent Yerin playing essentially two different characters (The Lady in Silver & Sophie Baek), but long story short it's really just one person

Yerin looks through clothes and stops at a silver dress and gloves; representing the one she will wear to the ball (But obviously not this one in the video)

She also holds the gloves themselves as they are the object that Benedict uses the find her and is the catalyst to aofag pt 2 in the book.

The glove part is also one of my most favorite moment of the ball bc 👀

Just like Benedict, we don't fully see her face at first

A reference to the mystery of Sophie/LIS and our long awaited anticipation of seeing her on screen

As we finally get to see Yerin's face, we see she's in pink

Now as an individual who's degree made her take color theory I love color symbolism

Pink is a delicate color with white but it also has the boldness and power of red

It's a color that's feminine, romantic, and tender

Pink also is associated with healing

I love that they chose to introduce us to Sophie/Yerin in pink because the color represents everything Sophie is and what's important about her character

Lastly I noticed this sparkly beading on her sweater that's hidden under Yerin's hair...

This could be another nod hinting that Sophie is the Lady in Silver

One thing I observed is a good amount of people did not know who Sophie was.

This announcement was made because filming will be starting this month and the paps will for sure be there, but also it's for fans who've been waiting years for sophie (book fans mostly)

The caption to this video only list Yerin as Sophie

Fans who go in with no prior knowledge do not know Sophie = Lady in Silver and I think the show is making a point on keeping it a mystery even though we'll probably know she is the LIS in ep 1

Welcome Yerin Ha and Sophie Baek 🤍

You are already so loved and thank you for representing us Asian girlies xx

[shanastoryteller]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAVE SOME BOOPS

can i request either either fma or prince zagreus?

a continuation of 1 2

Roy has pleasant small talk with the Xerxian ambassador, who he does genuinely like most days, and Maes is right there and close enough to do some sort of physical damage when the ambassador says, "Not that I don't enjoy these talks, but your loan is waiting outside."

"Yes," he says to the woman who's probably old enough to be his grandmother and who it wouldn't be inappropriate for him to snap at in any circumstance, "of course."

He's not sure what he was expecting, exactly, from the king's personal slave. Someone around the king's age, who'd served him his entire life, someone Roy could have missed seeing on his few visits to the king.

Most Xerxes citizens have their trademark distinctive yellow eyes and hair, although there's enough trade with Xing that it's not unusual to see black or brown these days.

For the first time, Roy understands the stories that spoke of the people of Xerxes being formed from gold.

The man is probably a decade younger than Roy, back straight and shoulders wide. He's on the shorter side for Xerxes, but he'd be considered tall in Xing. His hair is long and in a ponytail down his back, the warmest golden color he's ever seen someone have. His eyes are the same, not the pale yellow he associates with Xerces, but a rich gold that seems all the brighter against his tan skin. He's wearing a red sleeveless robe that goes to his knees with baggy red pants underneath, the robe and slippers embroidered in gold. He has gold armbands and earrings and a chain that disappears beneath his robe, almost too opulent for his station but he supposes belonging to the king comes with it's own advantages.

"Fuhrer Mustang," the ambassador says, jerking him back to reality. He mustn't have been gawking too obviously if Maes hadn't hit him for it, but that might be because he was too busy being the same. "This is King Pakor's personal slave, Van Edris."

Edris bows, hands clasped in front of him rather than on his thighs like they would in Xing or at his sides as they do in Amestris. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Fuhrer. I look forward to our time together," he says in Xingese with a better accent than Roy has himself.

"Yes," he says, then clears his throat. "Yes, thank you. Me too. As well, I mean, I'm also looking forward to it."

It's a small mercy that Maes doesn't speak Xingese, but he can't even focus on that with the way Edris's eyes are crinkled with amusement, his lips twitching up on the sides in a way that's almost a smile.

He never should have agreed to this.

[seungrem]

Seonghwa (Ateez) x male!reader

Burying the Hatchet

request ~*+ - masterlist ~*+ - part 1 of ??

summary: Though rival mob bosses separating their territories by north and south, m!reader and Seonghwa frequently bump into each other at socialite events. With tension building up in m!reader’s half of the city, he needs decide whether or not to confide in his connections for support.

( overview: mafiaboss!seonghwa, mafiaboss!reader, both socialites and well known, reader controls the south, seonghwa controls north, associates/goons = mob members, Ricky (zb1) feature because he’s very mob coded, reader is lowkey tsundere, established non-romantic relationship w/ eachother, reader inherits wealth, the park family = seonghwa’s mob group )

( warnings: mentions of plausible violence (guns/fighting), blood, injuries (scrapes/bruises/cuts), hostile personalities, mentions of psychotic/psychopathic behavior, threats, cursing )

emoji code:

🌿 ( long story/series )

-🧸 ( very light fluff )

🫧 ( pieces of angst here and there )

🪐 ( mafia / mob AU )

☁️ ( stands for y/n )

likes, comments, & reblogs r appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Chatter echoed through a ballroom bustling of attires fit for only the most affluent. If it were up to him, ☁️ would be perched on the mezzanine, people watching until the gala had concluded. Instead, he walked into room preparing a flashy smile to anyone who would have the misfortune of catching his gaze.

“Can I take your jacket for you, sir?”

As ☁️ awaited the host of the gala’s presence, a teenage boy wearing a tuxedo approached him. The boy flinched slightly as ☁️ turned in his direction, ☁️ assuming he was just someone who worked there.

“No- I’ll keep it, thank you. Could you tell me where Ricky is, though?” ☁️ asked, turning his attention back to the crowd of people in the distance.

Though the two were the same age (early 20s), Ricky had made a name for himself apart from his parents- unlike ☁️. The man had the city’s media in a chokehold, with news of his whereabouts and appearances circling weekly. In contrast, ☁️ had inherited his parent’s wealth and “business” after their passing. The public also kept a close eye on him, but for reasons less alluring.

“Last I’ve seen he was on the other side of the room beside the DJ. Here’s your pamphlet.”

“Thank you.” ☁️ replied, him then taking the paper and watching the boy scurry away. He sighed as he flipped through the pages, reading carefully over the guest list and seating arrangements.

‘What the hell is Seonghwa doing here?’ ☁️ muttered to himself before taking a few steps toward the crowd. Recognizing a familiar face slip out of the mass and approach him with a smile, he quickly placed the pamphlet into his suit jacket as he walked.

“☁️, how have you been?” Ricky called out, waving to the man as the two closed the distance in between them. It was then that the two embraced, holding each other for a moment more. ☁️ noticed Ricky’s navy blue suit had a velvet look to it, him feeling the texture as he held onto the man’s forearms.

“I’ve been great, how about you? And what happened to the blonde?” ☁️ responded, smiling and then pointing to Ricky’s hair. The last time that he had seen Ricky, the man had bleached his hair a platinum silver. Now, his raven-black hair was slicked back, with a few strands falling onto his forehead.

“I’ve been better, and my roots grew out so I just dyed it back to a natural color. But listen, before you leave tonight, I’d like to speak to you. In the meantime, you need to do your rounds.”

☁️ huffed, knowing that this meant he had to greet everyone.

“We’ll be fast.” Ricky assured, once again grabbing the man’s arm and escorting him through the crowd.

☁️ smiled, introduced himself, shook hands, and kissed cheeks more times than he remembered that night. Following a conversation with a couple, Ricky led ☁️ out of the crowd, the two now standing for a moment.

“We done?” ☁️ asked, exhaling.

“One more. You aren’t going to like it, but please be respectful. I don’t want my gala to become a war-zone.”

“Is it Seonghwa?”

“Yes. But-“

“Why the hell did you invite him?”

“I do business with him just as I do with you. I’m prompting neutrality.”

“Understandable. But why do I gotta go over to him?”

“Because you two aren’t going to mean-mug each other all night like you did last year. That caused problems, did it not?” Ricky led ☁️ to his table, the two sitting beside one another.

“I don’t even have my guys with me tonight.” ☁️ argued, though he knew was simply delaying the inevitable.

“Neither does he. It’s invitation only this time.” Ricky’s tone was calm and fresh, though firm. ☁️ didn’t want to push his buttons, ultimately deciding to get it over with.

“Alright, let’s go.” ☁️ straightened his tie and stood up, Ricky following.

“Last I saw him he was standing beside the DJ’s stage. Let’s walk behind it.” Ricky said, motioning ☁️ to follow him.

The two tiptoed around the DJ’s elevated setup, emerging on the other side of the room after carefully stepping over wires and boxes.

“There he is. Behave, please.” Ricky whispered after leaning into ☁️.

“Always.” ☁️ muttered back before noticing that Seonghwa had three of his goons around him. The man leaned his back against a column and looked around the ballroom. He wore a bold outfit- a shiny gold top (that exposed some of his cleavage) with a brown fur coat and grey dress pants. His hair was in an up-do with strands hanging in front of his eyes, and silver chains dangled from his neck. ☁️ thought that Seonghwa was insanely hot, especially in this outfit, but would never vocally admit it.

“You said invitation only, Ricky.” ☁️ muttered through his teeth.

“It was... Let’s just make this quick.”

As the two approached Seonghwa, two of his goons noticed and walked over to his side.

“Seonghwa. I’m sure you remember ☁️.” Ricky chirped, hiding his nervousness very well. ☁️ and Seonghwa stared at each other for a few seconds before ☁️ forced a smile and held out his hand.

“I’m sure you’re well.” ☁️ remarked dully, watching as Seonghwa took his hand and squeezed. It took everything in ☁️ not to call him an asshole, but Ricky was luckily there to mediate.

“I am. It seems like you’re here alone tonight.. what a shame.” Seonghwa replied in his usual deep voice, ☁️ watching the man look him up and down.

“I’m here to donate to a charity, not intimidate socialites with my goons.” ☁️ kept a straight face, but wanted to laugh in Seonghwa’s face. “And you look rediculous.” ☁️ whispered after leaning into Seonghwa, only taking a step back when Ricky grabbed his arm and muttered a ‘Jeez.’ Seonghwa sneered and looked around in response, licking his teeth as he nodded in amusement. ☁️ could tell he was already ticked off.

“I’ll see you later tonight, yeah?” Seonghwa nodded his up as he spoke, patting ☁️ on the arm and nodding to Ricking before departing to his table with his goons.

“You couldn’t have made that any worse.” Ricky whined, furrowing his eyebrows as he looked at ☁️.

“Somebody has to humble him.”

“I don’t want any bad blood here, ☁️.”

“I said that I understood. If he can’t take criticism then maybe he shouldn’t be The North’s premier mob boss.”

“Well Southside’s premier mob boss seems to not know how to behave.”

“I was-“ ☁️ paused. “Well… He’ll be fine.”

“Right.. I’ve been meaning to talk to him so I’m going to do that now. The service should begin in the next few minutes. Make some friends while you’re here, you need them.” Ricky said before he began walking away. ☁️ gasped teasingly, the two smiling to each other as the distance in-between them grew.

—

His footsteps tapping up the staircase’s crimson-colored carpet, ☁️ was on the hunt for someone specific. He stepped onto the mezzanine and walked over to the beige railing, him then leaning against it. Scouring over the many faces on the dance floor and sitting at tables, ☁️ found that Seonghwa was nowhere in sight despite having seen him before the service had begun. Assuming that the man had left early, ☁️ frowned and turn around.

“Whatcha doin’?” Seonghwa asked, leaning against the wall a few feet in front of ☁️. The man’s goons weren’t next to him, but ☁️ could see them on the other ends of the mezzanine through the corner of his eye.

“I was looking for you. Have a minute?”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow and walked over to ☁️, standing beside him.

“Make it quick.” He muttered, looking down at the people below.

“I received this letter a few days ago. I wanted to ask if you knew anything about it.” ☁️ pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Seonghwa.

“People still write letters?” Seonghwa said with a scowl, pulling a piece of paper out of the envelope.

“So is it safe to assume that you weren’t the one to send it?”

Seonghwa took another minute to analyze the letter.

“No.. not my style... Whoever did hates you, though.” Seonghwa whispered, handing the piece of paper and envelope back to ☁️. “What’s the red stuff at the bottom? Don’t tell me it’s blood.”

“It is. Instead of signing a name, the blood is suppose to be the signature. That’s what I think, anyway.”

“Wow.. you really pissed someone off. Did you figure out whose blood it is?”

“Mine.”

Seonghwa laughed and turned to ☁️.

“So someone wrote a letter threatening you, somehow got ahold of your blood and smeared it onto the paper, and then mailed it to you?” Seonghwa shook his head with a smile. “Good luck, really. You need it.”

“I thought that you’d be more helpful. That’s all I needed, though. Have a good night.” ☁️ said, turning to walk away. Seonghwa quickly gripped his shoulder and stopped the man in his tracks. ☁️ to looked over his shoulder somewhat menacingly.

“Do you need help? Seriously.” Seonghwa’s unserious smile quickly turned into an expressionless display of concern, as he slightly leaned into ☁️.

“Never will I need your help. Stay on your side and I’ll be fine.” ☁️ quipped, brushing Seonghwa’s hand off of his shoulder and stepping away. He stopped upon hearing Seonghwa continue.

“I hate you.. but don’t die, please.”

“The hell are you talking about?” ☁️ snapped, looking over his shoulder again.

“That’s psychotic behavior, ☁️. You can’t just have one of your guys find and take care of ‘em.”

“Why not?”

“This isn’t just some guy on the street.”

“No shit.” ☁️ rolled his eyes. “I have to go, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa remained silent, watching as ☁️ strolled back down the staircase.

“How the hell did they know it was there?” ☁️ walked up the stone walkway to his home, with two of his associates following beside him. The mansion had been broken into, with a suitcase full of hard drives having been taken from ☁️’s chambers.

“Respectfully sir, we suspect a mole in the group. After the passing of your parents, the associates haven’t necessarily been well-monitored.” The older man beside ☁️ replied, opening a door for him as the three arrived to the entrance.

“Please get in touch with the gentleman who set the security systems up.” ☁️ paused as he stepped inside. “Actually, I’ll just do it. You two should go home for the night.”

“But sir, we really think someone should stay with you until everything’s resolved.” The second associate replied, following ☁️ as he unbuttoned his suit jacket in the spacious living room. The room glowed in orange and yellow hues from the lit fireplace. ☁️ sighed and turned to his two henchmen, a sense of nervousness trickling down his spine. He wondered if he could trust them, but also wondered if there truly was an outsider out to get him as Seonghwa suggested.

“I’ll take care of myself and this.. situation. Please, go home.”

“At least let me contact the programmer. I’ll get him here as soon as I can.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

1 week later

“Two events in a row? This must be a record.”

☁️ felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. Seonghwa smirked, looking ☁️ up and down. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Wasn’t sure why you invited me.” ☁️ replied, crossing your arms.

“Oh, here I thought that you wanted to support charities..”

“You held a gala one week after Ricky and invited me on short notice.”

“Seems that I did. So?”

☁️ exhaled. “Thanks but I should go.”

“Wait.” Seonghwa held his hand out to stop the man. “I heard things weren’t going well on your side of the city. You sure you don’t need help?”

☁️ looked around the crowd of people surrounding him. This ballroom was smaller than the previous gala’s, but just as loud. ☁️ leaned into Seonghwa, who reacted by leaning forward as well.

“If I find out that you’re playing me again, it won’t end up for you.” ☁️ murmured into Seonghwa’s ear. Seonghwa leaned back up, with a seemingly offended expression.

“Are you accusing me of what’s going on?”

“No, simply warning you- just in case. I need to go.”

“☁️.”

☁️ turned around and slid past people to get out of the crowd.

“☁️!!”

☁️ froze as the room went silent. Everyone turned to Seonghwa as ☁️ slowly turned around to glance back at the man. An awkward silence filled the air for a few seconds, with Seonghwa not taking his eyes off of ☁️. After the chatter picked back up, ☁️ continued out of the room, leaving an abandoned Seonghwa alone on the dance floor.

☁️ walked through the hallways and toward the glass double doors, waving down a bellman as he did so.

-

A few photographers stood behind red ropes, clicking their cameras immediately after ☁️ began descending quickly down the white staircase. A few began shouting out to him.

“Hey, ☁️! What’re you doing in The North?”

“Have you and the Park family finally made amends?”

“You look great tonight, ☁️!”

☁️ smiled and waved as a bellman pulled to the curb with his grey sports car, getting out as soon as ☁️ reached the sidewalk. The bellman handed the keys to the man as the two walked past each other, ☁️ then jumping into the drivers seat.

“Hey, Mr. ☁️. The programmer was able to stop in today.”

“That’s great, has everything been recovered?” ☁️ responded as he walked into his home, an associate beside him.

“He said he needed a password.”

“To the computer? Why didn’t you call or text me? Is he available tomorrow?”

“He’s still here, just using the bathroom. I’ll tell him you’ve arrived after you put your password in.”

☁️ looked over to the associate after hanging his suit jacket up.

“It’s midnight.”

“It’s the only time he could come this week.”

☁️ raised an eyebrow and walked to his chambers past the living quarters and down the hall. After his shoes tapped echoed through the hallway, he leaned into the double doors, pushing them open. The lamp on his desk was already turned on at the other end of the room. ☁️ also noticed that the associate was still behind him, him turning to the man before walking inside of the room. He was suspicious at this point, hearing more voices in the living quarters.

“Why don’t you go let the programmer know that I’m back. Please tell the other associates that they’re good to go, as well. I don’t need anybody here right now.”

“You want us to leave you alone with the programmer? What if he tries to-“

“That’s an order. I’ll see you tomorrow.” ☁️ narrowed his eyes, allowing his voice to become slightly belligerent.

The associate sneered and nodded, turning around and walking toward the living quarters. ☁️ sighed and closed the chamber doors behind him, walking toward the desk in front of the large stain-glass window. Bookshelves covered the left and right walls, and though the room wasn’t huge, the ceiling was very high up.

☁️ walked around the other side of the desk, sitting down and tapping the computer’s keyboard to turn the device on. He didn’t put his password in, choosing to wait for the programmer to arrive. Another thirty seconds passed before the oldest associate opened the room’s doors, walking in.

“☁️. Do you have a moment?”

“Where’s the programmer?”

“I think he’s still talking to the other associates. I think we should speak in the meantime.” The associate called out, standing at the door.

“Come.”

The associate strolled slowly over to the side of ☁️’s desk.

“What did you want to talk about.” ☁️ asked, giving the man his attention.

“You know, your father and I were extremely close. He entrusted me to do everything beside him.”

“Yes, I remember.” ☁️ nodded, tilting his head to the side.

“He also hated the Park family with every fiber of his being. And I know that you’ve been going out of your way to attend Seonghwa’s galas.”

“To support his charity and rebuild my family’s reputation. Yes.”

“Do you think that your father would’ve wanted this? To knock down the legacy that he has built?”

“Excuse me?” ☁️ snickered. He felt his body become tense, and his tone dull.

“I just think that with you as the head of this.. well, what used to be a mob group, you’ve dug our reputation into ground.”

☁️ felt his body heat up, making him stand up and grab the associate by the collar. The associate responded by pulling a gun out from his back pocket and pointing it at ☁️’s head. ☁️ exhaled and let go of the man’s collar, putting his hands to his sides.

“You need to give this up, ☁️. It’s in your best interest. Your father wouldn’t want this.”

“And his inability to be harmonious with other people is what got him killed.”

“Put your password into the computer so I can put this gun down.” The associate muttered, tapping the gun against ☁️’s head.

“No.”

“Please don’t make me do this.”

☁️ laughed.

“You’re not gonna have the password if you do ‘this.’”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Don’t be an idiot, then.” ☁️ laughed again, pausing before quickly shuffling to the side and knocking the gun out of the man’s hand. The gun landed on the desk and slid across it, falling off on the other side. ☁️ leaped over the desk and grabbed the gun before the man could snatch it, ☁️ then kicking his knee out while still on the ground. The associate quickly stood up and ran toward ☁️ as he got on one a knee. With a loud bang, ☁️ shot the pistol, hitting the associate in the leg. The man fell to the ground and clutched his knee.

“Fuck.” ☁️ muttered under his breath, putting the gun on safety mode and into his pocket. He grabbed his computer from the desk and threw it through the stained-glass window, shattering it. The door then slammed open, with a bunch of ☁️’s members running in. After seeing the older associate on the ground, the group whipped their guns out and pointed them at ☁️. The man was already halfway out of the window at this point, him having jumped through the hole and falling into the bushes below. With scrapes and bruises along his body, ☁️ rolled out of the bush and secured the laptop beside him- though he presumed it broken. He shot up and ran alongside the mansion’s side, hopping over the iron fencing as soon as he reached the front of the building. ☁️ considered taking one of his cars, but quickly realized that the keys were still inside.

Continuing to run through the forest, he eventually emerged into the city after a few minutes. ☁️ noticed a university campus in front of him as he wandered, him power walking through it and waving a taxi down. He ran to its side and jumped in, him recognizing the driver as he did so. The two stared at each other through the rear view mirror before the driver smiled.

“Oh, right- you’re ☁️. I worked a lot with your father.”

☁️ froze with his hand on the car’s handle, preparing to run out.

“Your family has helped mine out a lot. But anyway, where to?”

“Can you just drive, please?” ☁️ asked nervously, his hand still on the handle.

“Sure thing.”

The two drove in silence for a minute before the driver pulled up to a red light.

“You alright? You look pretty disheveled there, chief.”

“Yes, just some work issues.”

The driver chuckled. “Your dad had the same problem. I’d always wait a block or two away after he handled business, and he’d come running over with ripped clothing and red fists.” He paused. “I’m a bit relieved that the whole mob business thing is dying, though. I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

☁️ pondered his words, repeating them in his head before responding. “..Yeah, I’m relieved as well. Can I bother you to drop me off in The North?”

“Oh, sure. I heard that you buried the hatchet with the Park family. That true?”

“I think that’s what I’m going to do now.”

“I see. Is there somewhere specific in the North?”

“Do you know where that gala was held today?”

“Oh yeah, I’ll have you there in a few.”

“Thanks.”

-

“Well, it’s an honor to help you through this last hurrah. I hope it goes well.”

“Thank you sir. How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t look like you have anything on you, respectfully. Just get me back next time you see me.”

☁️ nodded and slowly turned around toward the large building in front of him. There were no photographers, no red ropes, and no people wandering around at this point. With his computer under his arm, he began up the steps.

Upon walking through the glass doors, a receptionist was packing her belongings in a large purse.

“Oh, Mr. ☁️. Are you looking for the gala’s after party?” She asked as the man approached her desk.

“Ah- yes, I am. Can you tell me where it is?”

“It’s down the hallway to your left, the last door down. Also.. you’re bleeding a bit..”

☁️ looked down to where she pointed, seeing small patches of red stain through his white button-up shirt.

“Oh.. yeah, it’s just part of the outfit. Thank you though.”

“Oh, ok.. Have a goodnight.”

“You as well.”

☁️ continued down the dark hallway, stopping in front of a frosted glass door with loud music playing behind it. Streaks of blue, pink, and white flashed across the glass as he pushed the door open. The room was pretty big, with confetti and balloons spread across the floor. A group of around a hundred people danced in front of a smaller DJ booth, with a few wallflowers conversing amongst each other with glasses in their hands. ☁️ walked over to a table full of champagne glasses, grabbing one and sitting in the nearest seat against the wall. He plopped down, leaning his head against the wall and chugging the glass. He looked around, though couldn’t see Seonghwa from where he was. It didn’t help that the room was somewhat dim, with pink lights illuminating half of the room from behind the DJ. Spotlights also casted quick flashes on the dance floor, them occasionally dancing across ☁️’s body as he sat.

Choosing to calm down before searching for Seonghwa, he opened his computer and tapped the keyboard. Surprisingly, it survived the seven foot fall and still worked- the only flaw being a few cracks in the top corner of the screen and a few missing buttons on the keyboard. ☁️ sighed and placed the computer on his lap, him then closing his eyes. 

-

“Psst. Hey, sleepy head.”

☁️ heard someone whisper from beside him, making him jump. He opened his eyes and looked to his left, seeing Seonghwa sitting beside him. He clutched his computer and looked around, seeing that everyone was preparing to leave the party. The music had stopped, and a few workers were vacuuming the carpet. Seonghwa’s face was barely visible in the dim, pink lighting, though his voice was softer than ☁️ had recalled. “So, you came back..?”

“…I think I need your help.” ☁️ hummed.

Seonghwa smirked. “I won’t rub it in your face even though I wanna. Do you need a place to stay?”

☁️ nodded, standing up as Seonghwa did. Seonghwa placed a hand on ☁️’s back, guiding him to the exit. The flashing lights turned into white spotlights that illuminated the exit at this point.

The two followed the crowd out of the room and down the hallway. As they walked out of the glass doors, ☁️ recognized the cars lined up on the sidewalk, with multiple bellman awaiting the guests at the bottom of the stairs.

“We’re all the way in the front.” Seonghwa stated, walking down the staircase with ☁️ and turning right down the sidewalk. A bellman approached the two, handing Seonghwa a pair of keys. He unlocked the red sports car and removed his hand off of ☁️’s back, hurrying in front of the man to open the vehicle door for him. ☁️ rolled his eyes and attempted to hide a smile as Seonghwa gestured him inside. As he sat down, ☁️ covered the patches of red along his top with his arms and hands. Seonghwa shut the door and ran to the other side, him hopping in and hurrying to start the car. After a few seconds, the two were speeding through empty city streets.

“Have you ever been to this part of The North?” Seonghwa asked with a tender tone, turning to ☁️ as he pulled into a lofty condo complex’s garage.

“This is my city. Of course I have.”

“Our city.” Seonghwa retorted.

☁️ smiled at the answer, opening his door after Seonghwa had parked on the highest level.

“We’ll have to take the elevator to the lobby, and then we’ll take a different one to my place.” Seonghwa stated from the other side of the car. ☁️ waited for Seonghwa to lead the way, but upon standing beside ☁️, the man froze.

“What the hell happened?! You’re bleeding.”

“I know.” ☁️ sighed, him having forgotten to cover the red stains.

“You’re explaining everything once we get inside.”

“Ok.”

Seonghwa linked his arm with ☁️’s, ☁️ speculating that Seonghwa thought he was too badly injured to walk by himself, which elicited the act.

The two quickly reached the elevator and stepped inside. With mirrors along the walls, a gold accent lined the corners of the elevator. Seonghwa leaned forward to press a button, and the two were soon moving up.

“Are you tired?”

“Extremely.” ☁️ replied monotonously.

“I could tell by your tone. You can take my bed and I’ll sleep in my guest room.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll take the guest room.”

“No. You can take the bigger bed.”

☁️ was too tired to argue back, instead choosing to lean against the mirror as the elevator continued. After a few more seconds, the door buzzed and the two walked through. The lobby’s lights were dim and the spacious room was empty. The men walked across the marble floor to another elevator, Seonghwa pressing the button again though the elevator doors opened immediately. The two walked through, and Seonghwa pressed the button of the highest number- 16.

“You’re on the highest floor?”

“Yes. It’s a penthouse with lots of windows , you’ll like it.”

The two stood silent for a few minutes until the elevator buzzed again, the men stepping out into a small walkway. Taking a few steps forward, Seonghwa flipped a switch, which turned on a small lamp above the two of them. He then pulled out his keychain, picking out a key and twisting it into the black door.

“After you.” Seonghwa said, gesturing ☁️ forward. Seonghwa’s penthouse was full of monotonous colors and exotic furniture- definitely a reflection of his personality. Small lamps lit the space as the two walked into the living room area. Large windows sat on each side of the walls, with the moon peering down from the large skylight above.

“I do like it.” ☁️ murmured as he moved his arm away from Seonghwa’s. Seonghwa simply smiled in response.

“Let me show you to the room.”

“Show me the guest room.”

“No.”

☁️ rolled his eyes, following Seonghwa down the end of the hallway. He switched his lamp light on, it illuminating the large bedroom. The walls, bedsheets, and furniture were all visually-pleasing shades of grey. The windows on the right side of the room touched both the floor and ceiling, stretching across most of the wall to reveal a beautiful view of the city. To the left, a door led into another room.

“Just sit on the bed. I’ll get you some new clothes and medical stuff.” Seonghwa instructed, walking into the bathroom. ☁️ walked to the bed and sat, him waiting for the man to come back out. After a minute, Seonghwa walked toward ☁️ with a small bottle, cotton balls, along with a roll of bandages and placed it beside ☁️. He then trudged over to the wardrobe across from his bed, opening it and throwing a pair of green and blue pajama pants with a white tee onto the bed.

“Those are old so they should fit you. Do you want me to get out while you change?”

“I don’t care, just turn around.” ☁️ replied taking off his pants and unbuttoning his top as Seonghwa faced his wardrobe. He threw the man’s pants on but put the tee around his neck, exposing some of his stomach and arms.

“Okay.”

Seonghwa turned around and sat on the bed. ☁️ pushed the shirt away from his arm for Seonghwa to clean.

“So, you gonna tell me what happened?”

“My associates tried to overthrow me and take over my company’s accounts. They said I wasn’t being a mob boss.”

“Is that where the letter was from?”

“I think they’ve been planning this for a few months now. They probably got ahold of my blood after your guys tried to take over my company’s building. Your goons show no mercy.” ☁️ chuckled, but Seonghwa frowned.

“I didn’t initiate that, by the way. That was my father, and we’ve.. talked about it.”

“It hasn’t happened again, so I don’t care.”

After a few seconds of silence, Seonghwa continued disinfecting, and then wrapping ☁️’s arm.

“So what specifically happened?” Seonghwa asked.

“Well, I got home from the gala. I was told someone was coming in to help me retrieve missing data from drives that were stolen after Ricky’s gala last week. I’m pretty sure they lied, and one of my guys cocked a gun at me and told me to unlock my computer so they could use the drives they stole. I didn’t do it obviously, and I ended up shooting him. The gun probably fell out of my pants when I jumped out of the window and ran into the city.”

“You jumped out of a window?” Seonghwa furrowed his eyebrows, seemingly worried. He wrapped the bandage around ☁️’s arm and clipped it so that it stood in place. ☁️ lifted his pant leg up to expose another cut, him then scooting back on the bed to put the cut beside where Seonghwa sat.

“Do you mind?” ☁️ asked, looking over to Seonghwa.

“Not at all.” He replied, preparing another cotton ball to use.

“And.. yeah, I kinda did. It was only six or seven feet and I landed in a bush. So it was fine. I used this to smash the glass.” ☁️ said, pointing to the computer that he placed beside him. “That’s why it’s fucked up.”

“I have another that you can use.” Seonghwa said as he applied alcohol to the cuts.

“I have important filled on there. I don’t know what I’m going to do just yet.”

The two remained quiet again until Seonghwa finished wrapping the wounds.

“Alright, you should be good.” He stated, grabbing the used cotton swabs and walking into the bathroom with them. ☁️ grabbed the alcohol bottle and roll of bandages, carrying them back into the bathroom for Seonghwa.

“It’s 2:30 in the morning. You should rest.” Seonghwa said, watching ☁️ sit back down on the bed, Seonghwa then walking to the lamp.

“Before you go-“ ☁️ blurted out, stopping Seonghwa.

“Hm?”

“Why’re you helping me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Why’re you doing this for me?”

“Because I like you, despite the “conversations” we’ve had in the past. And we’re not like our parents.”

☁️ nodded.

“Sleep well.” Seonghwa called out, turning the light off.

“Wait-“

Seonghwa turned the light back on, exhaling. “Yes?”

“Sleep in your bed.”

“I already told you I’m sleeping in the guest room.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then move over.”

☁️ scooted back toward the wall with the windows so that Seonghwa could sit in front of him. Seonghwa leaned over to turn the lamp off before pulling the covers over the two of them.

“I’m glad you’re okay. I worried about you a lot.” Seonghwa muttered, him then turning his body to face ☁️.

“Shouldn’t have.” ☁️ murmured in response.

“Well, I did.”

☁️ smiled. “Well, thanks for worrying.”

Seonghwa smiled back, grabbing ☁️’s hand from under the blanket. “Do you mind?”

“No.” ☁️ hummed before turning his body around. He scooted his body back to lie against Seonghwa’s. Grabbing the man’s hand and pulling it over his waist, then two now laid together a spooning position.

“Goodnight, ☁️.” Seonghwa whispered.

“Goodnight.”

a/n: genuinely can’t tell if my stories are good anymore 😄 hope u enjoyed tho! alsoooo gonna be a part 2- just to follow up and see how the reader and seonghwa build a relationship together while the reader is still under the other mob’s protection. def gonna be more fluff and character development in that one!! there can be ❄️ if u guys want it bad enough lol

likes, comments, & reblogs r appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Silent Nights, Warm Hearts

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: Fluff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy! He’s such a pretty princess

Word Count: 1k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The snow outside drifted lazily from the darkened sky, blanketing the brownstones of Brooklyn in a thick, pristine layer of white. Each flake sparkled like glitter under the soft glow of the streetlights, and the muffled quiet of the city lent the night a kind of magic you could only find during Christmas.

Inside your cozy apartment, a different kind of warmth filled the air. The fireplace crackled in the corner, flames dancing over the wood and casting a golden glow across the room. The faint scent of pine and cinnamon lingered, mingling with the rich, buttery aroma of cookies baking in the oven. A half-decorated Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, its branches weighed down with glimmering ornaments and garlands of red and gold.

You sat cross-legged on the plush rug, surrounded by a tangle of colorful Christmas lights that refused to cooperate. Each tug only seemed to make the knot worse, and you sighed in frustration, leaning back on your palms. “This has to be some kind of cruel holiday magic,” you grumbled, glaring at the offending lights as though they might untangle themselves out of guilt.

Leaning against the doorway, Bucky Barnes watched you with a crooked smile. He looked so at ease in the soft glow of the room, a stark contrast to the sharp, battle-worn image most people associated with him. His hair, longer now, fell just below his ears in soft waves, and he was dressed in simple clothes: a dark Henley that clung to his broad shoulders and faded jeans that had seen better days. He wasn’t wearing his gloves tonight, and the metal of his vibranium arm caught the firelight, shimmering like liquid silver.

“You need some help, doll?” he asked, his voice low and warm, carrying that subtle rasp that made your heart flutter every time.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, feigning annoyance. “You’ve been standing there for five minutes just watching me struggle. And now you offer help?”

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest as he pushed off the doorway and walked toward you, his steps slow and deliberate. “I was enjoying the show. You get this little crease in your brow when you’re mad, and it’s cute.”

“Flattery’s not going to save you,” you retorted, though you couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Bucky crouched down beside you, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Let me see this mess,” he murmured, gently taking the string of lights from your hands. His fingers—one warm, one cool—moved deftly, untangling the knots with a precision that made it look effortless.

“You’re annoyingly good at this,” you said, watching him work.

He glanced up at you with a playful smirk. “One of the few perks of being a super soldier. Untangling Christmas lights with extreme efficiency.”

You laughed, the sound soft and melodic, and it filled the space between you like a balm. Moments like this with Bucky were precious—quiet and ordinary in a way that felt extraordinary, given everything he’d been through.

“Here,” he said, handing the now-perfectly untangled strand back to you. ��Knots gone, just like that.”

“Show-off,” you teased, rising to your feet and beginning to drape the lights over the tree.

Bucky stood as well, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed as he watched you work. There was something about the way you moved—focused, purposeful, yet graceful—that he found endlessly captivating. The twinkle lights reflected in your eyes, and your smile lit up the room even brighter than the star you’d eventually place on top of the tree.

“You’re staring,” you said without turning around, sensing his gaze.

“Can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “You make all this—everything—feel like home.”

You paused, your hand resting lightly on one of the branches, and turned to face him. The look in his eyes was so raw, so open, it took your breath away. “You *are* home, Bucky,” you said quietly. “You don’t need to keep looking for it. It’s right here.”

His lips quirked into a small smile, and he stepped forward, cupping your face gently in his metal hand. The coolness of the vibranium didn’t bother you; it was Bucky, all of him, and you loved every part.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“You just have to let yourself be happy,” you replied, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him softly.

The timer in the kitchen beeped, jolting you both back to the present. You pulled away with a grin, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the kitchen. “Cookies are ready!”

The two of you spent the next hour decorating sugar cookies with ridiculous amounts of frosting and sprinkles. You laughed until your sides ached as Bucky attempted to pipe a snowflake that ended up looking more like a starfish.

By the time the evening wound down, you were both curled up on the couch, a thick, knitted blanket draped over your laps. Bucky’s arm was around your shoulders, and your head rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The fire crackled softly, and the twinkle lights on the tree bathed the room in a soft, golden glow.

“This is perfect,” you whispered, your voice heavy with contentment.

Bucky pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there. “It is. Because of you, doll.”

You smiled, your fingers curling around his. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

His voice was a low murmur, filled with more love than he could ever put into words. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[ka2ki2]

Chrysos Heirs

people who play both hi3 and hsr are WINNING rn

anyway. i've determined likely flamechaser parallels for a majority of the chrysos heirs. most of them do not actually look like their flamechaser counterparts, which makes me think they're not direct expies but merely parallels.

I also sprinkled some minor analysis of what little lore we have on these guys. Amphoreus is massively inspired by greek mythology.

watch this before reading!

Aglaea = Eden (both associated with gold)

Eden owned the Elysian Realm previously, but at that time it was called the Golden Courtyard

Eden is also called the Bearer of the Gold Signet

Aglaea is called the Goldweaver

You're not going to believe this-- Aglaea is named after the Charis called Aglaea.

The mythological Aglaea basically runs errands for Aphrodite, which would explain why HSR Aglaea bears the Coreflame of Romance.

HSR Aglaea is from the city of Okhema. In greek thought (plato I think?), Okhema is an intermediary between the body and the soul. I did as much research as I could and the best I could figure out is "it carries the soul through rebirth". SORRY IF THAT'S WRONG-

HSR Aglaea has the "divine authority of mnestia". After lots of research, I think mnestia can be loosely translated to Remembrance, so perhaps that's the Amphorean way of saying she's a pathstrider of Remembrance?

Aglaea's drip marketing references the myth of Prometheus, where Prometheus stole fire from the gods and returned/gave it to humanity.

Tribbie = Vill-V (multiple 'selves') [edit: i now think it's mobius]

Tribbie is called the "three-faced messenger"

We see Tribbie adopt multiple personas in the video. She can even take multiple forms at once

Vill-V has partitioned her personality into 8 different segments

EDIT, it's probably mobius. mobius has the signet of infinity; tribbie's divine authority is the gate of infinity

tribbie is from Janusopolis and her divine authority is also called Janus, which is absolutely perfect for someone connected to messengers/passage. Janus is the roman god of beginnings, endings, transitions, doorways, etc.

Anaxa = Su (both associated with knowledge/enlightenment)

Anaxa is said to have "enough knowledge to refute faith, and to stir up a torrent capable of slaying gods."

Su is called the Enlightened of Bodhi, Enlightened One, and other similar titles.

These two have lots of physical similarity

Anaxa's namesake has some interesting connections with Nous actually

Hyacine = Griseo (both Asleep)

In the video, when Hyacine is on-screen it says "let the sky become the slumbering cot from which she wakes".

Due to the 8th Honkai Eruption, Griseo fell into a deep sleep.

Could be named after Hyacinthus

Mydei = Kalpas (fire in battle)

In the video, Mydei is seen in a post-battle poise surrounded by fire.

Kalpas is constantly surrounded by fire during battle.

Both characters constantly seek out fighting/strife.

Mydei is likely related to the greek god Deimos

He is from the city Castrum Kremnos. Castrum = a fortified military base; Kremnos = a steep place or precipice. so picture a fort on a cliff ig

His divine authority is "Lance of Fury, Nikador". My thought is Nikador is related to Nike, goddess of victory?

One of the unnamed people has a mask too though, but these guys are too similar in aesthetic and personality

Cipher = Pardofelis (...come on.)

Cat girls.

Same eye and hair color

Castorice = Aponia? (butterfly theming)

Castorice is pictured with butterflies both in the video and in the twitter art. These butterflies look highly similar to the butterfly motif in Aponia's design

Aponia is very strongly associated with butterflies. Her dress is patterned like one and she has butterfly wings in her ult

Both seem to have devastating levels of power

IDK about the greek origins for this one. Castor? Kratos (who is actually a child of the Styx)?

Phainon = Kevin (deliverance)

Yeah they're both related to deliverance. They literally outright said deliverance in the video, and Kevin bears the Deliverance Signet.

Also they look EXACTLY THE SAME

Also both seem to be the 'leader'

In mythology, Phainon is the star of Cronus/Saturn (cuz they thought saturn was a star)

Cyrene = Elysia (...COME ON.)

They look identical and have almost the exact same personality

i have yet to figure out the two unnamed ones, Hysilens, and Cerydra. nor can i find their name origins... the closest i found, after ages of digging, is this for Hysilens

the remaining flame-chasers are Kosma, Sakura, Fu Hua, and Mobius. only one of the unknown people seems to be male ("unknown 2"), so that one's probably Kosma.

And yeah that's the culmination of me losing my mind for the past 6 hours. lucky you, you didn't have to watch me try and fail to decipher what the 12 titans might be connected to. (greek titans, 12 olympians, and HSR aeons all didn't line up easily waaaaaa)

here's the failed attempt to figure out the aeons if anyone else gets ideas from this

OK thanks for reading. normally I post my loredumps in discord servers with my friends. this is my first time posting it anywhere abfiushdliueh

EDIT: after recent drip marketing, it's clear that tribbie is actually connected to mobius. as mobius has the signet of infinity, and tribbie's divine authority is called "janus, gate of infinity".

I also added a small amount of info to both tribbie and mydei about their greek/roman inspos

[drluvsick]

𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐘 — 𝐠𝐢𝐲𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐤𝐚

giyu and water lilies have much in common; ft. self conscious giyu! 📝 gn! reader. little hurt to comfort, mostly fluff. didn’t proofread, umm didn’t like the execution for this… for the vitamin u event!

word count : 800+

𝙉𝙊𝙒 𝙋𝙇𝘼𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂 . . . 𝘚𝘗𝘈𝘊𝘌 𝘚𝘖𝘕𝘎 (𝘚𝘗𝘌𝘋 𝘜𝘗) — 𝘉𝘌𝘈𝘊𝘏 𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘚𝘌

water lilies are known to symbolize many things. they can also be associated with the person you love most in so many aspects.

resurrection. water lilies shut themselves at night only to open up again in the morning, and some people believe in the symbolism of resurrection because of the flowers emerging from the murky waters of their home into the light of the rays of the sun.

it reminds you of your closest friend, giyu, in the way that he had happiness before—the innocence of being a child, so distant from any bad thing that could affect his reality only to be crushed completely at the death of his best friend. that happiness, though never in its old form, came back when he met you, resurrected from within after so many years of denying it. his happiness, in a way, had resurrected. different, but the same warm feeling nonetheless.

“…you spend so much time with me.”

you pick at another weak flower, putting its petals precariously in his hair. you save the stronger flowers as a whole to put securely on top of his head. giyu holds his own water lily, red in color. he doesn’t do anything with it, though. he just holds it in his hands, resting them on his thighs.

“is that a bad thing?” you question.

“not necessarily,” he responds, “i just think you could spend your days doing something more… productive…than spending time with me of all people.”

“what brought this on?” you glance at him, seeing his eyes staring at the water, the flower, anywhere but you. he was beautiful.

beauty. there’s something about the way those flowers rest in the places they live; simply floating on pond surfaces with their petals stuck together like a living community living near other groups of communities, with their multiple colors characterized as different symbolisms and the calmness they seem to exude.

giyu’s pretty, handsome—any praiseworthy words complimenting his looks. but it’s not all about that, is it? his personality’s certainly unique than that of his fellow comrades. albeit rather stuck in the past, he’s quite the worrywart for people he cares about, even if at first he can be a bit mean and forlorn (although, before you’d met him, the “forlorn” part could’ve been pretty accurate…). he’s kind, gentle, and calm—beauty rarely found outside and inside a person, even if he can rarely notice it himself.

“someone told me to stop wasting your time. i’m beginning to think they’re right,” giyu places the flower in his hands into the water, watching as the wind carries it away from him as petals fly from his hair to the surface in tow.

“who told you that?” you ask, surprised at the disinterested look on his face. you expected much, but after all this time… maybe you’d hoped that he’d be a little more interested in wanting your interactions to not end.

“it doesn’t mat—”

“giyu.”

he stays silent for a hot few seconds before admitting, his eyes semi-closing as he opens his mouth a few times before managing to speak. “it…it was just a feeling. mixed with some comments i’ve heard from the other hashiras.”

you don’t push on the matter of who said what further, instead opting to be nearer on the matter of keeping his hopes alive that you want to be with him.

“do you want our meetings to stop?”

he sighs. “…no. of course not.” you both watch as the red water lily from before bumps into him, his hands reluctantly reaching to lift it up again.

“that’s good,” you exhale in relief, “then i’m free to continue spending time with you—not wasting it, there’s a difference—without anyone stopping me.”

your conclusion made him think that what he’d just proposed was silly. you both sat for a few minutes in silence, you looking for something as giyu sat staring at the water lily in his palms.

he snapped out of his trance when he felt you put a flower on his head, hearing you softly laugh as you tucked and moved his hair this way and that to hold it in place.

“…i love you.” he murmured.

enlightenment.

you froze once you processed those words, giyu wincing and his eyes widening once he registered what he’d uttered.

it can mean understanding. whether that be understanding the many meanings and symbolisms from one of july’s flowers to understanding the people around you.

you slowly smiled, moving your hands from the delicate flower to his shoulders, kneeling in order to hug him and whisper, “i love you too,” to him.

it reminds you of giyu in the way that you spent awhile to recognize his pains of what had happened to him and how those horrors had trailed and haunted him to his adulthood. how you deciphered his emotions through his stoic shield of protection. how you took the time to really understand him, to get to this point.

he carefully guided your head to face him, his lips ineptly finding yours as you helped him through the process, the red water lily set next to him as he embraced you fully.

red water lilies symbolize pure love. it’s just another reason why these particular flowers remind you so much of the person you loved most.

overluvsick | please do not repost, translate, and/or claim my works as yours !!