#sorry this was so long winded but i’m so

[n0vazsq]

Forever mine? Forever yours | CL16 x Reader

pairing . . . charles leclerc x gf!reader

summary . . . When you and Charles have a fight, you want nothing more than his forgiveness

request . . . no!

word count . . . 884

warnings . . . just a bit of angst that turns into fluff!

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . was listenting to like love // break up songs while writing this and legit wanted to cry like kms

. . . The streets of Monaco were unusually quiet that night, the hum of distant cars replaced by the echo of footsteps against cobblestone. The city lights cast long shadows, stretching like ghosts between the narrow alleys.

Charles walked ahead of you, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, shoulders tense. The silence between you was heavy, filled with the reminders of words you hadn’t meant to say, things you both couldn’t take back.

The fight had started small, like it always did. You had only asked about the upcoming race, about his late nights at the simulator, about why he was pushing so hard. It had spiraled from there. Frustration simmering just beneath the surface, boiling over into harsh words and defensive silence.

Now, you followed a few steps behind, heart heavy, each breath tight in your chest. You wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap between you, but the distance felt overwhelming. Charles had always been intense, carrying the weight of expectations like a second skin. But tonight, he seemed…fragile, like a wire stretched too thin.

He stopped suddenly by the marina, the dark water stretching endlessly before you. The wind carried the scent of salt, cool against your skin. He didn’t turn around, didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, staring out at the horizon, hands clenched at his sides.

"You think I don’t care enough?" His voice was quiet, but the tone is his voice was unmistakable.

Your eyes stung. "Charles, no. That’s not what I meant." You took a step closer, but the space between you felt like a chasm. "I worry. You push yourself so hard, and I-"

He turned then, eyes meeting yours, frustration and something deeper swirling in their depths. "Do you know what it’s like?" His voice cracked, raw and tense. "To carry all of this? The pressure, the expectations…? Every single day, everyone looking at me, waiting for me to either win or fail." He shook his head. "And then I come home, and it feels like I’m failing here too."

The words hit you like a stab to the heart, and they probably were a stab to the heart. "Charles…" Your voice was barely a whisper. "I didn’t mean to add to it. I just… I see you carrying all of this, and it scares me. I don’t want you to break."

He looked away, jaw tight. "I’m already breaking." The statement was soft, almost lost to the wind. "I wake up thinking about the next race. I go to sleep replaying every mistake I made. And I know people are waiting for me to slip, to prove that I’m not good enough." His eyes found yours again, and there was a vulnerability there that made your heart ache."I’m afraid too. Afraid of letting everyone down. Afraid of losing… you. All because of my stupid mistakes."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You closed the distance between you, reaching for his hand. He let you, fingers cold but steady. "You’re never losing me,” you said, voice firm despite the emotion threatening to choke you. "I’m here. I’ll always be here."

He looked down, chuckling emotionlessly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Sometimes, it feels like I can’t breathe. Like I’m drowning under it all."

You squeezed his hand, stepping closer until your chest touched his. "You don’t have to carry it alone. I know I can’t take the weight off your shoulders, but I can stand beside you. I can remind you that you’re more than the races, more than the wins or losses."

He closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. When he opened them again, the anger had softened, replaced by something raw and unspoken. "I’m sorry. I know I shut you out sometimes. It’s not fair to you."

You shook your head. "You don’t have to apologize for being human. I just… I want you to let me in. Let me help."

He reached up, cupping your face in his hands. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the tension that had been there moments ago. "I don’t deserve you," he whispered, voice barely audible.

You smiled, tears slipping down your cheeks. "You deserve everything, Charles, my angel. And I’ll remind you of that every day if I have to."

He leaned his forehead against yours, the distance between you finally gone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world around you faded away; the distant hum of the city, the gentle lapping of the waves. There was only this. Only him. Only Charles.

"Forever mine?" he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your heart swelling. "Forever yours."

He held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded, his grip tight, almost desperate. The walls he had built around himself were still there, but for now, they had cracks, just enough to let you in.

As the wind carried the scent of salt and the promise of better days, you knew that this was how it would be. There would be fights, and fears, and moments where everything felt like it was falling apart. But there would also be this: quiet moments in the dark, where love felt like the strongest thing in the world.

[atleastpleasetelephone]

I just want to say how good your stories are and I really love them they are so detailed and good!.. I wanted to request a fic. Nympho reader trying to get Elvis's attention ata family and friends dinner (the memohis mafia, their wives yk) but he denies her until he can't take it anymore and drags her off to the bathroom and fucks her hard and makes her be quiet. 🙏🏼

Maneater

A/N: Sorry this has taken me so long! I've been thinking about it on and off for a while now, and finally got something written down.

Pairing: Elvis x nympho!reader

Word count: 2.3K

TWs: Infidelity, name-calling, spanking, rough sex, mirror sex, reader is gagged, degredation kink, praise kink, a handjob, p in v sex, also probably should mention the appearance of Lamar's dick, might need a warning...

Elvis fixes you with a stern look as he tells you yet again that this is a nice dinner and you’re not to do anything to mess it up. What he means by that is that he doesn’t want you winding him up at the dinner table. He’s never met a girl like you. You’re desperate for it, all the time. He can’t keep up. Perhaps he could have, in his 20s, but not now he’s 34. He gave up trying to please you with his hands and mouth and dick all the time - his jaw started to ache and he’s getting worried about his fingers anyway from all the karate. The less said about his dick the better. He’d eventually caved and bought a vibrator, something to make you cum a few times in a row and hopefully shut you up. When that stopped being a guaranteed cure he decided he couldn’t take it anymore and broke up with you. He’s never broken up with a girl before (they usually do the leaving) and it was difficult. Made even more difficult by him finding you sucking Jerry off, not more than an hour later. So he’d taken you back, out of jealousy really, he supposes.

“You’re going to be a good girl, right?”

You twist a few strands of hair around your finger and tilt your head to the side. It’s not that you don’t want to be good. You just have these urges, and they don’t really seem to be stoppable.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He walks the few steps between you and pinches your cheeks with his fingers. “Right?”

You nod enthusiastically. “I’m going to be a good girl.” Already you’re squeezing your thighs together. He really needs to learn that you find all of this such a turn on that it’s just making the whole situation worse.

“Good. Let’s go downstairs.”

***

You manage the first course without incident, but by the time the main dish is on the table you’re thoroughly distracted again. Elvis sat you to his left so that he could keep an eye on you, and he’s been careful not to touch you or even really look at you directly that much. But there’s so much sauce he keeps having to lick his lips, more than usual, and you can’t help but think about all the other places that tongue has been or could go… You wriggle about a little in your chair, getting some friction between it and your pussy, thinking about him eating you rather than the meatloaf.

Elvis notices your tell-tale movements and reaches one hand beneath the table to pinch your thigh, hard. You squeak, but you get the message and stop moving. He clears his throat and moves his hand back to the table, returning to his conversation with Joe. You take a few deep breaths and try to get your head back in the game. Eat dinner, ignore Elvis, be a good girl.

“How’s it going, pipsqueak?” Lemar asks, from your left.

“‘M not a pipsqeak,” you hum, fluttering your eyelashes and putting your hand on his thigh. So much for being a good girl.

Lemar grins. He doesn’t usually get a lot of attention from the ladies, but you’re the exception. And he likes you because you treat him just the same as you do everyone else - as a potential ride.

“Look like one to me,” he teases. “Enjoying your meatloaf?”

You shrug, putting down your fork. “Can think of some meat I’d prefer…”

Your hand wanders a little further up Lamar’s thigh, and then you chance a look over to Elvis, who is still studiously ignoring you. Well, if you can’t get his attention you’ve sure as shit got Lamar’s.

Lamar actually blushes at your words, looking nervously over at Elvis now himself. He’s going to get into trouble for this but it’s turning him on so he’s not sure if he cares. Elvis is deep in conversation with Joe and his wife and hasn’t noticed anything, so the other man doesn’t stop your hand as it continues its journey up his thigh, finally reaching his dick and giving it a friendly squeeze. He’s playing with fire now, but he just takes another mouthful of meatloaf as you unzip him one-handed and dip your hand into his boxers, starting to stroke him.

He tries not to choke on the food in his mouth at the sensation. Your little hand is very skilled, even at this weird angle, and suddenly he realises that you could make him cum at the dinner table. And you probably will, since consequences don’t really seem to bother you. Not that surprising, since all the guys know you sucked Jerry off and Elvis took you back anyway.

You’re already moving quickly, and you don’t bother trying to cover up what you’re doing that much. No-one notices though, busy chatting and eating and drinking, not paying any attention to you. You pout, almost to yourself, and then decide you have to do something to get some attention. You hate to be ignored.

“Elvis?” You drawl, lazily.

Lamar freezes. Why on earth are you doing this? This is worse than just making him cum at the dinner table, this is making him cum whilst Elvis watches. It’s a miracle no-one has noticed what you’re doing, and you want to Elvis to notice, of all people.

“Yes, honey,” Elvis replies, coldly, rolling his eyes.

Your hand is still working Lamar’s dick and he’s getting closer and closer to release. Now Elvis has turned to look at you, he knows he can’t try to pull your hand off him, that’ll make it too obvious. But he can’t let you keep going, that’ll make it even more obvious. He panics and so he does nothing, feeling his balls getting heavier as you keep jerking him. There’s no way that this ends well.

“Are you enjoying your meatloaf?” You lick your lips teasingly.

Elvis frowns a little, thinking that something about the way you’re sitting looks weird. Your shoulder keeps moving and… something about Lamar looks weird too. Suddenly it snaps into focus and he realises what’s happening. Around the same time as Lamar cums with a barely disguised moan.

“You little slut.”

He stands and grabs you by the arm, dragging you out of your chair and then behind him as he marches up the stairs. Lamar. Lamar of all people. And at the dinner table! He’s not sure he can keep seeing you but he can’t break up with you without teaching you a lesson first.

Lamar zips himself up and tries to look innocent, although it’s not long before the other guys figure out what happened, especially when they see the stains on his pants. It’s only the presence of the wives that keep them from really ribbing him at the table, but they can barely believe it. That girl Elvis is seeing really is some kind of nymphomaniac.

Your stomach flips and you feel yourself getting wetter as you struggle to keep up with him, first up the stairs and then into the en suite. He slams the door and then rounds on you, fury etched into his face.

“Ya really just gave Lamar a handjob at the dinner table? In my house? With me right next ta ya?”

You bite your lip. “‘M sorry, Daddy. I can’t help it.”

“You need to learn,” he growls.

And this is the problem. He thinks this is a punishment, but you’re just excited. You want to be taught lesson after lesson. You like it when he gets like this, a little out of control. You want him to fuck you like an animal and keep going way past the point of enjoyment. You want it to go on and on until you beg him to stop, and even then he continues.

He spins you around to face the big mirror over the bathroom sink, pushing you so that you bend at the waist, your little skirt flipping up to uncover your ass. Pulling your panties down and off, he stuffs them in his pocket and looks briefly at your reflection. You look back at him, big doe eyes and pouting lips.

“Maybe this’ll teach ya.”

He spanks you, hard, and you yelp. So he carries on, over and over again. You can feel his rings against your skin, making each slap sting even more. Little squeals fall from your mouth as he keeps going, your ass getting redder and redder.

“Shush.”

“Sorry Daddy,” you coo, trying hard to clamp your mouth shut and not make any more noise.

But he doesn’t stop hitting you, and it’s starting to get really sore, and you can’t help yelping again and then wriggling a little, a half-hearted attempt to get away.

“I told ya to shush.”

He grabs the panties and stuffs them into your mouth. You can feel your arousal running down your leg. Jerking Lamar off was worth it for this reaction.

He spanks you a few more times but he can see how turned on you are and he can’t pretend his dick isn’t aching right now too. Dragging a finger up the inside of your thigh, he brings it up, wet, to his lips and lets you see him lick it.

“Dirty little girl,” he hisses.

You moan around the panties, drool pooling around them and starting to spill out of the sides and into the sink. He looks into your eyes and… you look… happy? He can’t understand it. After that spanking, the way he’s humiliating you, the panties in your mouth… how can you be happy? He unzips his pants and takes out his dick, pushing it inside you hard and fast. You groan at being so full so quickly but your wetness means he slides in no problem, you’re so ready for him. Even more than usual.

He grunts as he starts to thrust into you, one hand on your hip and the other in your hair, bunching it into a makeshift ponytail. Your hips bump the sink with every thrust and you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You’ll probably have a bruised ass, too, with the beating he gave it. You moan again, pleasure rippling through your body as he pulls your head up and arches your back, his dick hitting somewhere delicious inside you.

“Nasty little slut,” he groans, pulling your hair some more. “Look at yourself.”

You look at yourself in the mirror, hair everywhere, mascara running down your red cheeks, saliva spilling over your chin. Then you look back at him and his eyes look wild, almost black with lust and fury, his face flushed and his lip curled into a sneer. He briefly lets go of your hip to pull the panties out of your mouth, letting them fall into the sink.

“What d’ya look like?”

“A nasty little slut, Daddy.”

His eyes roll back in his head as he starts to pound you, wanting to somehow fuck this out of you. You’re such a damn frustrating little girl. So obedient when you’re taking his dick, and so goddamn wayward when you’re not.

His dick keeps rubbing that place inside you that you like so much, and you know you’ve got to be almost there now. But you can’t just cum without permission. You could jerk Lamar off without permission, but cumming was a whole different story.

“Daddy, I need to cum.”

“Ya always fuckin’ need ta cum. That’s the problem with ya.” He snaps.

“Mmmm. But now. Please. ‘M so close.”

“Fine,” he huffs, and the result is almost immediate, your walls are pulsing around him, squeezing and squeezing.

You scoop up the soggy panties from the sink and put them back in your own mouth, so that the noise you make as you cum on his dick is muffled. But he still hears it, and still sees your face contorted in ecstasy in the mirror, and combined with the way you’re squeezing him there’s nothing he can do but cum too, hard and deep inside you. He groans, staggering backwards and then managing to sit himself down on the toilet lid, legs spread, head thrown back. Fuck. That was good. You were a damn good fuck.

You spit the panties out of your mouth then straighten, legs like jelly, before turning around. Seeing him there with his dick still out of his pants you can’t help yourself. You kneel down between his legs and start to lick him clean. His head slowly moves forwards and he stares down at you, incredulously.

“What’re ya doin’?” There’s a softness in his voice now, and he finds himself stroking your cheek with his forefinger.

“Bein’ good,” you tell him, licking a final stripe up him and then looking up at his face. “Hoping for round two,” you add, more honestly.

He shakes his head. “Little girl, you are insatiable.”

You nod. “I know. Sorry, Daddy.”

He sighs and pulls you up into his lap. “What am I gonna do with ya?”

Your arms slip around his neck and you look at him with those big doe eyes again. “Spank me? Teach me a lesson? Fill up all my little holes?”

Elvis blushes at your filthy mouth, even after the things he’s just said and done to you. He shakes his head again.

“It’s this big hole,” he says, pinching your cheeks with his thumb and a finger, and then pressing his forefinger to your lips. “That keeps gettin’ ya in trouble.”

You nod sagely. “I know. Probably best to fill that up too.”

He can’t help giggling. There’s something adorable about you, even if you are the filthiest girl he’s ever met. You giggle too. You like this, this attention from him. Even though he’s not fucking you or spanking you, you like him up close and intimate like this.

He kisses your temple and then makes a decision.

“Alright. To hell with this dinner. Get on the bed and I’ll shut ya up properly this time.”

***

Taglist:

@vintagepresley @arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @cattcb @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @ccab @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978 @wildhorseinkansas

[lazy-gyu]

tags: nsfw , dom!top reader , sub!bot yandere , yandere fae , soft yandere , kinda long , mdni

The forest was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of wood splitting under your axe, until a soft, heart-wrenching sob drifted through the trees. You followed the sound cautiously, the vibrant green canopy above casting dappled light on the ground. There, slumped against a moss-covered tree, was a man—no, something more, with his otherworldly beauty marred by a deep gash along his arm. His shimmering eyes, pools of sorrow and desperation, met yours, and for a moment, it felt as if the forest itself held its breath. “Please,” he whispered, his voice trembling like the wind through the leaves, “help me.”

you lifted the injured man into your arms, his weight surprisingly light, as though the forest itself eased your burden. As you brought him to your humble home nestled among the trees, his gaze never left you—soft, curious, and tinged with an unspoken gratitude. The gentle touch of your hands as you cleaned and bandaged his wound sent unfamiliar warmth coursing through him, a sensation both foreign and intoxicating. His heart, usually calm and steady like an ancient river, now raced wildly, each beat a whisper of a feeling he couldn’t yet name. Watching you work so tenderly, he thought, Is this what mortals call love?

___

As you slept soundly, he watched you, his heart racing with an unfamiliar warmth. The memory of your gentle care left him shy and overwhelmed, unsure how to face these strange feelings. When dawn broke, he quietly slipped away, the rustle of leaves the only sign of his hesitant farewell.

___

For weeks, the fae's quiet gifts continued, baskets of fresh fruits appearing like clockwork, always left in the same spot, always followed by his unseen gaze. His presence lingered in the air, a soft tension that both comforted and confused you. One afternoon, unable to bear the silence any longer, you tracked him down, cornering him in the dense forest. When his wide, shimmering eyes met yours, a wave of fear washed over him, his voice trembling as he whispered, “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to upset you…” The sight of him on the verge of tears softened your heart, and instead of anger, you pulled him into a gentle embrace, the scent of wildflowers and magic enveloping you both, as you held him close—no words needed.

___

After that moment, the fae became more present than ever, his shadow always trailing you, his steps quieter, yet more frequent. Every time you worked or rested, he would appear, lingering just a bit too close, his eyes never straying far from you. You couldn’t help but find it amusing, teasing him lightly. "You know," you said with a smirk, "I might start calling you my personal shadow at this rate."

His face turned a shade of crimson, eyes darting away, but he didn’t deny it. "I... I just like being near you," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

___

As you laughed and chatted with your friend, accepting the small bundle of loot they had brought, you caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of your eye. There, hidden in the trees, the fae stood—his eyes locked on you and your friend, a storm of emotions swirling in his gaze. When your friend’s hand brushed yours, his usually calm demeanor faltered, his eyes narrowing slightly, a flare of jealousy flashing across his face before he quickly masked it with a cold silence.

You could feel the change in the air, the once gentle atmosphere now thick with tension. Smirking, you turned to the fae, who had stepped forward, still trying to keep his composure. "What’s this?" you teased lightly. "Are you jealous?"

His cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson, his voice betraying his frustration as he muttered, "I-I’m not... jealous. Just... concerned." The possessiveness in his tone was unmistakable, though, and the intensity of his gaze made it clear—he didn’t like seeing you with anyone else.

He's definitely jealous

___

The room was bathed in soft, golden light as you and the fae stood close, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Slowly, you leaned in, your lips meeting his in a gentle kiss, the warmth of his touch making your heart race. His hands trembled slightly as they rested on your shoulders, as if he were afraid this moment might slip away. When you pulled back, his shimmering eyes locked onto yours, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

"I... I don’t know what’s happening to me," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I’ve never felt this way before—jealous... scared..." His gaze dropped to the ground, his vulnerability raw. "I don’t want to lose you. I don’t know what I’d do." His words, filled with both sorrow and longing, made your chest tighten, his raw honesty stirring something deep within you. Slowly, you cupped his face in your hands, wiping away his tears. "You won’t lose me" you promised softly, your heart beating in time with his.

Without a word, he pulled you closer, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and fierce, as though he couldn't bear the thought of letting you go. His hands roamed over your skin, tracing the lines of your body as if memorizing every inch, every sensation. You could feel the weight of his emotions in the way he held you-his love, his fear, his desperate need to never be apart.

His creamy legs spread for you, his delicate hands holding up his legs to his shoulders. Soft, shimmering eyes gazed up at you lovingly, his gaze filled with adoration, as if you were the only thing that mattered—his human, his everything. Your possessive and rough hands holding his waist as you sank your cock on his pretty pussy. A whine left his throat as your cock stretched him, you can't help but notice how his pussy leak so much slick for your cock. Sweat dripping your forehead as you focus on his pleasure. Carefully and gently thrusting to him sweetly. His eyes tearing up, mouth agape and moaning your name softly. Your cock slides in and out of his pussy so gently making lewd noises for both of you to hear. He used to only watch you in the shadows and now both of you are connected and making love in your humble home.

His hands trailed gently down your arm, his touch leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Slowly, they moved up to your chest, then to the nape of your neck, where his fingers tangled in your hair. With a quiet, desperate need, he pulled you toward him, his lips crashing onto yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle, full of longing and intensity.

He pulled away just enough to gaze into your eyes, his breath shaky as his hands held you close, as if afraid to let you slip away. "You're mine" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't let anyone else have you—not when I know how it feels to have you all to myself." His fingers gently caressed your cheek, his gaze softening with affection. "Please, don’t ever leave me."

[sasheemo]

When we collide

Chapter 11

Read on AO3

Fic masterlist

Chapter Summary: Agatha sneaks into your house, and an already risky plan takes an unexpected, and even riskier, turn.

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: I know this update took forever and I am so sorry, work and life in general have been crazy lately. Writing has been such a slow process, and finding the time to sit down and focus has been hella hard.

That said, I’m so grateful for your patience and support—it truly means the world to me. Every comment, like, and bit of encouragement keeps me motivated to push through, even when things feel overwhelming. I hope this chapter was worth the wait and that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed crafting it.

Thank you for sticking with me through this journey. Your love for this story keeps me going 💜

It feels like you’ve been hiding in the shadows of your garden for hours. You have no idea how much time has passed or how long Agatha has been inside.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve been waiting an eternity.

The night grows colder and heavier with each passing second, the chill creeps through your dress, your eyes fixed on the darkened windows above. The faint glow of the kitchen light spills onto the ground, a subtle but constant reminder of your mother’s presence inside.

You clench your hands into fists at your sides, trying to still the growing unease coiling in your chest. The plan had seemed straightforward at the time: get Agatha inside, have her pretend to be you, and wait for her to open the window. But now, as you stand in the biting cold, the enormity of the risks begins to gnaw at you.

Agatha doesn’t know your mother. Not the way you do. 

She doesn’t know the sharp edge to her voice, the way her words cut deeper than her glares. She doesn’t know the little tells, the moments when her mood shifts and it’s better to stay quiet than risk provoking her. And most importantly, Agatha doesn’t know the intricate, tense dance you’ve perfected over years of enduring her.

The weight of it all suddenly feels crushing. You shift uneasily, your breathing shallow as your thoughts spiral. What if your mother notices something’s off? What if Agatha hesitates or says the wrong thing? What if she tries to talk her way out of something and slips up? 

You bite down on your lip, forcing yourself to breathe slower, deeper. But the thoughts don’t stop. 

What if your mother catches her before she even reaches your room? What if she figures out the truth? What would she do - to Agatha, to you - if she realized the extent of this betrayal? Your mind conjures up a dozen worst-case scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last.

A sharp gust of wind pulls you from your spiraling thoughts, and you glance down instinctively at the small bundle of fur near your feet. The rabbit, Agatha’s rabbit, sits quietly in the shadows beside you, its nose twitching as it sniffs the night air. Its presence is steady, calm, almost indifferent to the storm raging in your head.

You crouch down slightly, your fingers brushing against the creature’s soft fur. It doesn’t flinch, simply shifts closer as if it senses your unease. There’s something grounding about the animal, something simple and reassuring. Agatha had brought it here with her, and for some reason, the thought that something she clearly cares for is by your side soothes the sharp edges of your panic.

You take another breath, steadier this time. The faint glow from the kitchen is still there, unchanging, and the stillness of the house seems both unnerving and hopeful. 

She’s inside. She’ll make it.

And then, finally, you hear the faint creak of the window above. 

Your head snaps up, your pulse quickening as you watch it ease open. Your own face peers out from the shadowed wooden frame, tense and searching the garden below. It takes you a second to remember that it’s actually Agatha.

The sight pulls at something strange in your chest. You know the spell you cast has served its purpose, that she’s safe now. That realization settles over you like a wave, and you exhale slowly, steadying yourself.

Closing your eyes, you draw on the lingering energy of the spell, your magic buzzing faintly under your skin. You picture her, not as a reflection of yourself, but as she truly is: darker, undeniably powerful, magnetic. With a flick of your wrist and a soft breath, you send the magic out, releasing it.

When you open your eyes, the figure leaning out of the window has changed. Her true form has returned: wild, dark hair framing her face, sharp cheekbones catching the faintest glow of the night.

Agatha’s gaze catches yours, steady and knowing, as if she’s fully aware of what you’ve just done. She tilts her head slightly in acknowledgment, a silent signal to come up. 

The tension in your chest doesn’t fully ease, but you let yourself glance at the towering tree at the center of the garden, its ancient branches stretching out in every direction like a great, unmoving sentinel. The bark is thick and weathered, furrowed with deep grooves that speak of countless seasons endured. 

Its lowest branches bow slightly under their own weight, but higher up, the limbs grow stronger, sprawling outward with a defiant strength. One of its largest branches curves close to your window, not enough to block the view from your room but near enough to serve as your path inside.

The tree has always been there, a quiet companion through your childhood. Back then, its lower limbs had felt like a sanctuary, their rough surfaces welcoming and steady beneath your hands. You’d scramble up effortlessly, laughing as you dangled your legs and let the world blur into your own imagined wilderness. 

But tonight, the tree looms above you, its branches no longer inviting but daunting, like a puzzle demanding perfect precision. Your gaze fixes on the thick branch that leads toward your window, and doubt creeps in uninvited.

You exhale, trying to calm the knot of nerves twisting in your stomach. The branches look sturdy, thicker than they seemed when you were younger, but you know they’ll need to hold more than they ever have before.

You step closer to the tree as you prepare to hoist yourself up. But as you look upward, plotting your path, reality snaps into focus. 

One of your hands is clutching the rabbit, its small body shifting slightly against your palm, leaving the other useless for climbing. Both hands will be needed to grip the bark and the branches, to steady yourself as you ascend.

You can’t climb like this.

Your jaw tightens as you glance down at the animal, then over your shoulder at the satchel pulling against your back. The weight of both feels suddenly oppressive, a barrier between you and the safety of the window above.

Your breath is clouding in the cold air as you glance up at the towering tree again. For a moment, you stand frozen, your mind racing for a solution.

Then, an idea comes to you. Maybe it’s reckless, maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s all you’ve got, and it’ll have to do.

Kneeling carefully, you place the rabbit gently on the ground beneath the tree. 

“Stay.” you whisper softly, as the small creature sniffs the grass, its twitching nose brushing against a fallen leaf. You shrug the satchel off your back, unfastening the flap with fingers that tremble slightly from the cold.

You glance down at the contents of the bag and let out a soft sigh of relief. Agatha, it seems, is a light packer. There’s enough space, you think, and without hesitation, you scoop up the rabbit again, cradling its small body close for a moment. 

“Alright, you’re going in.” you whisper, angling the bag carefully to create a safe, snug space.

The rabbit shifts, its ears flicking in mild protest, but it doesn’t wriggle too much as you tuck it in among the folds of Agatha’s clothing. You adjust the fabric gently, making sure it’s secure, and offer a quiet, almost reassuring murmur. “See? Not so bad.”

You hope the familiar scent will keep it calm during the climb. For a moment, the faint smell reaches you as well - earthy yet sweet, rich and layered - and it stops you in your tracks. The briefest flicker of distraction pulls at you before you shake it off, focusing on closing the satchel and readying yourself for the climb.

You glance up at the window to check for any sign from Agatha, but what you see halts you. She’s leaning out of the darkened window, her features clear despite the shadows, and her expression… well, if looks could kill, you’d be flat on the ground.

Her glare is direct and unmistakable, her lips pressed into a thin, irritated line. It doesn’t take much to realize why. 

She’s staring straight at the satchel slung over your shoulder and the rabbit inside it. You’re frozen, caught mid-motion, her piercing gaze making you feel oddly small, like a child caught red-handed. Your irritation flares before you can stop it, the sharp edge of it cutting through your nerves. 

‘What exactly does she expect me to do?’ you think, sarcasm practically spilling over. ‘Carry it in my teeth?!’

You bite back a laugh at your own thoughts, the absurdity of the situation tugging at the corners of your mouth. You glance away from the window, shaking your head with a mix of annoyance and amusement. 

“As if she’d have a better idea.” you mutter quietly to yourself, the words more a release of tension than anything else.

The bark digs into your palms as you grip the trunk, pulling yourself up onto the first branch. It creaks faintly under your weight, but it holds, as it always has. Your breath comes slow and deliberate, each movement measured as you reach for the next handhold.

Even so, the awareness of Agatha’s eyes on you gnaws at the edge of your focus. Her gaze feels like a weight on your back, amplifying every misstep and every slight tremble in your limbs. The idea of her judging your clumsy climb, silently critiquing each slip of your footing, sends another wave of irritation coursing through you.

And yet… there’s something oddly reassuring about it too. As if her presence, no matter how frustrating, guarantees that someone will catch you if you fall. Not literally, of course, but the thought lingers, steadying you more than you’d care to admit.

You shift your weight carefully, reaching for the next branch. The satchel presses against your back, its weight a constant reminder of your responsibility, and of the sharp eyes above you. You resist the urge to glance up briefly, focusing instead on the climb.

You move cautiously, gripping the bark tightly as you climb higher. The tree groans faintly under your weight, and you freeze, holding your breath. 

The sound seems impossibly loud in the stillness of the night, a sharp contrast to the quiet hum of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. For a moment, you glance toward the kitchen window, half-expecting to see your mother’s silhouette appear, but the glow remains steady, undisturbed.

You grit your teeth, focusing on your balance, careful to distribute your weight evenly. Every move feels agonizingly slow, the need for silence making each step a deliberate act of precision.

As you near the branch that curves toward your window, you reach out with one hand, your fingers brushing the rough bark. It’s close, close enough that you can almost imagine the feel of the window frame beneath your palm. 

But as you shift your weight to make the final stretch, your foot slips against the trunk, the bark giving way beneath your boot.

Your stomach lurches as your balance wavers, your free hand scrabbling desperately for a hold. The satchel shifts sharply, throwing you further off balance, and for a terrifying moment, you’re certain you’ll fall. Your breath catches in your throat, panic blooming in your chest.

From her vantage point at the window, Agatha tenses instantly. Her eyes widen, and for a split second, she shifts forward slightly in a reflexive, almost involuntary motion, as if she could somehow close the unbridgeable distance and reach you. Concern flickers across her face as her hands grip the windowsill tightly, knuckles paling with the pressure.

But then your hand finds purchase, gripping a knot in the bark just in time to steady yourself. 

You hang there for a moment, your heart pounding in your ears, your body frozen as the satchel settles back into place. The rabbit stirs faintly inside, and you murmur a soft reassurance under your breath, though it’s as much for yourself as for the animal.

The faint creak of the tree subsides, and the night seems to hold its breath along with you. You force yourself to exhale slowly, the tension in your chest loosening as you steady your footing once more. Carefully, you reach out again, this time gripping the branch firmly before pulling yourself up onto it.

The window is finally within reach, a threshold to safety. 

As you glance up, Agatha is there, her figure sharp and still against the faint shadows of the room. She’s waiting, her presence a silent promise that the plan is almost complete. The sight steadies you and, for the first time since the climb began, relief flickers at the edges of your thoughts, fragile but real.

As you near the window, Agatha leans out further, her gaze flicking to the satchel slung over your shoulder. She lifts a hand, gesturing for it with a slight wave of her fingers, her expression calm and maddeningly smug.

You pause, blinking at her. 

“Really?” you mutter under your breath, incredulity practically dripping from your tone. 

She tilts her head slightly, arching a single brow, her smugness somehow amplifying as she gestures again, clearly waiting.

For a moment, you consider ignoring her, but then you glance at the satchel. She has a point, giving her the bag would mean the rabbit is safer, and, without the extra weight on your back, you’ll have an easier time pulling yourself through the window.

With a dramatic sigh, you shrug the satchel off your shoulder, the strap sliding down your arm before you lift it toward her. She stretches downward, her fingers brushing the edge of the leather before she grips it firmly and pulls it from your grasp. 

For a moment, you watch her, half expecting her to disappear entirely now that the bag is secure in her hands.

And that’s exactly what she does. Agatha retreats, vanishing from the window’s edge with the satchel in tow. You roll your eyes, your mind instantly jumping to the conclusion that she’s probably fussing over the rabbit. 

The thought irritates and amuses you in equal measure, but you shake your head and steady yourself for the final push. 

The ledge is close, and with the satchel gone, the climb feels marginally easier. You stretch your arms upward, gripping the edge of the window frame as you shift your weight onto the thick branch beneath you. 

Carefully, you pull yourself higher, your knees brushing the frame as you begin to hoist yourself inside.

For a moment, it seems like you’ve done it. Your body halfway through the window, balance steady enough to keep going.

And then your foot catches on the edge of the frame.

The jolt sends you stumbling forward, your grip slipping as the momentum drags you into a clumsy, uncontrolled tumble.

Agatha moves instantly, appearing as if out of nowhere, her reflexes instinctive and precise.

You barely register the sudden shift before her silhouette is in front of you. One of her hands darts out, gripping your arm with surprising strength, but it’s not enough to counter the force of your fall. Her other hand slides to your waist, firm and steady, trying to catch you, but the momentum is too much.

There’s no time for either of you to adjust. The pull of gravity drags you forward, and you both tumble into the room in a chaotic, ungraceful heap. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, and you land tangled together. 

Agatha is half-sprawled over you, her weight pinning you to the floor, grounding and overwhelming all at once. The world seems to fade, narrowing to the soft rustle of leaves in the night and the rhythm of her breathing. 

Her face is unbearably close, so close that her breath brushes against your cheek, warm and uneven. Untamed hair spilling over her shoulder and grazing your arm, strands scattered haphazardly from the fall.

There’s a stillness to her expression, but the faint parting of her lips reveals a hitch in her breathing, as though the shock of the tumble hasn’t fully left her.

Both of her hands remain where they caught you, one curled tightly around your arm, the other pressed firmly against your waist. The heat of her touch burns through the fabric of your dress, rooting you in place even as your pulse races wildly.

Those sharp blue eyes, piercing even in the dim light, are locked on yours. The intensity of her gaze makes your breath catch, as if she’s not only seeing through you but searching for something at the same time.

For a moment, nothing else exists. Your chest tightens and your pulse hammers in your ears as the space between you feels impossibly thin, a fragile thread stretched taut and trembling. 

And then, fleetingly - so quickly you almost think you imagined it - her gaze drops, flickering to your lips. The motion is so subtle, so brief, that it vanishes almost as soon as it happens. But the imprint of it remains, sharp and electric, making you shudder.

Your mind scrambles for something, anything, to say, but the words won’t come. All you can do is stare back at her, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to make sense of the moment.

The silence stretches, thick and almost suffocating, until Agatha breaks it. Her voice is low, threaded with dry amusement but carrying an almost daring undertone that sets your nerves alight. 

“Are you always this dramatic,” she murmurs, “or am I just special?”

The words pull you out of your daze, and your cheeks burn instantly, the heat rushing to your face. 

“I— I didn’t—” you stammer, scrambling to find words, but every coherent thought scatters.

Agatha exhales sharply, her lips twitching as if she’s about to say something else, but instead, she pushes herself up abruptly. 

The cool night air rushes in as her warmth leaves, and you’re left on the floor, heart still pounding in your ears.

She brushes off her skirts with deliberate ease, her expression once again smug and composed, though there’s a flicker of tension in her movements. She extends a hand to you, her sharp gaze watching you carefully.

“Come on, get up.” she whispers, her tone calm but firm. “Your mother might have heard that.”

You glare up at her, your pride stinging, but you take her hand anyway, letting her pull you to your feet. Her grip is firm, steady, and as she helps you up, her fingers linger just a second too long before she steps back.

The sensation is fleeting but familiar, a ghost of what had happened only hours earlier by the lake. She’d done the same after you healed her burns, offering her hand with that same deliberate calm, as though her touch carried no weight. But it had lingered then too, just like now, and the memory ignites a warm spark in your chest. 

As you rise to your feet, your balance feels oddly unsteady, not from the fall but from the moment itself. You linger there, caught between embarrassment and something heavier. Your fingers twitch at your sides, as though still feeling the echo of her grip, and your gaze follows her as she moves away.

She crosses the room, moving toward the satchel she’d placed on the floor earlier and crouching down. 

You turn toward the window, reaching for the frame to shut it. The cool night air still drifts into the room, carrying the faint scent of the garden below. Your fingers curl around the wood, and just as you push it closed, a sound freezes you in place.

A creak. Faint, but unmistakable.

Your heart stops, and you glance at Agatha, who has gone still beside the satchel, her hand hovering over the flap. Her sharp eyes meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you breathes.

Another creak follows, heavier this time, accompanied by the low groan of the wooden stairs shifting.

Panic flashes between you in a silent exchange, the weight of the moment sinking in with brutal clarity. Agatha straightens slowly, her hand dropping from the satchel as her gaze darts toward the door.

Well, shit. Your mother definitely heard.

[nomie-11]

Liam Mairi x Reader - The Curse of Farsight

masterlist!

Migraines had become an integral part of Liam’s life since he developed his signet. His eyes hurt, his head hurt, and all the bright lights and small noises felt like knives twisting in his mind as he trudged down the hallway. 

Head throbbing, he just let his feet take him one step after another down the winding, narrow hallways of Fourth Wing First-Year dorms. He wanted to be in her arms, in her bed, as her cold hands ran over his back in soothing circles.

Liam’s vision blurred as he turned a corner, his breath shallow, each step an effort. The migraines were getting worse, more frequent as he trained his signet. The curse of farsight was something he hadn’t expected and hadn’t been able to fully escape. Yes, seeing far was a blessing in battle, but in everyday life it was a storm he couldn’t outrun. It was a constant, grinding pressure, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. 

But there was one place where the pain dulled. Over person who could ease the ache, even if just for a moment. 

He reached her door, the familiar weight of her presence pulling him in like a magnet. He knocked once, softly, and waited. A moment later, the door swung open, and there she stood—her eyes warm, her expression soft but worried when she saw him. 

“You’re here,” She sighed, stepping aside for him to come in. “You look terrible.” 

He grimaced a small smile, his hand squeezing hers as he shuffled in past her, shedding his layers of swords and leathers onto the floor quickly before flopping down onto her bed. “‘M sorry,” he said, words muffled by the covers. “Head’s killing me.” 

He sighed as, with a flick of her hand and a display of superior control of lesser magic, the blinds on the windows drew shut and the mage lights dimmed. 

He felt the mattress dip as she climbed in next to him, her cool hands from an ice wielding signet brushing the hairs from his forehead. 

“Didn’t we talk to Xaden about your head and maybe taking it easy in training for a little?” She murmured, fingernails dragging slow circles over his skin.

Liam let out a long, slow exhale, rolling onto his side to face her, his eyes bleary but full of gratitude. “Yeah, but I can’t. Need to keep up. Can’t just… stop.” He closed his eyes, wincing at the throb in his temple as he whispered, “But this—this helps.” He relaxed as her cool fingers traced gentle patterns along his jaw, down his neck, the chill of her touch dulling the sharp edge of his headache. 

After a few moments of silence, he rolled onto his back, then onto his stomach, pressing his face into her shoulder, his arm coming to drape around her waist. She stifled a laugh. “Liam, what are you doing?” she asked, voice laced with amusement. 

“Getting comfortable,” he murmured, voice muffled against her. “Hope you don’t mind if I just…” he shifted a little, laying completely on top of her with a satisfied sigh, his cheek resting against her shoulder. She could feel the warmth radiating from him as he nestled in, her own cold skin contrasting with his as if he were a living blanket. 

She smirked, giving a playful sigh of resignation. “Well, I guess I’m stuck here now,” she said, feigning exasperation as she brushed her fingers gently through his gorgeous blonde hair. She felt the chill of her hand sink deeper into his skin, soothing the heat pulsing at his temples, her touch melting him into a state of calm. 

Liam let out a small, contented groan, shifting slightly so that the flushed skin of his face rested on the cool skin of her exposed neck. “You’re like my own personal ice pack,” he murmured, pressing his forehead into the crook of her neck. “If I ever get a say in anything, I’m picking you to follow me everywhere.” 

She laughed softly, tracing her fingertips over his temples, gentle enough to quiet his ache. “I don’t think Xaden would approve of me being your portable headache remedy, but… I suppose he would have to make an exception.” 

“Good,” he replied with a faint, sleepy grin, his voice soft and warm. “Because I’m not going anywhere. You’re perfect just like this.” He shifted his weight just a little, wrapping himself around her even more tightly, his breathing slowing as the headache’s sharp pangs finally ebb away. 

As his breath evened out and his weight settled comfortably over her, she felt a smile tugging at her lips. The warmth he radiated felt like a gentle fire melting away her perpetual chill, and she knew—just as much as he needed her cold touch, she needed his warmth, here in the quiet safety of the darkness and silence of her room. 

-------

Taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix , @glaciuswduo , @wolfbc97 , @heeseungthel0ml

[mikamii25]

In his arms (Chuuya fic)

Warnings: Slight angst, Fluff! <3

Chuuya Nakahara x Fem reader!

Summery: You get to go home from work at the PM early, but Chuuya has to stay, and it’s already late. It’s time to go to bed, but you can’t help but miss him. You miss being in his arms.

Word count: 715

more under cut!

“it’s so cold” you say as you hop into bed. You wished he was here with you. God how you wished Chuuya was here. I mean.. you were able to go home from the P.M. early, but it sucked that Chuuya had to stay and go on yet another long mission, that would most likely last all night. All you wanted was him, and that’s all you could think about all you think about. All you could think about were the nights when Chuuya held you close, in a tight embrace, warm and cozy under the covers after a long day at work. The moonlight Shining through the curtains and the wind howling quietly in the night. You missed him a lot. You closed your eyes as you began to think about that night…

.

.

.

“hey babe, I’m home” he said, taking his jacket off and placing it in the coat rack, along with his hat. “Oh, hey Chuuya! I missed you!” You said while walking over to the door to greet him. “God… how do you keep getting let out early? Does mori hate me or something?? Ugh- that bastard. Just can’t catch a break, can I”

You giggled, then spoke again. “I guess not, but im sure he doesn’t hate you. You’re just so good on missions, that’s all. Your good at your job” he giggles a bit “yeah, I know I am, and you are too” he said as he gave you a little kiss on the forehead. “Wow, you made dinner? I thought it was my turn to make something” he spoke while walking over to the kitchen. “Yeah, well.. I knew you were gonna come home a bit late, so I took it upon myself to make dinner instead” you said proudly as you pulled him a chair. Chuuya spoke once again “God, I’m so lucky to have such a sweet girl like you to come home to”

You both sat down at the table and ate the food you prepared. The both of you happily talked about your day, enjoying each other’s company. Afterward, he went to go take a shower and you, who had already took one earlier, grabbed a book you were reading and hopped in bed. About 20 minutes later, he came out of the bathroom, dressed in his pajamas and hopped in bed with you. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, then spoke quietly. “I’m so glad to finally be in bed with you. Been waiting for this all day, darlin'…. Work sucks"

I know it does.. trust me" you say, before yawning. Work did suck. Long hours and stressful missions, but it’s what you had to do. I mean, it wasn’t that bad since you were with Chuuya. He was good at protecting you on missions, even if he knew you could handle yourself. “Well, goodnight love” he said with a soft voice before fluttering his eyes shut. You began to feel your eyes become heavy, so you closed your eyes as well. Safe and sound, in your sweet boyfriend’s arms.

.

.

.

thinking of that night made you want Chuuya even more already, but you began to feel your eyes get heavy, so you fluttered them shut. Clutching onto the covers for warmth as you slowly fell asleep. Still so cold and alone.

an hour later, the door to the house opens, then shuts. Then the door to the room. He threw his stuff in the room and began to undress. Taking off everything except his plain button shirt. Then sliding in bed next to you. He places a warm kiss on your forehead as he speaks. “Hey darlin'.. I’m sorry I couldn’t be home sooner"

he then wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a warm and sleepy embrace. He watches your face light up slightly in your sleep. It seems you have realized that your boyfriend Chuuya is here, even though you’re asleep. God how he loved that pretty face of yours. It made him feel so happy to see you like that. He gently placed his hand on the back of your head and gives you another warm forehead kiss. “Sleep well darlin'…. I love you"

.

.

.

And you both slept well, nice and cozy in each other arms 🧡

[quirefeast]

Please give the fish man food 🙏

Depends!! Do you want sweet?

Or spicy?

Choose wisely >:0

[moraent-keys]

So how do you draw hair? It’s literally so freaking pretty and smooth how you draw it and personally I wanna draw hair like that because I draw boring hair🫶

Before we start- Friendly Reminder: Pretty much all of my art/style, including hair, is inspired by Buxbo!

Other kinds of hair I’ve done

Things I forgot to mention:

Use references!! I use both real life and cartoons

I personally draw hair having a lot of volume and being very thick so it appears more fluffy, I just use really big shapes and draw the hair a little detached from the circle base sketch

I use a mix of stiff and loose lines (as seen w/ macaque) but usually I lean more towards loose

Coloring hair is a whole separate conversation that I’m still trying to figure out myself

My style is constantly changing, especially lately, and I just recently got the hang of doing hair like this! (It took me a year) I’m literally just doing whatever lol

[sleepyy-27]

@dreamy-wolfy it’s the coco chain! :D

Close ups under the cut

[woodsie]

Shadow Yosuke’s Symbolism

I recently got a friend to play Persona 4 and we were talking about the symbolism of each of the character’s shadow selves, when we came to the realisation that neither of us really knew what Yosuke’s was meant to represent.

Chie’s represented her relationship with Yukiko. Yukiko’s her desire for freedom but lack of action in taking it. Yosuke has… a ninja frog…?

So I’ve done some digging.

Official Statements

The first thing I did was look at the official concept art sheet for shadow Yosuke. This primarily detailed that as the first of the shadows, they wanted it to be very obvious that their shadow’s and persona’s were the same thing.

This is done quite well and tells players subtly that they are the same without being obvious.

Jiraiya does look a lot like shadow Yosuke. The main body’s colour is inverted from black (evil) to white (good), the frogs eyes are added to Jiraiya’s head and the frog’s mouth becomes a chest piece, with the frog’s skin pattern carried over to the cuffs of Jiraiya’s clothes.

Jiraiya is easily the most similar persona to shadow. Important for early game. This idea is also helped by Tomoe looking very similar to shadow Chie, and allows the idea of persona’s and shadow’s being the same to be cemented into the players minds before they meet shadow Yukiko who is visually very different to Konohana-Sakuya.

Jiraiya In Folklore

My next step was to look for any symbolism between Yosuke and the story of Jiraiya himself. Granted, as a white woman™️ my knowledge of Japanese folklore is limited but I will summarise my findings and compare them to Yosuke’s story directly.

[Sorry for the weird formatting, I’m working around the 10 image post limit]

Both stories open with a character from an influential background and moving to a new area.

Jiraiya’s stance as a robber could be in reference to the fact that Junes is taking business away from local businesses and their families.

Saki could be taking the place of the woman in the house. Regardless of if she actually likes him, she is kind to him when others are not. This is something Yosuke admires greatly but it still doesn’t prevent Junes from ruining the Konishi’s business.

His shadow self is then a reference to the old man/magic frog. It recognises him from who he is, and although the shadow is hostile its intention is to teach Yosuke about the parts of himself he is trying to hide so he can reconcile with those feelings. This is what allows him to gain his persona, or in other words “teaching him magic”

Gaining his persona is what helps set Yosuke’s resolve and desire to avenge Saki and the others who have suffered due to the killer. He shows a distinct intelligence and is often the one to piece together vital information. Without him insisting they investigate Saki’s murder, the Investigation Team might not have ever existed. In that sense you could consider him a hero.

A good portion of his social link is devoted to him coming to terms with his situation, both around the murders and his place within Inaba. He frequently talks about feelings of loneliness and a desire to be valued, and he finds comfort in having his persona and being able to do something about what’s going on, it gives him some control over his life which he lost by coming to Inaba in the first place. Overtime though he does come to love Inaba as a whole and recognises that it’s the people around you that really make a place special. He’s not alone anymore and he’s far happier for it.

Other Potential Inspirations

In my attempts at seeing what others online think about potential symbolism for Yosuke’s shadow, I found that most people also did not understand what his shadow was meant to represent. However, I did come across a few older threads of people sharing possible ideas.

One of which was of a Chinese story about a frog in a well. The story related to narrow mindedness and limited perspective as the frog is unaware of life beyond the well and is amazed by it when told what it has to offer. This could be a potential reference to his dismissal of country life and him growing to love the town.

[ayoarticulate]

we all need to get together and collectively say “thank you danai gurira” because she did michonne a beautiful justice in this episode

in all the episodes, truly, but especially this one

in the mothership, michonne was incredibly strictly the “badass” character. she was always on go, ready to do the next thing, very rarely did she have vulnerability and softness to her character

this is so so SO common for black women in tv, especially darkskin black women. in this episode, we truly get to breakdown all the shit she went through, especially during her pregnancy, and see her be sad and hurt and all these “soft” emotions about it.

in the main show, it was instantly shown as “oh this thing made michonne into a hardass and she was super strict and mean,” but we never got to her feel any other way about it, or literally any trauma of hers in the show.

in this episode she gets to be open about those events, as well as verbally express the hurt she’s experiencing from rick by him pushing her away like it’s nothing. that is, hands down, my favorite part of this episode.

michonne becomes a full fledged character in this episode, to me. she cries, she gets mad, shes understanding, shes understood, she’s funny, she’s protective, she’s vulnerable, she’s in love, she’s openly loved in returned. she is shown as a real person. and that? that is more beautiful than any scene i’ve ever watched in the entirety of the walking dead.

[phantomsies]

literacy, empathy and nuance are dead fucking arts and there really is no coming back from it.

[185northgower]

Are you. Are you implying there is a BoNace baby date we should write in our diaries?

Okay so technically the answer is no bc I was just being silly 🤓

BUT THEN I was silly for a bit longer so NOW TECHNICALLY the answer is yes 😅😅

Bc if the fic was supposed to be posted on October 27 I calculated that the due date would fall around the 3rd full week in May next year and since it's funny to me l've picked the 24th so the lil BoNace baby can be bday twinning w @madrabit and also be born a day before uncle Jurček (and myself), who'd be ecstatic about that surely 🥰

That also puts the conception more or less on the day of the Summer Well Festival in Romania this year, which I find quite funny tbf

If I did the maths on this completely wrong ignore me and let me know, not that it's really relevant but... yeah 😂

[soft-persephone]

I read ur tags on the video abt drake and Kendrick “not caring about women” in the middle of the rap beef and I totally agree about Kendrick btw. It reminded me of someone i saw on Tik tok who made a video defending Kendrick from the “but he didn’t want r Kelly’s music removed from streaming platforms!” thing and what it turns out it ACTUALLY was about was that Spotify was going to put up a “moral and behavior” policy where they would remove the complete discography of any artist who they found out had a criminal record, which is incredibly discriminatory against all convicted people, no matter what they’re convicted for, and infringes on their 1st amendment rights and just the very human right to make art and have that art be preserved. So it was less about “I love r kelly so much im gonna threaten to take all my music off Spotify if they remove his” and more “this policy is actually infringing on artists’ rights and discriminatory against people with a criminal record.” I’m not saying Kendrick is our feminist messiah but like cmon yall he does not hate women and he’s not just calling out drake for clout

A lot of what Kendrick gets reduced to certain narratives because their are a lot of negative things that come with hip hop, and it does do more harm than good especially in the case with “fake woke” rappers.

I don’t believe in putting celebrities on a pedestal and no person is perfect. Him putting Kodak Black on Mr. Morale did rub me the wrong way. Him dead naming some of his family members rightfully upset some people.

I can’t speak for that, so I won’t because it’s not my place, so I just listen and support those that can.

But all I can really say is, the process of growing and wanting to be better person isn’t pretty. Watching someone unlearn racism fatphobia, transphobia, and etc is never without mistakes.

If we are really advocating for people to be better on all fronts, the response is always anger when we they don’t get it right the first time or show they don’t have a full understanding of it.

What do we really want fork people? We tell them to grow and do better? But if you’ve actually walked someone through that or seen it, why are we getting so mad when they make a mistake along the way.

No it’s not our place to teach them. But if they are making a genuine effort, why not make a quick comment and move on. How does him doing these two things and “fumbling” the narrative for black growth as a man in America by including Kodak black and trying to show him stepping away from transphobia in a more problematic than not way, absolve everything he’s ever done or thinks and do thereafter?

I am not saying these thingsto be derivative. I am asking from a genuine place.

That said, it doesn’t make those things right.

I think he said some quiet parts out loud that he shouldn’t have, but at the end of the day he has to be held accountable. 🤷🏾‍♀️

I don’t think Kendrick has ever said anything in song he doesn’t fully believe. He’s very intentional, that might be the place where people are angry with him because it’s clear these things were done on purpose.

I can’t speak for him as I am just a fan. I may be biased as well, so that may be effecting how I think about this, so I try to be mindful and address that as well.

I try to be responsible and try not to deflect other peoples thoughts, feelings, and opinions on some of these things because they hurt some people and affect more people more than they ever would me and it wouldn’t be right.

But, we don’t know him and we never do, so all we can do is speculate, and some more than others like to choose the worst over any benefit of the doubt because in a man driven world when have they never not have that.

I don’t want to be an enabler to that system.

[uglygirlstatus]

TOMORROW....ITLL ALL BE OVER :(

I’m very genuinely not okay about it. I started Riverdale when it first came out (buzz was huge in my high school during my gr 12 year because classmates were having public Cole Sprouse sightings in the city) but I dropped it at some point during s2. I didn’t like it at first (my teenhood was spent raised on Steven Universe discourse so the show was needlessly edgy and sexy and ‘problematic’ in my eyes) to the point where I got in an argument with my friend who was telling me it was good writing and I was telling her she was objectively incorrect. (Years later I messaged my friend to formally apologize and admit that I was wrong. She replied back to say she didn’t remember the argument and also didn’t care because she stopped watching after s1 and also that that was the first time in our 10 year friendship that she ever heard me admit I was wrong)

I started watching again in 2020 when Netflix dropped the 1.5x speed feature bc I thought that would be a fun way to experience the show and I started it from the beginning again w my sister and mom with a renewed mindset. We rang in 2021 with a three hour Riverdale watch session running over the midnight fireworks outside. We eventually had to banish our mom from watching with us because she didn’t Get It. Asked too many questions. Called it Stupid too often. We weren’t there for that anymore. We were along for the ride. My sister moved out and then so did I (not because of the Riverdale hate. To be clear.) but as season 5 and 6 and 7 aired we watched the new episodes every week together on facetime. Eventually we dropped the 1.5x speed thing in order to properly savour and enjoy it. I talked to all my middle aged coworkers about it against their will. I witnessed literally anything anywhere and thought to myself “just like Riverdale”. Fresh off a nervous breakdown and still trying to cope with the ongoing Covid isolation of 2021, the weekly Riverdale watch sessions were literally the highlight of basically every week for me. and even as life started sucking less over time, Riverdale was still there brightening every week and I loved it and it was Television and it was everything. The last of its kind. I will miss it forever. Probably just never gonna watch tv ever again

[fulltransmetalgenderist]

starting testosterone and having a cute guy to top has made me very interested in butch identities. i'm getting real cool and comfy with my masculinity. however, i'm struggling to learn and navigate my butchness when all the content i see is like "no men >:( lesbians only". im a dude and i love a guy and we both have complicated queer trans identities

I agree with you, the idea that butchness only belongs to lesbianism, and that lesbianism is only the absence of men, both lack nuance and don’t hold up when confronted with trans identities.

When I first knew I wanted to start testosterone and to pass as a guy in public, I had a huge crisis about my sexuality. I love women. so much. and I know, deep in my bones, that I don’t love women the same way that a cishet man loves women. but I was worried that if I start to pass and live as a man, then I would be excluded from lesbianism, because of this assumption that lesbianism is when no men. I felt lost and isolated from both lesbians and trans people. But then I read Stone Butch Blues. And then i found more books. And I read more words written by our queer elders and ancestors, who laid the groundwork for all of the lovely flavors of queer we have today. and I talked to the other queer people around me. and eventually I began to understand lesbianism not as the exclusion of men, but about the active inclusion and centering of women and other gender minorities. This new definition of lesbianism completely changed how I saw my own queer landscape. defining terms by what they are not, isn’t very useful to me anymore, I like defining queer terms by what they do, what they accomplish in a queer community.

So when it comes to being butch: think about the actions a person does that makes them butch. For me, I feel most butch when I can step up and help/protect those around me. I feel like a butch when I can give someone good directions in my city, or when I make sure me and all my friends are taking the right train going in the right direction so all they have to do is chat and be tipsy together and not worry about getting lost. I feel butch when I carry my chihuahua over puddles she can’t jump over and she wags her tail when i bend down to pick her up. I feel butch when I hold my partner in my arms and tell them it’s going to be okay. My feeling of butchness arises when my masculinity can be tender and loving and healing. By rooting my butchness in my own actions, I no longer worry about other people’s definition or conception of butch, because I know that I am actively, every day, doing butch things.

also! lesbians aren’t the only ones who use the term butch, gay men use it too. I love how in love with masculinity queers are, and I love that both lesbians and gay men know that cishet men don’t have a monopoly on masculinity, and that queer masculinity is special and unique and deserving of it’s own wonderful word.

and one last little note: as a leftist I am opposed to all nations, states, and borders. when we queers try making hard and fast boundaries between identities, I fear that we are accidentally making our own nation states that require border patrol and enforcement. and I hate border patrol with every cell of my body. we don’t need that shit in our queer communities. abolish borders. they’re so bad for you.