#anyway this is my first time posting something like this

[hinamie]

there's an art in the dark that took years to refine

[teukiemomo]

It is true I didn't follow the US politics before the election. This is just based on what I've seen so far since the election (since like the debate where Trump said questionable things about dog and cat eating since that kinda blew up everywhere lol):

As far as I know Fox News is Trump's ass-kisser. CNN is the opposite. NBC, MSNBC are anti Trump's dumb things which are... all Trump's things. I'm not sure what their usual stance is before the election, but during the election it was kinda like Fox News vs. everyone (it still is now). And based on what I've seen so far on Fox News their correspondences sound so... insensitive and delusional I'd immediately question their professionalism and therefore no longer trust whatever excuse they make for Trump.

Late night shows hosts are very against Trump. They dissed him every time I saw them on youtube and this is like every night? Some of them do sound unserious so people may disregard them, but Jon Stewart and John Oliver are 2 people whom I think really look into the issues like Project 2025, gun issue, inflation, crime etc. and bring evidences to the table, lots of times, to expose Trump. Both are also very critical of Dems on certain issues but often pointed out how Trump is always the worse option. With that much exposure to Trump's darkness (and, like, with proofs) I honestly thought the result would go the other way. Unless there's something I missed.

Twitter - I know there's an agenda pushed there 'thanks to' Elon Musk but somehow most of the posts showing up on my 'For You' are against right-wing extremists, like I don't even follow, like or retweet any political tweets that should make the algorithm swing that way (and gosh I WISH they could've done the same for my favourite artist, I like him and somehow they only show tweets talking shit about him, like Elon DO BETTER PLZ?) Anyways, my point is, even on a platform that is so blatantly right-wing, I'm still able to see that many tweets (with actual proofs, logical arguments etc.) criticise Trump, warn about Trump and his ppl, etc. that reach huge amount of engagement on Twitter, I was kinda under the impression that whatever right-wing propaganda on Twitter wasn't really working that well.

Trump is just... idk after those 4 years of bad-mouthing everything everywhere, fumbling Covid terribly, leaving White House with a coup, getting into another election running his mouth about dog eating cat eating, 'i'mma do this to women don't matter if like it or not', 'criminals coming from prisons and insane asylums', convicted felony, convicted rapist, proposal to get rid of Dep of Education, performing oral thingy with the mic on stage (??????), etc. Evidences of him doing stupid shit, saying stupid shit are like everywhere, and most things he said can be easily proven a lie by a simple google search. People may be disappointed at the Dems and hate the establishment, but how a man like Trump can be a better choice, under any circumstance, seems... baffling. Lots of ppl seem to choose him for the economy, which actually can be debunked by looking at other countries after Covid and Russia-Ukraine; inflation was a common issue, and the stats showed it's already gone down considerably at the time of the election. To me it just seems very easy to figure out all the arguments Trump used are pretty bullshit: no pro free speech person will bash and threaten to harm people who don't talk nicely about him, no 'America-first' person will ever spread lies and lead a coup, and never trust a multi-billionnaire when he says he's all for the working class.

I'm not saying the US mainstream media is not to blame, or the Dems is not to blame. They should've done a better job, but at the same time, the US is one of the countries where it's easier to see through propaganda. Freedom to access information and opinions from a wide range of perspectives with little restriction is a privilege some other countries don't even have.

I'm not from the US, I only made this comment based on what I've seen, and I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one outside of America who experienced this bewilderment. But if I've missed something, I'm willing to learn.

Gotta admit the headline is a banger.

[dellamortethelesser]

my moots are caterina posting so i wanna post. is this a safe space for me to post about caterina dellamorte without having to give a caveat and acknowledge that child abuse is bad. we know child abuse is bad this is a fictional character. the crows all kill people for money let's be so for real.

anyways i love that there tends to be two schools of thought about her: that she treats the boys the way she does because she did the same thing to her kids and they still failed or she was softer on her kids and she won't make the same mistake this time. it's really juicy either way.

she HELD ON to the position of first talon DESPITE that tragedy happening. she's a massively resilient, political, and intelligent woman and can we really say that what she did DIDN'T properly prepare lucanis and illario for the world of assassins? they're both filling valuable niches (lucanis specifically being trained to kill mages, illario being so good with people and politically savvy) that it gives them more worth being alive than dead if they get caught. WHICH LUCANIS DID. AND THEY DIDN'T KILL HIM.

they don't call her 'nonna' but teia does which is also. doing something insane to my head. whatever. im always thinking about her btw you literally cannot remove her from the dynamic about Why Things Are The Way They Are in the Dellamorte household. which is why i get a little frustrated when i see 300 headcanons on keeping my blorbo beebus away from lucanis... like she probably has a reason for that beyond mean old lady. to me.

she can't take responsibility for illario's fate bc she still loves him and makes lucanis do it by making him first talon. oh my poor boy.

[voidsuites]

MULTI BOT RELEASE !!! (1/31/25) ⌢ ✨ .ᐟ

art donaldson ・゜゜・．noid. tennis has given art everything anyone could ever want— a fulfilling career, you and lily, and countless influential titles and wins— and with him getting closer to becoming a household name, art’s more than aware of his luck. he’s beyond grateful. however, fame’s a double-edged sword and it’s getting harder to both play into the paparazzi and their mind-games and also protect his family, so it’s not a surprise that art loses his temper when those lines finally get crossed. (based off “noid” by tyler the creator!)

bruce wayne・゜゜・．billie bossa nova. underneath all the sneaking around hotel rooms and charity galas, both you and bruce long to be understood for more than just your family names and your money. whatever’s going on between the two of you is merely putting a band-aid on a niger issue, you’re aware, but there’s something about bruce that helps you rationalize the less-than-ideal circumstances. a lot can change in twenty seconds… a lot can happen in the dark. (based off “billie bossa nova” by billie eilish!)

jim hopper ・゜゜・．you’re a fighter. in one moment, all hop had to worry about was you slowly growing more independent and mike wheeler’s insufferable attitude, but now the mind flayer’s set its sights on you and you’ve seemingly lost your powers. setting the mess with the russians beneath starcourt mall aside, hopper’s main priority is making sure you’re safe and away from any more danger. you may be a fighter, but you’re his kid first. (based off “you’re a fighter” by kyle dixon and michael stein!)

joel miller ・゜゜・．western nights. joel knows you’re not supportive of the violent ways he provides for you, but in a post-apocalyptic world morals are put on the back burner while he concerns himself with keeping you both fed, housed, and taken care of. you’re stubborn, he’s stubborn, but you’d never think of taking off and leaving him behind. this time’s no different. (based off “western nights” by ethel cain!)

patrick zweig ・゜゜・．part of your world. mermaids were nothing but a mere children's bedtime story— they weren't real. that’s what patrick’s father had told him since he'd been a boy; that the wondrous creatures he believed in with all his heart were nothing but tall tales meant to put the children of new rochelle to bed with little fight. that’s proven to be false when you rescue him from swimming with the fishes for eternity, and now that he knows your kind is real, patrick just has to learn more. he’ll bring you as many human trinkets for your collection as you’d like if you’d let him be part of your world for a moment. (based off “part of your world” by jodi benson and disney!)

tashi duncan ・゜゜・．bodyguard. wlw. tashi’s always been protective of you since you started seeing each other, but it’s always amusing to see just how worked-up she gets when you’re the center of attention. stanford’s hosting a concert in the park, art and patrick are nowhere to be found, and tashi’s left to keep herself in control lest she “accidentally” scare people off because they’ve looked at you too long. she’ll protect you in the mosh pit, no doubt— but she’s still working on keeping that territorial nature of hers in check. (based off “bodyguard” by beyoncé!)

got a request? go ahead and leave em here :) THANK YOU GUYS SO SO MUCH FOR FOR 10.4K! so excited to get started on my celebration requests— you guys once again are the BEST!!!! i hope all of these are to your liking… but do forgive me if joel is a little too ooc lol i’ve only seen bits of tlou but i tried to capture him right. hehe. i also made a tumblr community for all things voidsuites-oriented 🤭 join yap city if you dare (i’m still figuring out what i’ll post on there but think of it as a communal close friends story on ig haha) anyways i love these characters and i love these songs and i love you all!!!! thank you for making this so much fun for me i’m so grateful <3

[ghostgirl-22]

so i actually need pt 2 to the older patrick younger art fic right NOW.. jk but it was amazing

Y’all. Y’ALL. I heard you. And though I don’t really love writing sequels… I’ll do anything for you honestly <33

Original.

It’s a mess and way too long which is prbly to be expected by now. Idk. Sometimes you just have to get out of your head and post 😭

18+ NSFW

CW: AGE GAP 10-11 years, power dynamics, teacher/student vibes, first time vibes, AND mild daddy!kink whoopsie! How did that happen? Obviously if any of these things make you uncomfortable don’t read. I don’t take it personally. I’ll explain myself a bit. Art in my imagination here didn’t get constantly shown up by Patrick and because Patrick wasn’t there Art got the attention Patrick got for his skills so he’s a little more arrogant (still a little insecure because that’s his core) and still messy. Patrick had the Tashi injury which makes him a little less arrogant (brought down a notch but still overcompensates and actively self sabotages because that’s his core) and still messy.

——

Art is still keyed up the next morning. His roommate, Devon, is bragging about hooking up with a senior. Art is trying to pay attention but all he can think about is how he got on his knees and gave messy head to Patrick, Coach Zweig, his 31 year old ridiculously hot tennis coach. And how Patrick practically promised to fuck him if he was a really good boy all week. He’s sitting on his hands trying not to go crazy.

“What did you get up to?” Devon finally asks him. Picking up his towel and getting ready to shower.

“Can you keep a secret?” Art asks.

That makes him sit back down. “Yeah of course.”

Art tells him about Patrick, most of it anyway, watching his eyes widen. He’s not on the tennis team but he’s heard enough about Coach Zweig from Art that he can’t help giggling.

“You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m not, I swear.”

“Holy shit. And I thought I was doing something with that senior. Wow. This would only happen to you.”

Art isn’t sure what he means by that but he’s suddenly asking a million questions. Art tells him some things, embellishing and withholding various details. The closest Art ever came to actually fucking a boy was when he used to sneak in Devon’s bed whenever he got horny at night. They were so close to fucking when Art made him stop. so he made Art promise to stop leading him on. And now they’re proper roommates with boundaries and everything. Though sometimes Art thinks if he asked for it Devon would still fuck him.

Devon thinks it’s hot, the whole Patrick thing. Thinks Patrick wants to make Art his kept boy. “Well I mean… he’s old and everyone says he’s loaded, right? He can give you whatever you want.” Devon says.

“Please, he wouldn’t even give me his phone number.” Art says dismissively. “And I don’t need to be kept I just need his dick.”

Devon chews his bottom lip looking Art over and Art wonders if he crossed a boundary. He’s so fucking messy with them.

“Lucky him,” Devon says dryly, rolling his eyes. “But maybe you should milk it. You’re young and beautiful and blonde and he’s your coach so it’s like.. it’s kind of illicit. He could get you a nice place off campus… be your sugar daddy. Girls do it all the time.”

“I think he’d kill me if I ever called him that,” Art laughs, making up his mind to definitely call him that at some point.

Devon agrees to come out with him next weekend but he still has to wait the whole fucking week. It feels like torture.

They have practice everyday and a game on Friday. Which means Patrick’s in those short shorts running them around the court every single day. Art can’t keep his mind off of him. Just wants his attention so bad, everyday he’s doing everything he can just to get Patrick to look in his direction. But Patrick’s got an epic poker face. He’s so fucking cool and calm and collected. So good at acting like nothing happened. Like everything is the same and they never did what they did.

There's one difference. Instead of having the assistant coach do it… he’ll bring Art to the side and personally correct him when he thinks Art could play better. Show him how to position himself, swing the racket, follow through. Big hands, rough hands, gripping Art's waist to turn his body, his wrist to direct his swing. The same hands that effortlessly lifted off his lap the other night.

“Can’t be all talk and no action sweetheart,” Patrick says lightly, as he’s standing behind him. God. It’s actually stupid how sexy he is. Art’s never thought this much about being penetrated, ever. He makes sure to arch his back just a little more than he usually does. Patrick presses a hand to the small of his back.

Art fingers the grip of his racket. “I don’t think I was all talk.”

Patrick chuckles, low and soft. “Stop it. Focus. Bring that energy here,” he says, “all that confidence right here and no one will rattle you.”

“Like this?” Art demonstrates. He makes a mess of it just so that Patrick will touch him again. It takes a minute before Patrick catches on.

“I think you get it,” he says dryly.

“Please show me one more time. I just wanna be a good boy for you,” Art says lightly. It makes Patrick swallow… his gaze falls helplessly over Arts body and then he looks away smirking.

“Are you having fun?” He says, leaning in close, eyes all crinkly with amusement.

Art wants to kiss him. “Mmhm,” he hums, pressing his lips together. “Though sometimes it still feels like my mouth is so full of you I could just… choke.”

“Yeah… right…” Patrick rolls his eyes, still smiling and then he takes a deep breath and drags his hand over his beard. “Hm…What’s today?”

“Wednesday,” Art says.

“And my plans for the weekend are still up in the air,” he says, patting Art on the shoulder as he takes his racket and turns to face the team. “Five laps around the court, everybody, let’s gooo!” He says loudly, blowing his whistle. “Fucking hustle!”

There’s an audible groan and the sounds of rackets dropping as everyone stops what they’re doing and starts running. “Go join them. And if you keep it up it’ll be sprints next.” Patrick says softly.

Art grins, as much as he hates running and he’s sure his teammates will assume he’s responsible for this bit of conditioning, it was still totally fucking worth it.

He probably should’ve focused more but he wins on Friday in spite of himself. Tennis is such a mental game and while he’s generally confident and loves the attention that comes with playing as number one on the center stage, he’s not consistent. That’s what Patrick always says at least. There are opponents that leave him feeling less sure of himself and then he tends to get in his head imagining he’s somehow inadequate or deficient.

One of those players is a French recruit from UCLA, Jensen Bordeaux. Art starts out strong. Crushes it in the first set. But when Bordeaux fights back in the second and he falls apart a little. It’s a bad habit. He wins another game but it’s not enough. He ends up nearly going into a third set.

“Remember what I said,” Patrick takes him to the side between points. “Stop acting like you can’t finish him off. You can have whatever you want right?”

Art gazes at him and bites his lip. “Mmhm.” He nods.

“Good. You know what you want. Just take it. Okay?”

“Yeah okay,” Art says breathlessly.

“Good boy,” Patrick says, rubbing his shoulders, a little smirk on his lips. “Try not to… you know… choke.”

Art feels heated from the inside out. He goes back on the court except he’s not thinking about the game. Instead he’s so anxious for the promise of tomorrow night that all this begins to feel like a mere obstacle to that. He makes easy work of it, winning the tiebreaker and shifting it so that Stanford goes home the winning team.

Everyone on the team goes out to a frat party to celebrate and Art is so drunk and horny by the end of the night. He stumbles into his dorm at 1 am, falls drunkenly into bed and starts touching himself. Fingers in his mouth imagining it’s the heavy weight and thickness of Patrick’s cock. Imagining Patrick’s large hands in his hair, imagining the soft, easily amused tone of his voice as he murmurs. “Good boy.” Makes him come so fast and hard he passes out.

He’s a mess in the morning. In more ways than one. They don’t have practice after game days so he sleeps off his hangover and the day flies by. He takes a long hot shower before he gets ready to go. Anxiety and anticipation competing for space in his brain and body. Devon loans him clothes that are so much tighter than anything he wears regularly. “Trust me, he’s gonna be all over you in this.”

They get there at the same time as last week but Patrick doesn’t come right away. Art’s waiting and waiting and waiting for Patrick to show up at the gay bar. Devon is at a table, a new boy on his lap and they’re making out. Art is half tipsy, swinging his legs on a barstool while this guy from the baseball team stands between his thighs asking him everything about tennis like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. And that’s when Patrick finally arrives. He spots Art across the bar and smirks. Art gets up right away, making excuses to the now frowning baseball player about seeing him around on campus.

“That was fast,” Patrick smirks, as Art sidles up next to him.

“Well I didn’t know you’d take so long to come,” Art says, moving closer. “Is that an old person thing?”

”Mm, you…” Patrick chuckles, tapping his credit card on the bar. He’s got such a great smile. God. Art is so far gone. This is tragic.

“Can you buy me a drink?” Art asks in his ear.

“No fucking way,” Patrick says, amused.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously, how many drinks have you had tonight?”

Art holds up 3 fingers.

“Is that how many fingers I’m gonna have to put in before I can… nevermind…” Patrick says.

Art grins. Warmth spreading throughout his body. “It’s really big,” Art whispers. “Maybe you need four?”

“God…” Patrick laughs, incredulous. “I shouldn’t even fucking be here.” He sighs, as the bartender approaches them. He orders a whiskey and because it’s two for one he gives in and lets Art pick something. He orders rum and coke.

Art feels giddy as he sips on it.

“So used to getting whatever you ask for,” Patrick says, looking him over, teasing a finger into one of his belt loops. “Twenty years old. God. You make me fucking crazy.” He whispers in Art’s ear.

Art can’t help grinning.

Patrick makes him wait while he talks to people his own age. Acting all wholesome. “Oh he’s just one of my players, I’m gonna make sure he gets home safe.” He even gives Art the key so he can wait in his jeep. Art’s hard as soon as he gets in it. Listens to music too loud and ponders touching himself.

He’s kissing on Patrick right away when he finally gets in the car. He’s been so eager all week. “Mm…” Patrick pulls back, tangling his fingers into Art’s hair. “Fuck… gimme a minute to get you home, okay?” he says and he turns on the engine and puts the music back at a sensible volume.

“Is it far?” Art asks.

Patrick huffs a laugh. “Take a deep breath.”

It doesn't help. Everything smells like him. Art puts a hand on Patrick’s thigh, his skin is so heated. He remembers how warm Patrick’s cock felt in his mouth and then his mouth starts watering.

“Is Tashi there?” Art sighs.

“What do you fucking think?”

Art leans close, just breathing him in. Resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder. ”She’s so pretty.” He hums.

“I know.”

“You’re so pretty.”

Patrick chuckles, a low vibration Art can feel from his throat that makes him shiver. “And you're so tipsy. And so fucking young.”

“But you like it.” Art says softly, rubbing Patrick’s thigh. Skin so warm he’s like a furnace. Already hard enough that Art can feel it.

”And I know I’m gonna regret it.”

Their house is actually huge. On the nicer side of Palo Alto. It’s one of the ones with a pool and a tennis court and a crazy nice view of the city. Art doesn’t know any of this until later because as soon as they're inside he’s trying to get his tongue in Patrick’s mouth. Patrick walks him back towards the living room where there’s a huge leather sofa. Art climbs onto his lap as soon as he sits down. Patrick is touching him everywhere, fingers tangled into his hair. Hands under his shirt, rubbing him, teasing him. Art is just trying his best to feel him, lick into his mouth and taste him. All while grinding against his prominent bulge. Grabbing at his zipper trying to get it out.

“Can you fuck me?” Art begs against his lips.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes against his lips, he’s gripping Art’s waist tightly. Slowing him down. He sighs like he’s trying to pull himself together. “Mmkay. God. Stand up a minute. I need to get a condom and some lube.”

Art gets up reluctantly, nervous energy making him bounce on his toes like he’s waiting on a serve. Patrick smirks, “Relax… I’ll be back in a minute.” He pats Art’s shoulder as he gets up and disappears into another room. It doesn’t matter whether Art sits or stands, he’s anxious. He looks around the lavish room, fancy furniture, paintings that look expensive. Massive kitchen like the kind you see in movies. Patrick comes back and he’s all loose, t-shirt wrinkled, hair messy, eyes soft. He’s probably done this a million times. He’s got a condom between his fingers which he hands to Art.

“You wanna put it on me?”

”Mmhm,” Art says. He’s also carrying a little bottle of lube. Art’s trying to rip the packet open but his hands are all shaky. Especially when Patrick lifts his t-shirt off, he’s so solid, strong biceps, chest hair that gets darker condensed down the line of his stomach to where his jeans are unbuttoned. Art wants to lick it.

“Okay,” Patrick settles on the sofa, kicking off his shoes. “Give me that, you pretty little virgin and take those clothes off.”

Art hands him the condom a little embarrassed, and starts undoing his jeans. Kicks off his shoes and peels off his shirt so he’s only in boxers. Patrick bites open the packet and eases his jeans down and his cock out. Art takes shallow breaths watching him roll the condom on. It’s so big the condom is a magnum size and it fits snug. He’s heard horror stories about first times, even read a few on Reddit and he’s starting to feel a little panicked.

”Look at you.” Patrick says softly, eyes dragging slowly down Arts body. He pulls Art onto his thighs, god he has thick muscular thighs, Art can’t help wiggling. Patrick’s got him close so their cocks line up, and his palm is covered in lube and he’s gripping them both at the same time. It feels so fucking good Art thinks he might come too fast. He’s moaning, eyes squeezed shut when Patrick stops. Art opens his eyes to see Patrick wetting his fingers with more lube and slips a thick calloused finger back along Art’s entrance. Art feels himself seizing up as Patrick presses slowly inside.

“Take deep breaths,” Patrick whispers. Advice Art tries to follow but it just feels so crazy. He eases another finger in and Art tenses even more.

“Mm if your so fucking tight, I can’t fuck you sweetheart.”

“Does it hurt?” Art whispers.

Patrick takes a breath. “Yeah a little at first… but I think I can make it feel a little…uh better…”

Art shivers, his body suddenly overrun by pleasure as Patrick’s teasing his fingertips deep inside him. Art can hear himself moaning voice suddenly pitched so high he barely recognizes it. “Please… please… “he begs. “Please fuck me… fuck me… fuck me daddy.” Art gasps, losing himself as he’s riding the sensation.

“Fuck… what did you call me?” Patrick whispers.

Art bites his lip, his body heating up immediately with embarrassment. “Mm sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to… I meant like sugar…” He says softly as Patrick slowly pulls his fingertips out. Art is breathless. Patrick doesn’t look mad but his expression has gone heady.

“Fuck… I can be daddy if you need it,” Patrick breathes. “Come…sit on daddy’s dick. Holy shit. What are you doing to me?”

Art swallows, his stomach doing flip flops for the way Patrick says it. He sits up on his knees, he can feel Patrick lining up. It actually feels like a lot. Like way too much. Impossible to take. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut and watering feeling the insane stretch as he sinks so fucking slowly down on it.

“Oh god,” he keeps whispering over and over like a prayer.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes. His hands gripping Art’s waist.

He’s anxious moving slowly, gripping tightly, it’s too much, he’s too full. And Patrick starts to adjust him while gently rubbing his tummy. “Relax… lets try this angle,” Patrick whispers. Fucking into him in a way that he starts hitting that pleasure spot deep inside with even more intensity. “Good… good boy…that’s right…breathe… breathe… keep breathing… fuck…” Patrick coaches. And then slowly as it happens Art is moaning, bouncing on his lap just to feel it hit over and over and over and over again.

“I wanna… mmm I like it so much. wanna do it all the time,” Art moans nonsensically as he’s riding, not sure what’s happening, just that he’s seeing stars. “I wanna fuck you all the time. All the fucking time. wanna fuck you at school… during practice. In your bed. Wanna be your boy toy. Play with your big dick. Fuck me, oh fuck… fuck me daddy, daddy please. It feels so fucking good.”

“Jesus,” Patrick groans he barely grips Art’s cock and he’s coming loudly, spurts of it covering Patrick’s chest and his own. He can feel Patrick still pressing up into him, it suddenly feels like way too much. Every movement making him shake with how sensitive it feels and then Patrick stills, swearing over and over, gripping Art’s body tight and burying himself deep. Low gravelly sounds against Art’s ear.

”Fuck,” Patrick gasps, breathlessly. “Oh… god. You’re so… fuck I’m so screwed.”

“Mm,” Art collapses against his chest, running his fingers down Patricks soft chest hair all painted with his jizz. His knees are all sweaty and sticking to the leather but he doesn’t really care. He just wants to be close. Patrick is gently rubbing his lower back and it feels amazing. Art can feel him softening and slowly slipping out of him, he thinks he might fall asleep like this.

“You okay?” Patrick asks.

”Mmhm,” Art says.

“You sure?”

”Yeah. Can we do it again?”

“God,” Patrick laughs. “I need at least five minutes and I need you to get up cause I gotta piss.”

“No,” Art whines, unhappy about anything that means he won’t be warmed by Patrick's body heat even for a second. He wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders.

Patrick chuckles. “I can’t go anywhere?”

“No,” Art says. “You’re my pillow.”

“Guess I fucked your virgin ass good,” Patrick says.

“For an old guy,” Art says softly, smiling against Patrick’s throat.

“For your daddy, you little freak…” Patrick says gently, squeezing his ass. “Come on, get up or we’re gonna have a bigger mess to clean up.”

Art groans and unwraps his arms. “Can I come?”

“To piss?” Patrick raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Art nods.

Patrick smirks and rolls his eyes before gently curling his fingers into Arts hair. “Yeah sure, come on.”

Art kisses him and he sighs into Arts mouth. “I need a fucking cigarette too.”

“Can I stay over?” Art asks against his lips.

“Mm…” he ponders and sighs. “Fuck it I don’t know why I bother pretending to set boundaries with you…” he says, helping Art to his shaky feet. “Tashi will be home tomorrow afternoon. So you know… better not sleep too late.”

Art grins at him. “Does she know about me?”

“Does she know that after I finally got a good job as a tennis coach at my old school that I’m this close to losing it because I can’t help fucking my barely legal 20 year old star player? No actually. She doesn’t know.” He says dryly.

Art laughs. “I wouldn’t tell. But I mean imagine if I slept with you both. I’d learn so much about tennis.“

Patrick snorts, “This kinda talk is gonna make me take you home tonight actually…”

“Mm too late. You let me call you daddy,” Art grins. “You’re never getting rid of me.”

[mixolya]

ᓚᘏᗢ — golden hours, golden hearts : chapter 017 !

you stared at your reflection in the mirror, head tilted slightly as you debated your next move.

should you put in effort? do your makeup, wear something decent? or should you just throw on a hoodie and go in your pyjamas? 

technically, this was a business arrangement, not a date. just a simple conversation about rules and boundaries. nothing that required anything more than the bare minimum.

and yet ...

with a sigh, you grabbed your concealer and quickly blended it under your eyes. just enough to make yourself look awake. then mascara. a tiny flick of eyeliner. a swipe of tinted lip balm. there. casual but put-together.

for your outfit, you settled on something comfortable but still presentable: bootcut jeans, a long-sleeve, your warm puffer jacket, and a scarf. 

once you were satisfied, you checked the time and grabbed your phone and headed out. the crisp air bit at your cheeks as you walked, but the warmth of your scarf and the quiet hum of the city made it a pleasant trip.

when you stepped inside the café, the smell of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon greeted you. you scanned the room, easily spotting sae at a corner table. 

he sat by the window, casually scrolling through his phone, dressed in a dark sweater.

your steps slowed when you noticed the two cups on the table in front of him.

you approached with a raised brow. “did you meet someone before?”

sae glanced up at you, then at the cups, before shaking his head. "no. it's for you.”

you blinked.  "oh.” 

yeah, oh.

you hadn't expected that.

you slid into the seat across from him, eyeing the cappuccino for a moment before saying, “i could’ve gotten it myself, you know.”

"obviously," he looked you in the eye, "but you recommended it so i assumed it's your favorite drink here."

you sighed, wrapping your hands around the cup anyway. it was warm against your fingers, and you hated how thoughtful it was.

"thank you," you said. 

you leaned back and exhaled, sae eyeing you. 

"so, rules. we need rules."

sae quirked a brow. "rules?"

"yes, rules. it's lowkey a deal, no? i don't want things getting messy."

a flicker of amusement crossed his face, but he nodded. "go on."

"no kissing," you said immediately. "no hand-holding unless absolutely necessary. nothing more than just.. being near each other."

his lips twitched like he was holding back an amused smirk. “okay...”

“you do know couples are supposed to act like they like each other, right?”

"well, some things are fine. just nothing over the top. and if we post about each other, we have to ask first."

sae sipped his drink, eyes never leaving yours. "what else?"

"that's it for now," you said, watching him carefully. "what about you?"

sae leaned back in his seat, fingers lazily tapping against his cup as he regarded you with an unreadable expression. “nothing, really. i'm fine with whatever.”

you blinked, taken aback by how unbothered he seemed. “seriously?”

he shrugged. “yeah. you're the one who seems worried about it.”

“i am not worried,” you scoffed, though the way he was watching you, like he could see right through you, made you shift slightly in your seat.

his lips twitched, this time not bothering to hide his amusement. “right. not worried.”

you huffed, gripping your cup a little tighter. “this is my reputation too, you know. i just don’t want things getting out of control.”

sae tilted his head slightly, his gaze still locked onto yours. “and what would ‘out of control’ look like to you?”

you hesitated. the idea of people actually believing the two of you were in love, of the media twisting stories, of fans picking apart every interaction - it was a lot. but more than that, you weren’t sure you wanted to deal with whatever it meant to be associated with sae itoshi beyond just this agreement.

“just… unnecessary drama,” you settled on, not wanting to over-explain.

he studied you for a moment before nodding. “alright. no unnecessary drama.”

you narrowed your eyes. “you're agreeing too easily again.”

“would you rather i fight you on it?”

“…no.”

“then quit complaining.”

you exhaled sharply, bringing your drink to your lips in an attempt to mask your frustration. this was already exhausting.

sae smirked, clearly entertained by your reaction. “relax. you're making it sound like this is a life-or-death contract.”

“it might as well be,” you muttered.

he chuckled, and the sound was low and brief, but still enough to catch you off guard. you hadn’t expected him to laugh.

you shook your head, pushing past the thought. “fine. since you apparently have no concerns, i'll just assume we’re sticking to my rules.”

“sure,” he said, finishing the last of his coffee. “but i do have one request.”

you tensed slightly, wary. “…what?”

he placed his empty cup down, leaning forward just enough that you could catch the flicker of something  in his gaze.

“if we're going to do this, you have to at least pretend to like me.”

you lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

sae tilted his head, watching your reaction with quiet amusement. “think you can handle that, superstar?”

you stared at him, trying to figure out if he was serious or just messing with you. but sae didn’t waver, his expression calm, expectant. the flicker in his gaze was something you couldn’t quite place, something challenging, like he was daring you to say no.

pretend to like him?

you huffed, setting your cup down a little harder than necessary. “i think i can manage,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “can you?”

his smirk deepened, like he had been waiting for you to say that. “obviously.”

your eyes narrowed. “you don’t even like people, sae.”

“i like some people,” he countered.

you scoffed. “name one.”

for a second, he just looked at you, something unreadable flickering across his features. but then he leaned back again, casually stretching his arms along the back of the booth. “wouldn't you like to know?”

you rolled your eyes, deciding not to entertain whatever game he was trying to play. “as long as you don’t make it obvious that this is fake, i don’t care what you do.”

sae tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp but still unreadable. “you think people will doubt it?”

you hesitated, because yeah, you did. you and sae itoshi weren’t exactly the type of people the world would naturally put together. even if your name had been linked before, it started because of him saying that you were his celebrity crush. it wasn't supposed to develop into something more. 

you were stubborn, fiery, and always said exactly what you meant. sae was… well, sae.

“i think people will find it hard to believe that you’d put up with me,” you admitted.

sae hummed, considering your words. then, with the most irritating smirk, he said, “i think people will find it hard to believe you don’t already have a crush on me.”

you choked on air. “pardon?”

he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “you're the one who insisted on rules. you're the one making this complicated. almost like you don’t trust yourself.”

yozr jaw dropped. “you are insufferable.”

his smirk didn’t fade. “and you’re avoiding the question.”

you glared at him. “for the record, i do not have a crush on you.”

sae's gaze softened just a fraction, but his amusement remained. “sure, superstar.”

you exhaled through your nose, trying not to let him get to you. “are we done here?”

sae glanced at his watch before nodding. “yeah. i'll text you details about the wedding.”

“great,” you muttered, standing up and grabbing your coat. “looking forward to it.”

this was going to be hell.

chapter 016 > here > chapter 018

taglist is open ! <3

back to golden hours, golden hearts

a/n: is anyone good at digital art bc im losing my mind at these graduation shirts my classmates did wtf is this

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© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[hjvi]

𝙉𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙜𝙞𝙖 PART 2 part one (optional)

Pairing: Bf!Chris x Fem!Reader

Summary: After the breakup, Chris reaches out to Y/N's therapist, desperate to understand what she's been sharing post-split, hoping to find a way to fix things before it’s too late.

Warnings: Smut. MDNI. Heartbreak. Angst.

Word Count: 8k

CHRIS POV

The sunlight streams through the blinds, forcing its way into the room and pulling me from a restless sleep. For a split second, I feel the warmth of it on my face and instinctively reach my arm across the bed.

“Good morning,” I mutter softly, my voice thick with sleep.

But the bed is cold. My hand grazes nothing but empty sheets, and reality hits me all over again. She’s not here. She hasn’t been here for weeks.

The hollow ache in my chest flares up again, as it does every morning, but I push it down, swallowing the lump in my throat. I throw the covers off and sit on the edge of the bed, my hands in my lap as I stare at the floor. For a moment, I just sit there, unmoving, as the weight of it all presses down on me.

I eventually force myself to stand, dragging my feet as I make my way to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink catches my eye, and I hesitate for a second before looking into it.

The reflection staring back at me doesn’t even look like me anymore. My eyes are sunken, dark circles heavy beneath them from the countless nights I’ve spent tossing and turning. My hair sticks out in every direction, unkempt and messy, like I haven’t cared enough to fix it. My skin is pale, almost lifeless. I look like a ghost of the person I used to be.

I grab my toothbrush and start brushing my teeth, the minty taste sharp on my tongue. I stare into the mirror as I do it, unable to look away from the version of myself staring back at me. The movements are automatic, robotic, like I’m just going through the motions because I have to.

Rinsing my mouth, I splash some cold water on my face, hoping it’ll wake me up or at least make me feel something. The water is icy, shocking against my skin, but it doesn’t help. I dry my face with a towel, toss it onto the counter, and take a deep breath.

I head back to my room, pulling on the first clothes I can find—a hoodie and some sweats. I don’t even care if they match. What’s the point? No one’s going to see me anyway.

The stairs creak as I make my way down to the kitchen. The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. I grab a glass from the cupboard, fill it with water, and lean against the counter as I drink. The cool liquid soothes my dry throat, but it doesn’t do anything for the heaviness in my chest.

The sound of footsteps pulls me out of my thoughts. I glance up to see Nick and Matt walking into the kitchen. Great.

They exchange a quick look before Nick speaks up. “Chris, you can’t keep going on like this.”

I don’t respond, staring down at the glass in my hands.

“You need to figure something out. This can’t keep going forever,” Nick continues, his voice firmer this time.

“If you love her, why did it end?”

That question cuts through me like a knife, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. My grip tightens on the glass, and I feel the lump in my throat growing, making it harder to hold everything in.

The pause that follows is deafening.

“Chris, I’ve never seen you like this,” Nick says, his voice softer now, like he’s trying to reach me. “Please talk to us. We’re only here to help you.”

I shake my head, barely processing his words. It’s too much. Talking about it means reliving it, and I don’t think I can do that.

Matt steps forward, his tone more encouraging. “Well, you need to talk to someone—anyone. Maybe a therapist.”

The word therapist hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve only been to therapy once, back when our parents practically dragged me there after I was first diagnosed with ADHD. I hated it. Sitting in that office, spilling my guts to a stranger who pretended to care—it felt fake, forced. Like I was just paying someone to nod and tell me I’d be okay.

I glance at Matt, shaking my head again, but his words stick with me.

Therapy.

I set the glass down on the counter, my mind drifting to her—Y/N. She used to go to therapy all the time for her anxiety. I remember the night she opened up to me about it. We were sitting on her bed, the room dimly lit by the string lights she had hanging along the walls. Her voice was shaky, and she kept fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie as she told me about the things she struggled with—the intrusive thoughts, the overwhelming panic that came out of nowhere.

I remember holding her, my arms wrapped tightly around her as I whispered that I’d always be there for her. That I’d help her through it.

And she believed me.

She started going to therapy less and less after that. She told me that being with me made her feel safe, like she didn’t need it anymore. Like I was enough.

But now…now I’ve become the source of her pain.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the memory, but it’s no use. Her face is burned into my mind, the sound of her laughter echoing in my ears like a ghost.

An idea suddenly hits me, sparking something in the back of my mind.

She must’ve gone back to therapy after that night. After the things I said, after I ruined everything, there’s no way she didn’t go back.

A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips—something I haven’t felt in weeks. If I can figure out who her therapist is, maybe I can get some answers. Maybe I can convince them to give me something—anything—to help me figure out what’s going on inside her head.

I know it’s a long shot. I know it’s probably not even allowed. But at this point, I don’t care.

This might be my only chance to fix things. To make things right. To get her back.

And I’m willing to do whatever it takes.

I slam the car door shut and storm into the house, my mind racing a hundred miles an hour. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I don’t even know if it’s from the frustration, the anxiety, or the sheer desperation clawing at my insides. My hands are shaking—I don’t know if it’s from the cold air outside or from the weight of what I just found out.

I need to find something. Anything.

I rush up the stairs, skipping two at a time, barely able to breathe as I push my bedroom door open. The room is dark, only the dim glow of my lamp spilling light over the mess I’ve been living in. Clothes are piled up in the corner, my bed is still unmade from this morning, and the air is heavy—like it hasn’t been touched by fresh air in days.

I don’t even hesitate before I start tearing through everything. I yank open my drawers, throwing out crumpled-up receipts, random guitar picks, and old Polaroids I don’t have the heart to look at right now. My hands move frantically, shoving aside hoodies and sneakers as I dig through the mess, my breathing uneven.

Then, I stop.

A hoodie—her hoodie.

Ralph Lauren, navy blue, the one I used to steal from her even though it was already oversized on her tiny frame. My fingers graze over the soft fabric, and I swear I can still smell her on it. Vanilla, mixed with the faintest hint of lavender shampoo.

My throat tightens.

I set it aside gently, like it’s something fragile, before continuing my search. I check under my bed, my closet, the nightstand. My hands skim over the remnants of us—the lip gloss she left behind, the hair ties, the tiny silver ring she used to wear on her thumb before she started playing with it too much and lost it between my sheets.

She never asked for them back.

A sharp pain twists in my stomach, and I have to sit down on the edge of my bed. My hands press against my knees as I stare at the floor, my thoughts spiraling.

She never asked for any of it back because she doesn’t want to see me.

She doesn’t even want to be reminded of me.

I imagine her in her room, sitting on her bed, maybe curled up with her knees to her chest like she always did when she was anxious. I can see her phone on her nightstand, face down, waiting for a notification that never came. Waiting for an apology that never left my lips.

I clench my jaw, squeezing my eyes shut. Why didn’t I call?

I should’ve said something. Anything. Even if it was just to tell her I was sorry.

My fingers dig into the fabric of my sweatpants as I try to breathe through the guilt.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see it.

A small orange bottle, half-hidden underneath a pile of clothes.

I reach for it, my hands trembling as I pick it up. The label is worn, slightly smudged, but the name is still visible—Y/N L/N. My eyes scan the rest of the text, and my stomach drops when I see the words printed in bold letters:

Prescribed by Dr. Callahan.

My heart pounds in my chest.

I turn the bottle in my hands, my thumb tracing over the edges of the label. She hasn’t been here in weeks. If this is still in my room, that means she hasn’t been taking her medication.

Has she been okay without it?

The thought makes my chest tighten uncomfortably.

I exhale sharply, standing up so fast the room spins for a second. I grab my phone from my nightstand, my fingers typing the number on the bottle into my phone.

I hit call.

It rings.

My leg bounces as I wait, my free hand gripping the bottle like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality.

Voicemail.

I grit my teeth, but then I notice something—Dr. Callahan’s website.

I pull it up, my eyes scanning the screen so fast that the words blur together. The address is listed at the bottom. My heart stutters in my chest as I read it over and over.

I don’t think. I just move.

I grab my keys and rush out the door.

The waiting room is too bright, too clean, too quiet. The sound of the receptionist typing on her keyboard is the only noise filling the space, and it’s driving me insane.

I shift uncomfortably in the chair, my foot tapping against the floor. My hands are clenched into fists in my lap, and I’m pretty sure my knuckles are turning white.

The door to the office finally opens, and Dr. Callahan steps out. She’s a woman in her late forties, dressed in a blazer, with a calm but unreadable expression. She looks at me, then at the receptionist, and back at me.

“Christopher?” she says, her voice even.

I stand up so fast the chair scrapes against the floor. “Yeah.”

She glances at the receptionist before nodding for me to follow her. I do, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The office is small but warm, the walls lined with bookshelves and framed diplomas. There’s a couch, a chair, a desk—everything you’d expect in a therapist’s office.

She sits behind her desk and gestures for me to sit. I do, leaning forward, elbows on my knees.

“I don’t usually take walk-ins,” she says, folding her hands together.

“I know,” I blurt out. “I just—I needed to talk to you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “About?”

“Y/N.”

Her face doesn’t change, but I swear I see a flicker of something behind her eyes.

“I can’t discuss—”

“I know. I know, you can’t tell me anything confidential,” I interrupt, my voice shaking. “But I just—I need to know. Is she okay?”

She exhales, tilting her head slightly. “Chris, I understand that you’re worried, but I can’t disclose any details about my patients.”

I swallow hard, gripping my knees. “Please. I don’t—I don’t know what to do.” My voice breaks slightly, and I hate myself for it.

Dr. Callahan studies me for a long moment before sighing, leaning back in her chair.

“What I can tell you,” she says carefully, “is that you should return her medication.”

I stare at her, my stomach twisting. “So… she’s okay to see me?”

Dr. Callahan’s expression doesn’t change. “No. Do not go yourself. Maybe leave it at her door.”

I clench my jaw. “Why?”

She exhales again, standing up and grabbing her coat. “Because she’s not ready to see you right now. You really hurt her, Chris. That’s all I’m going to say.”

The words hit me harder than I expect them to. My throat feels tight, my chest aching like someone’s squeezing it.

I nod slowly, standing up.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

She doesn’t respond, just watches me as I turn and leave the office.

When I get home, I’m exhausted.

I drop my keys on the counter and run a hand down my face, exhaling slowly. The conversation replays in my head, over and over, until I can’t take it anymore.

I grab my phone.

I dial her number.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Voicemail.

I call again.

And again.

And again.

Thirty times.

Nothing.

I grip the phone tightly before finally pressing the voicemail button.

“Hey… it’s me,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I—uh, I have your medication. I just wanted to—” I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I just wanted to see you. Just for a second. Please call me back.”

I hang up, staring at the screen.

The silence is unbearable.

I can’t stop thinking about her, about what Dr. Callahan said.

I’ve hurt her. Badly.

The thought of her sitting alone, trying to get through each day without her medication, without me, makes my stomach churn. She’s struggling, and it’s because of me.

I hear voices upstairs.

Nick’s laugh echoes faintly down the hallway, followed by the sound of Matt’s voice, a little louder, more animated. I know exactly where they are—Matt’s room. They’re probably streaming or recording, trying to keep the channel alive while I’ve been... well, absent.

I climb the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. When I reach the top, I pause for a second outside Matt’s door. I can hear them laughing, joking with each other like they always do, but there’s something in their tone that feels... forced.

I push the door open without knocking.

The room is lit by a neon blue light strip that lines the walls, casting an eerie glow over everything. Matt is sitting in his gaming chair, his headset on, while Nick is sprawled out on the bed, scrolling through his phone.

They both look up the second I step inside.

“Chris?” Matt says, pulling off his headset. His eyes widen when he gets a good look at me.

I probably look like shit. My hair’s a mess from running my hands through it so many times, my hoodie is wrinkled, and my eyes feel swollen from the lack of sleep.

Nick sits up straighter, his brow furrowing. “Dude, you good?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, stepping further into the room. I can hear the faint chatter of the Twitch stream coming from Matt’s computer. A quick glance at the screen shows the chat scrolling rapidly, the viewers probably wondering what’s going on.

Matt looks from me to Nick and back again before turning to his setup. “Uh, guys, hang on a second,” he says into the mic. “We’ve got a little... interruption here.”

“Don’t stop,” I say quickly, my voice hoarse. “I don’t care if the camera sees me.”

Nick and Matt exchange a look, their worry written all over their faces.

“You sure?” Matt asks carefully.

I nod, collapsing into the chair next to him. My legs feel like jelly, and the moment I sit down, it’s like all the exhaustion hits me at once.

Matt adjusts the camera angle slightly, so I’m in the frame now. The chat immediately explodes with messages.

“Yo, it’s Chris!” “Where have you been???” “Are you okay???” “Chris, we miss you!”

Matt clears his throat awkwardly. “So, uh, I know you’re all wondering what happened to Chris and why we haven’t been uploading with him...”

Nick’s elbow jabs into Matt’s side so fast it makes me flinch. “Shut up, dude,” Nick hisses, his voice low enough that the mic probably didn’t pick it up.

I glance at the screen, trying to focus on the chat, but the words start to blur together. My chest tightens, and I feel the familiar sting of tears welling up in my eyes.

I swallow hard, leaning closer to the mic. “Hey, guys,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

The chat goes wild again.

“Chris!!!” “Where have you been???” “Are you crying???”

I force a shaky smile, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here lately,” I say. My voice cracks, and I quickly clear my throat. “I miss you guys more than ever, and I hope to see you all normally again very soon. I just haven’t been feeling my best.”

The words come out heavier than I expect. They’re for the fans, sure, but deep down, I know who I’m really talking to.

Her.

I glance at the screen again, trying to focus, but the tears keep blurring my vision. My hands grip the edge of the desk, my knuckles turning white.

“Guys, if you can hear me,” I say, forcing a small laugh to mask the emotion in my voice, “let me know.”

Matt glances at me, his concern obvious, but he doesn’t say anything.

Nick shifts uncomfortably on the bed, his eyes darting between me and the screen.

I lean back in the chair, running a hand through my hair. My heart is pounding in my chest, and my mind is racing. What if she’s watching? What if she sees this?

The thought is almost too much to handle.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket.

I freeze.

For a second, I think I’m imagining it. But then it buzzes again.

I pull it out slowly, my hands trembling as I unlock the screen.

My breath catches in my throat.

It’s her.

Come over.

Nothing else.

My heart skips a beat, and for a moment, I can’t move. My eyes stay glued to the screen, rereading the message over and over again.

Nick and Matt are both staring at me now, their faces a mix of confusion and concern.

“I... I gotta go,” I say abruptly, standing up so fast the chair nearly tips over.

“Chris, wait—” Matt starts, but I’m already out the door.

I fly down the stairs two steps at a time, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of my chest. The phone is still clutched in my hand, the words "Come over" seared into my brain like a lifeline.

I don’t stop moving. My thoughts are a chaotic mess, but one thing is crystal clear—I need to see her. I need to see her now.

In the corner of the living room, there’s a small duffel bag stuffed with her things—things I couldn’t bring myself to give back. A hoodie she left the last time she slept over. A scrunchie she pulled from her wrist and tossed on my nightstand. A few bracelets, tangled together in a messy knot. I grab the bag and toss it over my shoulder,my hands shaking so much I almost couldn’t manage the zipper.

Her scent lingers faintly on the hoodie, and it hits me like a gut punch. My chest tightens as I pause for a second, staring down at the bag. What if this is the last time? What if she’s only calling me over to finally cut all ties?

I shake the thought away and slip on my sneakers, not even bothering to tie them properly. The laces drag across the floor as I grab my keys and practically sprint out the door.

The night air is cold and biting as I get into my car, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. The drive to her house is a blur. The streets, the headlights, the soft hum of the engine—all of it fades into the background.

The only thing I can focus on is her.

Her voice, soft but firm, echoing in my head: "Come over."

I don’t know what to expect when I get there. Is she angry? Sad? Does she want closure, or does she want to talk? The possibilities swirl around in my head, each one more nerve-wracking than the last.

My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white, and I couldn’t stop glancing at my phone on the passenger seat, just to make sure I hadn’t imagined the text. The world outside blurred together—the glow of streetlights, the faint hum of other cars, the dark silhouettes of houses passing by. It was all background noise to the storm of emotions inside me.

As I turn onto her street, my palms grow clammy, and I swipe them against my hoodie. Her house comes into view, and my stomach twists into knots. The porch light is on, casting a soft glow over the front steps, but the windows are dark.

I sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel and staring at her front door. My breath came in shallow gasps, and I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. My phone buzzed faintly in the passenger seat, but I didn’t look at it. The only thing I could focus on was the faint light spilling from her living room window.

What do I say? What if she slams the door in my face? What if she doesn’t even open it?

She’s inside. The thought sent a jolt through me, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. I glanced at the bag sitting in the passenger seat, its weight feeling impossibly heavy. Her things. Pieces of her that I’d clung to for far too long, desperate to hold onto anything that reminded me of her.

I grabbed the bag and stepped out of the car, the cool night air biting at my skin. My breath formed small clouds in the crisp winter air as I made my way to her front door, each step feeling heavier than the last. The strap of the bag dug into my shoulder, but I barely noticed it. My entire focus was on the door in front of me—the barrier between us that I was so desperate to cross.

I stopped in front of the door, my hand hovering over the doorbell. My fingers trembled as I hesitated, the fear of what might happen next threatening to overwhelm me. What if she slams the door in my face? What if she doesn’t even open it? What if this is the last time I’ll ever be this close to her?

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to press the button. The faint chime of the doorbell echoed through the quiet night, and I stepped back, my heart racing as I waited. The seconds stretched on, each one feeling like an eternity.

The walk to her front door feels like it takes hours. Every step is heavier than the last, my heart pounding harder with each one. I can feel the chill of the night air seeping through my hoodie, but my palms are still sweaty, my fingers gripping the strap of the bag like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

When I reach the door, I pause, staring at it like it’s some kind of unbreakable barrier. My hand hovers over the doorbell, my breath shaky.

This is it.

I press the doorbell, the sound echoing faintly inside.

For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happens. The silence is deafening, and I feel my heart sink. Maybe she’s changed her mind. Maybe she’s upstairs, ignoring me, deciding I’m not worth the trouble.

But then, I hear it—the soft sound of footsteps approaching the door.

The knot in my stomach tightens as the lock clicks, and the door creaks open just a sliver.

And there she is.

She looks... different. Tired, maybe. Her eyes are slightly puffy, like she’s been crying, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her frame, and her bare feet peek out from beneath the hem of her sweatpants.

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.

God, I missed her.

“Hey,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t say anything. Her gaze flickers to the bag slung over my shoulder, and her lips press into a thin line.

“I, uh...” I clear my throat, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “I brought your stuff. I figured you might want it back.”

Her eyes soften just a little, but her expression is guarded.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice so quiet I almost don’t hear it.

I set the bag down gently on the porch, my hands lingering on the strap for a second before I straighten up.

The knot in my stomach tightens as the lock clicks, and the door creaks open just a sliver.

And there she is.

She looks... different. Tired, maybe. Her eyes are slightly puffy, like she’s been crying, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. Loose strands frame her face, wild and untamed, as if she’s been running her fingers through them all night. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her frame, the sleeves falling past her wrists, and her bare feet peek out from beneath the hem of her sweatpants, toes curling slightly against the hardwood floor.

Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.

God, I missed her.

My throat goes dry. It’s like my brain short-circuits at the sight of her, my body forgetting how to function for a beat too long.

“Hey,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t say anything. Her gaze flickers to the bag slung over my shoulder, and her lips press into a thin line. There’s hesitation there, a wall built between us, but I see the cracks in it—the way her fingers tighten on the edge of the doorframe, the way her chest rises and falls just a little too fast.

“I, uh...” I clear my throat, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of myself. “I brought your stuff. I figured you might want it back.”

Her eyes soften just a little, but her expression is guarded, like she doesn’t know whether to let me in or push me away.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice so quiet I almost don’t hear it.

I set the bag down gently on the porch, my hands lingering on the strap for a second longer than necessary before I straighten up. There’s so much I want to say, so much I need to explain, but the words knot in my throat, tangled with all the emotions I haven’t been able to process. I swallow roughly and turn to leave, but then—

A tap on my shoulder. Gentle, hesitant.

“Chris,” she says, barely above a whisper. “You can come in... if you want.”

Her voice wavers slightly, but the invitation is there. A lifeline I never expected.

I nod, stepping inside carefully, like the floor beneath me might give out at any second. The second I cross the threshold, nostalgia slams into me so hard it almost knocks the breath from my lungs. The familiar scent of her home—vanilla candles mixed with the faintest trace of her perfume—wraps around me like a ghost, pulling me under. My chest tightens as my eyes flicker around the space, absorbing every detail.

She leads me to her room, her fingers gripping the bag tightly as if it’s the only thing keeping her steady. When we step inside, I notice everything at once—the unmade bed, the pile of clothes on the chair, the half-empty water bottles on the nightstand. It looks... wrecked. Torn apart. A reflection of how she’s been feeling, how she’s been surviving without me.

My stomach twists at the realization.

I sit beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. She places the bag in front of her, hands trembling slightly as she unzips it. She doesn’t say anything at first, just starts pulling out her things one by one, setting them on the bed between us. Her face is unreadable, emotionless, but I see the way her fingers hesitate over certain items, how her breath catches when she picks up something tied to a memory.

Then she freezes.

A small, plastic box sits in her palm. Plan B. Her fingers tremble as she lifts it, her other hand brushing over the familiar silver foil of a condom wrapper.

Her expression shifts. Confusion. Realization. A flicker of something deeper, something more painful.

I feel my throat close up.

Shit. I hadn’t meant to put those in there. I wasn’t thinking—I had just shoved everything into the bag, desperate to get out of my house, desperate to see her. But now, sitting here, watching the way she looks at me, I realize what I’ve done. What this means.

The weight of it crashes down on both of us at the same time.

Me returning these things wasn’t just about giving her stuff back. It was a silent message. A quiet, unspoken truth that neither of us wanted to face.

This was me saying we’d never be that close again. That I’d never hold her against me like she was my entire world. That I’d never press my lips to her skin, whispering promises into the crook of her neck. That I’d never watch her breath hitch, her stomach hollowing out as she lost herself in me.

The morning she was hungover and wanted me to make love to her—it was the moment I broke. The moment I left. And now, this moment? It was the silent echo of that pain.

She inhales sharply, her eyes darting to mine.

“Chris...” she starts, voice unsure, awkward. “I—I’m sorry for... you know... that night. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Her voice is small, fragile, and it shatters something inside me.

I shake my head, cutting her off before she can keep talking. Before she can say something that might break me even more.

“No,” I say, my voice thick, heavy with emotion. “Don’t. Don’t apologize for that. That’s not... that’s not what this is about.”

She blinks at me, confused, but I don’t stop. The words pour out of me, messy and desperate and raw.

“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, my chest tightening. “For everything. For the way I handled things. For walking away when all I wanted to do was stay. I love you so much, and I don’t know why I did that. I was just—I was upset. I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you. That you thought I was too much, too clingy, because I know I can’t stop. I don’t know how to stop when it comes to you.”

Her lips part, her breath shaky, but I don’t let her interrupt. I can’t. If I stop now, I’ll never say it.

“It took everything out of me to not make love to you that morning,” I whisper, voice cracking. “Everything. Because it wasn’t just about that—it was about us. About how much I love you, about how much I need you. And now, I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know where we stand, I just—I can’t do this, I can’t live with the thought of never being able to touch you again—”

My voice catches, and I choke back a sob, my hands gripping the edge of the bed so tightly my knuckles turn white. The emotions are too much, overwhelming, consuming.

But before I can finish—

She moves.

Her hands cup my face, fingers threading into my hair, and then—

Her lips crash into mine.

It’s not soft or hesitant. It’s desperate, full of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every moment of longing that has torn through us like an open wound. She kisses me like she needs me to breathe, like I’m the only thing keeping her alive, and God, do I feel the same way.

Her lips are warm, soft yet demanding, moving against mine in a rhythm we lost but are now rediscovering. I groan into her mouth, my hands finding her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. There’s no air, no space, nothing between us except months of aching desire and the overwhelming need to feel her against me again.

Her tongue flicks against mine, and the taste of her—sweet and intoxicating, like vanilla and something uniquely hers—makes my head spin. My hands roam over the familiar curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, relearning her body like a map I had once memorized but was forced to forget.

I need her. Now.

Without breaking the kiss, I grip the back of her thighs and lift her effortlessly, pressing her against the wall. She gasps into my mouth, her fingers tugging at my hair as her legs wrap around my waist. My body presses against hers, every inch of me molding into her as if we were never meant to be apart.

I barely register the feeling of air brushing between us as I pull back just long enough to look at her. Her eyes—those big, beautiful doe eyes—stare into mine, wide and filled with so much emotion it nearly knocks the breath out of me.

I devour her.

My lips trail from her mouth to her jaw, down to the sensitive spot on her neck I know makes her shudder. I hear her breath hitch, feel her heartbeat hammering against my chest, and I smirk against her skin, pressing another lingering kiss right there, just to hear that soft whimper again.

I can't get enough of her.

With one swift motion, I pull us away from the wall and toss her onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. She looks up at me with wide, hazy eyes, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

God, she’s beautiful.

I strip my shirt off in one quick motion, and her gaze follows the movement, her lips parting slightly as she watches. Her fingers reach out, featherlight, and trail down my chest, hesitating over the bruises from the fights I’ve been in, before tracing straight down to my v-line. The soft touch sends a shiver down my spine, my stomach tensing under her fingertips.

I cage her beneath me, hands on either side of her head, our faces so close I can feel her breath on my lips.

“I missed you,” I murmur against her lips, punctuating my words with soft kisses along her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone. My voice raw, filled with every ounce of longing I’ve held inside. “I love you so much. You have no idea.”

She shudders at my touch, her fingers threading deeper into my hair as she whispers, “Me too.”

Her hands slide up my arms, over my shoulders, threading into my hair as she pulls me down, our lips brushing once more. “I do,” she whispers against my mouth. “Because I missed you just as much.”

Her eyes flicker up to mine, full of longing, and I can’t hold back anymore. I cage her beneath me, my arms bracing on either side of her head as I hover just above her lips.

“I love you,” I whisper, brushing my nose against hers. “I love you so much.”

Her breath hitches, her fingers sliding up my arms, tracing the curves of my biceps. “I love you too.”

I trail kisses down her throat, moving lower, pressing my lips to the soft fabric of her sweatshirt. My hands slip under it, fingers grazing the bare skin of her waist, feeling the way she trembles beneath me. I slowly lift the material, kissing each new inch of exposed skin as I go—her sternum, her ribs, the delicate dip of her stomach. I can see her breathing unevenly, her stomach hollowing in and out as I press a lingering kiss right above her navel.

Her sweatpants are loose around her hips, and I hook my fingers into the waistband, pausing just long enough to look up at her. “Is this okay?”

She nods, but it’s the way she looks at me—her eyes locked onto mine, so vulnerable yet so trusting—that makes my heart nearly stop.

I tug them down slowly, letting my fingers brush against her thighs, and as I do, I catch sight of a small birthmark on her inner thigh. My lips curve into a soft smile, and I lean down, pressing the gentlest kiss right against it. Her breath catches, her fingers clenching into the sheets.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, my voice low, reverent. “So, so beautiful.”

Her lips part slightly, her chest rising and falling with deep, shaky breaths. I play with the delicate bow on the waistband of her panties, twirling it between my fingers, the gesture light and teasing. A memory flashes in my mind—her doing the same with the drawstrings of my hoodie the night everything fell apart. My throat tightens.

She watches me closely, her gaze never wavering, her eyes holding an intensity that makes my whole body burn.

I let my thoughts spill out, my voice raw, unfiltered. “I’m gonna give you exactly what you wanted that night.”

Her breath stutters, her fingers reaching up to thread through my hair as I tease my lips over the sensitive skin of her waist. I let my hands explore her gently, my fingertips tracing over the curves of her hips, lingering at the edge of her panties as I drag my mouth across her skin. She whimpers softly, her legs shifting beneath me, and I smirk against her stomach.

“Patience,” I murmur, pressing another soft kiss to her ribs. “I missed you, let me take my time.”

She lets out a soft, frustrated sigh, her fingers tugging slightly at my hair, but I don’t give in just yet. I kiss lower, my lips teasing along the waistband, my breath warm against her skin. Her breathing grows more erratic, her hands clenching at the sheets as she bites down on her lip.

Then I see it—a dark patch on the fabric of her panties. My smirk deepens as I drag my fingers over the damp spot, watching the way her thighs tense at the teasing touch. My lips ghost over her hipbone, pressing soft, lingering kisses before moving inward, tracing along the delicate lace trim.

I press a kiss right against the soaked fabric, feeling her entire body tremble beneath me. Her back arches slightly, a small whimper slipping past her lips. I hum against her, the vibrations making her shudder even more. My fingers toy with the waistband, pulling at it ever so slightly before letting it snap back teasingly.

“You’re so sensitive,” I murmur, my lips trailing back up to her ribs. “So needy.”

She lets out a strangled whine, her fingers gripping my hair tighter. I chuckle softly, running my nose along the crease of her thigh, pressing another open-mouthed kiss to the birthmark I adored. I flick my tongue out, just barely grazing the skin before pulling away again.

She gasps, her head tilting back, frustration written all over her face as her chest rises and falls with every heavy breath.

I lift my head, locking eyes with her, watching the way her pupils are blown wide with need. “Tell me what you want,” I whisper, teasing the bow on her waistband once more.

"I want you Chris, nothing but you."

I tuck my head into the crook of her neck, nuzzling her gently.

I feel her smile against my skin, and my heart swells.

Y/NS POV

His fingers were buried to the knuckle inside your cunt, brushing against a spot he knew better than you did yourself. You rode down against his palm, looping your arms around his neck, allowing yourself to whine against his throat as he pumped his fingers inside of you.

“Cum on my fingers, baby.” He murmured against your hair, hand tightening its hold on your hip as he moved his fingers within you. “Let me take care of you.”

Your brows furrowed together, hips stuttering in their movement against his palm. You could hear the soft rumble of laughter in his chest as he helped you regain your pace, muttering something incoherent as your whines turned into keens, your lips parted against his throat as you clutched onto the back of his shirt for purchase.

“Good girl.”

That was all it took for you to come undone, crying out his name against his neck as your cunt spasmed around his fingers. He pressed kisses to your forehead as you rode his fingers through your orgasm, his thumb never stopping its circling of your clit until you whined through breathless words for a moment to breathe.

You could audibly hear the sound of your arousal as he removed his fingers from your cunt, both digits coated in a thin veneer of your cum. He looked at you, smiling wickedly as he pressed the fingers to your lips. You quickly opened your mouth, tasting yourself as he pushed his fingers into your mouth, nearly touching the back of your throat in the process. You noticed his breath deepening, pupils blown as he watched you suck his fingers clean.

“Missed that mouth.” He hushed out, words breathless as he withdrew his fingers from your mouth. You leaned up then, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pressed your lips to his. His tongue sought yours, the kiss full of hunger and need, teeth clashing, and moans swallowed. You could feel his hard cock straining against his sweatpants, each shift of your hips on his lap causing him to all but whine into the kiss.

His hands moved to the waistband of your panties, trying his damnedest to tug them off you as you straddled him, only for him to pull away with a frustrated, “Help me take these off of you before I rip them off.”

You laughed, lifting yourself as your hands moved over his, removing your underwear, items of clothing falling to the floor with a soft thud. Your hand curled gently around his cock, lazily pumping it as you returned to kissing him.

He moaned into your mouth, brows furrowing together as your thumb swiped over his tip. It wasn’t long until his touch on your hips grew needy, thumbs pushing into your hip bones in a silent plea for you to get on with it already. You’d half a mind to make him wait, but you needed him just as badly as he needed you. With a short lift of your hips, you guided him to your entrance, sinking onto his thick cock seconds later.

The stretch had you whining against his lips, slick sounds pooling from between your thighs as you slowly rocked down against him, each movement of your hips bumping your clit against his lower stomach. You could feel his thighs tensing beneath you, muscles flexing in tandem with each canter upward of his hips, pushing him deeper within you.

His hands guided your hips, breaths coming out as short grunts whenever you’d squeeze around him. You could feel his cock dragging inside of you, brushing against that spot that had your thighs twitching under his hold. He trailed his lips from yours to your jaw, breath hitching against your skin in between open-mouthed kisses to your throat.

It was slow, passionate - everything you’d missed in the months he’d been absent. You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers threading through the back of his hair as you rode him. He kissed down your throat and onto your chest, free hand moving up to cup your breast. You tightened your hold on him, head falling back as he bent his legs, planting his feet against the mattress as he fucked himself up into you.

The new angle and urgency had your cunt squeezing around him, legs giving out beneath you as he continued fucking you. He let out a breathless laugh, hands moving to your hips, essentially pushing you forward to rest against his chest as he rutted up into you, each thrust of his cock brushing against your g-spot in an almost blinding sense of pleasure.

Your hands blindly grasped at his shoulders for purchase, uttering pleas for him, words soon turning into incomprehensible sobs as the pleasure left you unable to do anything other than whine out his name against his chest. You could feel your cunt fluttering around him with each thrust of his hips, the movement causing you to rock forward, clit brushing against his lower stomach.

“You hear that?” He grunted out lowly, grasp on your hips tightening to an almost painful degree. “Hear how desperate you sound for me?”

With a strangled cry of his name, you came undone, cunt spasming around his cock as he pumped into you. You went limp against him, eyes squeezed shut as he fucked you through your orgasm, whispering words of praise against the shell of your ear as he chased his release inside of you.

“So fucking good.“ He grunted, words followed by a sharp thrust upward, tip pushing against your cervix as he flooded you full of his cum. You whined against his chest, feeling his cock twitch inside of you. As he caught his breath he lifted his hand, gently cupping your jaw to tilt your head back, eyes searching yours to ensure you were alright.

“‘M okay.” You whispered, voice barely audible. He nodded, sighing out a lungful of air as he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead. You rested back against him then, shifting your hips slightly to make yourself comfortable - or as comfortable as you could be with him still nestled inside of your cunt.

“Just-“ He started, wrapping his arms around you to ensure you stayed put. “Just stay there, I’ll carry you to the shower later.”

A faint laugh left you as you allowed him to hold you close, knowing neither of you had the strength to move from the bed anytime soon. You’d have to call the front desk and get clean sheets once you did, but for now, you were content resting against him, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat echoing within his chest.

“I love you.” You whispered, moving your head to press a kiss over his heart, earning you an affectionate hum as he ran his fingers through your hair.

“I love you too, doll.”

A/N: Hey everyone! I just wanted to apologize for the delay with Part 2—I've been dealing with some heavy writer's block lately. On top of that, I'm working on multiple fics and writing requests, so it’s been a bit overwhelming. Thank you so much for your patience and for sticking with me! I’ve never written from Chris’s pov before, so any constructive criticism is more than welcome! I really appreciate you all taking the time to read my work! 💖

tags - @swagalicious260 @watercolorskyy @coquettechris @lovesturni0l0s @christmastreecake @ellbowmacaroni @blog-luvdance @sophand4n4 @meg4-matt44 @mommymomm @chriss-slutt @humpster35 @courta13 @idkwhatthisis2009 @yourfavoritefangirl @slutformatt17 @watercolorskyy @mylifeisevenstranger @suyqa @junnniiieee07 @thecrawlys

╰┈➤𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒚, 𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒊

[messrsrarchives]

last sunday i was feeling very melancholic and had spent the night on call with my nan for hourssss talking about my transition. she stayed up with me for hours, we spoke about everything from my childhood signs, to my discovery, to my exploration and starting hormones etc etc, we spoke about everything.

but really it felt a bit like a funeral, that's how she described it. she said it felt like a eulogy of what it could have been because that entire phone call started with me saying i need to Stop. she got a random message from me asking if she'd be by my side if i detransitioned, so she called me and we spoke about so many things i hadn't told her before - all of the harrassments, the comments, the friendships that ended that i've pretended haven't for years. literally everything from the stabbing attempt last year to the friend that blocked me when i posted about my first day on T.

literally my entire life in this one phone call and she ended it with "just give it one more day". there's a small dent in the wall from my phone now because,,, what an infuriating reply, right? one more day. one more day??? no, i need to make a choice now? i'm so tired of waiting for things to make sense, i did that for years and then it Did and then it all fell to pieces because even One More Day is one more than they want me to have.

and then the next afternoon i set off to go to my seminar, and i'm walking along listening to a voice note i recorded over and over and over. one to be sent to my friends so that i don't have to type it. one that said it will take a while until i look like "myself" again, and i know this makes no sense to them and i'm glad it doesn't, but that they need to stop calling me robyn. a voice note, because it's easier to say my deadname than to see it written down. i don't know, it feels more official in letters. like maybe if i hear it enough it will blend in with every other sound. and i'm listening to this over and over in the hopes that i can build up the courage to send it.

and i step onto the bridge towards class, not looking where i'm going and i walk straightttt into someone and i'm all apologetic and i'm crying from the voice note and i'm a wreck but i walked into someone else who was typing on their phone

and there's a lil trans sticker on the back of it. and i've never seen this person before ever but they adjusted my tote bag on my shoulder because i was still apologising profusely and i said "i'm sorry" and they said "me too"

and i know we were talking about the crash. i know it's not what they meant because that's not what we were talking about but. idk. it's dumb and there's probably something poetic about us stepping onto the bridge at the same time and managing to bump right into each other but all i know is that they had a trans flag sticker on their phone and they smiled and they said "me too" and,,, idk. rambling.

but sometimes it really is just one more day. that's all you need sometimes. and sometimes you have to tell yourself that everyday, and that's okay. because other times you'll literally and physically bump into another trans person and they'll say "me too" for something entirely unrelated, but it makes you feel a little less alone regardless.

anyway, i'm saved in their phone as Robyn now and i think that's pretty cool actually, we're getting lunch together soon

[accio-victuuri]

my thoughts on xz’s spring festival debut and loch 📝

“Every role leaves something in me or takes something away from me. The character of Guo Jing is very powerful. His perseverance and persistence subtly gave me a lot of support and faith later on.” - xiao zhan

just a few disclaimers before i start:

1. i’m a cpf. this is a cpf blog but i also identify as xz and wyb’s career fan. meaning i care about the impact of their works to the general public. i’m tagging this post with xiao zhan on it cause it’s mainly about him, but if you already hate cpfs, then save yourself the trouble and scroll along. if you still read this and wanna say something, do it on your own blog.

2. this is not the place to compare xz and wyb’s spring festival bo debuts. nor is this a place for conspiracies.

3. i haven’t watched loch. i am not well versed in the whole lore behind it.

okay, now i can start 😅😅😅

As soon as XZ was announced to play the role of Guo Jing in Tsui Hark’s new movie — we all knew that it’s a great opportunity and at the same time, a huge responsibility. Legend of The Condor Heroes is a beloved story/franchise with multiple remakes so this movie had to bring something fresh to the audience. Tsui Hark is a celebrated director, but it’s not a guarantee of excellent results. I’m personally not familiar with his works ( yep, cause i’m uncultured lol ) so at the time i was okay, cool. However, i trusted the people both fans and the public who had mostly good things to say.

It was also pretty obvious that this movie will be screened during Spring Festival. It’s a no brainer. A big IP and movie like this should be released during the biggest box office day in China.

You also have Xiao Zhan. The god of wealth. A traffic star who brings in the money and is a talented Actor. He also has a solid and dedicated fanbase.

However, to those of us who are familiar with how the SF box-office works, fans alone cannot sustain it. The key is to capture the General public’s favor to grow the numbers and to get more cinemas to screen your Movie during the SF holiday. They call it “word of mouth” — when people give good reviews, more people will be encouraged to give it a try. If you are someone on SF holiday, you can probably watch 1-2 ( 3 at most possibly ) movies from the lineup. So it’s critical that LOCH will come up as something you would wanna watch based on what you read online ( or offline ) even if it’s not your 1st choice. I was hoping LOCH fans will come in, but i was also afraid cause they will be the most critical. They know the source material, they possibly watched all the iterations, so they will be the toughest to please.

The showing came later than we anticipated but it was fine. Editing and all the special effects always take up most of the time anyway. ✨

Weeks before the holiday, Nezha 2 announced it was gonna join the Spring Festival line up. This alone was a sure bet that this movie was gonna dominate the Box Office. no question. It’s a popular character and a family-friendly film. A first choice kind of movie if you will. There’s also Fengshen Part II with it’s own set of fans and considering how big the first movie earned, you would think they were gonna come back for Part II.

LOCH still prevailed tho, The pre-sale numbers dominated 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

in reality, these are mostly fans. which is not a bad thing at all. having LOCH at the top of the pre sales creates a good buzz around it. if you are someone thinking of what to watch, and don’t know much about the line up, it would be good to pick the most anticipated film 🫶🏼

(this photo does not represent the final numbers before opening)

I wanna add too that this year’s promotion for SF movies is next level. They have really done well in making sure that the public knows what movies are out there for them to watch.

The first day for a movie like LOCH with a big pre-sale will show a small rise because people who wanna see it on Day 1 mostly have bought it already. It was still steady tho, It broke 14 box office records which is mostly for the martial arts genre ✨

There are also mostly positive reviews about XZ’s performance like this one ( i will share more on my blog as they come ) and critics. Which is fine. we know it’s not gonna be all praises anyway. One review that went high up on HS was from Nanfeng daily, which is more of a discussion on the story’s flaws. I won’t share it here anymore, but the article was talking about the weak plot and how the two leads having basically no chemistry. I also looked into this other blogger ( who is pretty consistent with reviews and not just one who popped up lately ) one which I think fairly described the shortcomings —-

The film adapted the content of chapters 34-40 of the original novel. It is a story about the integration of the martial arts world into the post-war world, involving the love line of Guo Jing and Huang Rong + the national war line + the martial arts line. The main part of the martial arts line is the previous situation before the 34th chapter, which is the foreshadowing of love and war. It can't be less, nor more. The question that needs to be considered here is how to explain so many martial arts stories before, flashbacks? Arrange information in the lines? Connect events and insert back? Or is there a more clever method?

As a result, The Legend of the Condor Heroes didn't think so much, and just went straight to the "PPT". The first hour was a long, fragmented and incomplete account of the story, and the two leading actors took turns to read the narration to tell the previous story. This is not called The Legend of the Condor Heroes, but "Reading most of The Legend of the Condor Heroes in x minutes".

This is not enough. I don't know if Tsui Hark is taking revenge on someone. It's already a PPT, and the two protagonists are reading letters to each other in the air, with narration superimposed on narration. The audience is like a class in the first half.

AGAIN. I haven’t watched the movie but I think, i get where this going. It seems to me that the screenwriter should have done better. Xiao Zhan can only do so much hard work and bring in talent, but if the story is all over the place, it’s gonna be hard to market to a random viewer.

As of writing, LOCH is on HS and the topic is about the supposed deleted scenes. Getting rid of those didn’t help the flow of the story obviously. There is a post going around that talks about that I will partly share below:

In the original script, Guo Jing's expedition to the west and return to the south are closely integrated. The complete character arcs of all the main characters in the movie, the Western Expedition is also in the film.

The film has spent a lot of effort and resources to visualize Wu Mu's will, war, and animals. The essence of the play, this entire section was taken away for review, and a lot of the plot needs to be reviewed later. The dubbing of the previous part continues, and some memories and inserts of the previous part are added. The broadcast becomes even more fragmented, resulting in incoherent plots.

Guo Jing experienced the suffering of all living beings in the war, and Huang Rong's role of leading the Beggars' Gang is gone, and the early adaptations make it even more miserable.

Some of the character arcs are incomplete.

Then it goes to talk about the cuts ( censorship ) caused by sensitive subjects that may cause diplomacy issues.

We still have a few more days for things to take a turn and I will update this blog for that. LOCH can also run even beyond this season and get more Box Office numbers. I have to admit this post i’m making is premature cause we are only days in, but by experience, the early days will usually tell you what’s gonna happen moving forward.

( as of writing, nezha leads with 1.5 billion and loch at 500 million )

A few more points:

• The film was promoted heavily around Tsui Hark being the director. It didn’t live up to expectations and this is why some negative reviews are coming. This is such a big production with lots of moving parts and it seems like it didn’t all fit. Some antis are saying that XZ fans are “blaming” again but this time i guess it’s valid. i’m not saying XZ was perfect either, i’m sure there is room for improvement but he can’t fix the story.

• 🍤🍤🍤 were too confident. it’s not a secret that I have no love for these sea creatures but they were boasting a lot. AND NOW HERE WE ARE.

this has always been my frustration. the karma is getting them. but is also directly affecting XZ who worked hard on this film. who didn’t tell them to do these nasty things. i also see people who wouldn’t even consider LOCH cause at some point 🍤🍤🍤 were rude to their bias before.

it’s like, people wanna see the 🍤 fandom fail. not xz. just the nasty 🍤🍤🍤 who offended a lot of people online at some point.

my god. they really don’t deserve XZ 😭😭😭😭

• the issue of unfair screening times and slots are also being brought up by fans. all i have to say is, welcome to the spring festival clownery. welcome to the movie world, you all must be new here. it doesn’t mean people can’t complain and be frustrated. what i’m saying is LOCH isn’t the first movie to experience this. it happens every year. it happens every big film holiday. this is not the land of dramas where streaming and rating works. Movies are different. if there is anything I learned, it’s more vicious.

• some are also complaining about cinemas refunding their tickets saying there is technical issues. only to find out that they are replacing the showing for a different movie. this is so shady 💀 but again, it’s all about the money. T___T

• the theme of the movie is also not popular at the moment. TH was saying it’s time to bring back films & stories like this again. I found this article that explains my point:

Jin Yong is an idol of previous generations. In their eyes, he has gradually become a tall but distant statue. Tsui Hark's embrace of Jin Yong's IP again is an outlet for the film market to seek a breakthrough in the predicament. He tried to add mainstreaming, genre innovation, traffic stars and other means to revitalize Jin Yong's IP. There is a logical component, but there is also the possibility of success and risk.

The younger generation of audiences who are not Jin Yong fans have not actually broken off their understanding of the martial arts spirit, but they have chosen new works as carriers. For example, the audio novel "Snow Sword" labeled as "martial arts novel" has been played 2.92 billion times on a certain platform, which is far more than the number of audio books of Jin Yong's works. To some extent, the "traditional chivalry" written by Jin Yong is quite different from the "cool martial arts" that the new audience likes, which combines magic, games, and VR.

In fact, from the pre-sale results to the current box office results, it can be seen that the market and the audience still have high expectations and sufficient space for martial arts themes. The altruistic spirit and noble character naturally carried by the martial arts spirit will still make young people curious and have a strong desire to follow and imitate. For the filmmakers, the difficulty of the creative challenge is far greater than the market opportunity-the care and empathy for individual growth, the assumption of social responsibility, etc., still need the work to provide a new interpretation.

After Jin Yong passed away, someone said, "It's not the end of an era, it's the beginning of an era." What this sentence means is that the spirit of martial arts will never become obsolete, but it needs to be updated from time to time. In addition to constantly exploring new forms of expression of martial arts, we must also strive to find new soil for the spirit of martial arts to land. Only in this way can the spirit of martial arts remain high and vigorous in the hearts of generations.

• the goal for xz ( and wyb ) is to be popular and liked by the general public. having a solid solo fandom definitely has it perks but situations like this — they should have a good reputation. the movie/drama must also be exceptional for it to “get out of the circle”. a movie they make should not be “a movie for fans” but for everyone to enjoy.

Let me wrap this up with some good news tho, because international fans can make a difference. To the countries that are going to have screenings, you can contribute by watching and sharing your reviews! 💕 it’s the essence of fandom, to enjoy the content and be happy with the experience. it’s too easy to get caught up with the competitive nature of the SF movie season cause it’s a favorite topic on weibo, but it’s better to celebrate Xiao Zhan’s Spring Festival Movie debut 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

I have absolute faith in XZ’s strength as an actor and that time will tell us the truth. right now, the black propaganda is strong cause they have to manipulate public opinion really quick ( i’m not saying all negative reviews are antis but you know what i mean & viewers are expected to be extra critical of XZ cause of how famous he is! ). His talent will shine through. He will have more movies/dramas that are gonna be better than this and we are here to support him. Box-office numbers is not the measure of XZ’s success in playing Guo Jing. I haven’t seen it but knowing XZ’s care for the characters he plays, seeing the training he went through — he did him justice.

-END.

[forever-141]

A Push In The Right Direction.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley X FemReader (Mentions of John MacTavish)

TW: Some Angst. Mentions of Johnny’s passing.

(This is my first post. Work was boring and I’m pretty sure my time of the month is coming. Not sure where the thought came from and I’m 100% positive there are more like this but my brain was in overdrive today and needed to do something.)

They all knew who you were. Johnny’s pretty little bird they called you. Soft, curvy, and always so lovely whenever he brought you around for functions or random get togethers with the team. It had been no surprise to them when he showed up at the last dinner he shared with them, preening about how you had said yes when he asked you to marry him a few days ago, forcing you to flash the ring he had slipped onto your finger to everyone.

Life seemed to be going in the right direction. At least for a little while anyways. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to be the one to tell you that Johnny passed away on their last mission. Simon stood at your door, arms never feeling heavier than at that moment.

He could still recall the scream that left your throat when he told you and handed you his dog tags. Simon knew the tags should have gone to his family, but deep down, he needed you to have them. That scream, and the sight of you clutching your chest while trying to keep yourself upright by holding onto the door was a sight that haunted him, both awake and in his nightmares.

After Johnny’s passing, you had disappeared. Simon knew it was for the best. He couldn’t possibly know what it was like to lose the one person you thought you were gonna spend the rest of your life with, but if he did, he’d disappear to.

Almost 2 years had passed since it all happened. Simon had spent a good majority of that time keeping his head afloat. He had been going to therapy because Price had mentioned it would be a good thing for him. Which prompted him to take some time away from his job, from what he called, the normal.

His last therapy session had turned into a conversation of “wanting to get away for a bit” and that’s exactly what he had done. He had heard that Johnny’s family had given him a spot in their cemetery plot, no body, just a simple marble header with his name, the day he was born, and the day he passed, the usual.

That’s how he found himself walking into an unfamiliar area, rows of rock, marble and other memorable works of art that left small bits of information about those who were buried here. The only thing in his hand was the black balaclava with the white skull markings he always used to wear. “Somethin’ to leave on Johnny’s grave,” he had kept telling himself.

Simon had been able to get a hold of one of Johnny’s sisters, asking for the location of where they placed his header. As his feet took him further, he could feel himself getting heavier and heavier with each step. But those steps stopped the moment he found what he was looking for.

It was like all air had left his lungs the moment Johnny’s gravestone came into view. But it wasn’t because he had finally made it, no. It was because his gaze landed on something he never thought he’d see again. Something that made his entire world flip upside down.

You.

He stared at your standing form, eyes glued to the marble piece in front of you as you spoke to Johnny like he was there. Simon was about to move in when you shifted just enough that he caught a glimpse of a young child cuddling against you in your arms.

Simon’s eyes landed on the small human who was staring back at him. Johnny’s eyes, piercingly bright blues, stared back at him. A small babble of happiness spewed from the young boys mouth which caused you to turn and come face to face with someone you thought you’d never see again.

“S-Simon?” You stuttered out, your eyes wide as the large brooding figure just stood there, unable to rip his gaze away from you or the little one clinging to the collar of your sweater. You could see the gears turning inside of his head.

“Is…is that..” He couldn’t even get the words out that he wanted to say. His legs forced him closer, closing the distance between your frame and his. “Johnny’s?” He finally croaked out. His gaze followed the slow nodding of your head before turning back to look at the little boy.

His heart was beating like a drum behind his ribcage, hands all of a sudden had become sweaty as his grip on the balaclava tightened. You were scared for a moment at the sudden switch in his demeanour, but it quickly went away when his arms encircled your shoulders, pulling you in for a tight hug, being careful not to squeeze the boy in your arms.

Simon wasn’t even sure why he was holding you, but there was a small voice in the back of his head telling him he needed to. “You didn’t tell anyone,” he had finally said, his voice straining to keep the emotions at bay. “I couldn’t,” you remarked in a whisper, “please understand why.”

Letting go of you, Simon side stepped around you and gently laid the balaclava over the curve of his gravestone, smoothing out the fabric. “Let me help take care of you.” The statement caught you off guard and as you went to say something, he stopped you by raising a hand.

“Just let me do this, for Johnny, for you, and for...” he continued, motioning a hand to the little one who was the spitting image of his father. “Please.” You could see the turmoil in his eyes. He had to do this, not for Johnny, but for himself.

“Okay,” you replied softly, your lips curving up into a warm smile. “John,” you said suddenly, your eyes still locked on the large dark ones that were still on yours, “His name is John.”

[rekino2114]

How about 3 with fem kaiser and male reader

I imagine she'd give you a blue rose bouquet

Fem!kaiser giving you a bouquet and chocolate

Valentine's prompt #3

Prompts list

Pairing:fem!Michael kaiser x male reader

A/n:my first Valentine's Day post, and it's with one of my favorite characters to write for

"I-i'm sorry ma'am but we don't carry-"

"Tch"

Kaiser didn't even let the florist finish her sentence, a sentence that she had heard way too many times in a day. She hated when people repeated things to her, especially if it was something she didn't want to hear

"I should have expected that, this place is so trashy anyway"

The woman she was speaking to wanted to say something, but she knew better than to talk back to one of germany's most famous and important football players and people in general which was currently looking at her like she could buy this entire store 5 times and still have enough money to afford the incredibly expensive box of chocolates she was holding, which was actually very true

Kaiser sighed and simply walked outside of the store, not saying anything else. She sat on a bench inside of the mall she was in and ran a hand through her hair sighing even more heavily, she knew she fucked up and this was all just her fault.

She knew she shouldn't have waited until the last day to try to get the bouquet, but she was overconfident just like she was in football except that there her skills backed her confidence up but in this occasion there was no skill she could make use of, just the unpredictable mechanism of luck.

Unlike most holidays (Christmas especially), Michelle actually likes Valentine's day, sure it's cheesy and corny, but she can't deny that ever since she started dating you, she has become a bit cheesy and corny herself, giving you a blue rose bouquet every month with a note entitled to "my emperor💙" constantly showering you in praise and compliments and still using pick up lines even after years of dating but that's what feeling love for the first time ever does to a person. Kaiser loved you, and you deserved nothing short of perfection....which was exactly why she was disappointed that she couldn't give it to you today.

Her usual blue rose supplier had gotten sick and couldn't do his job. She was about to tell him to get up and do it anyway since she would still play a match while sick, but she didn't want to be that mean on a day about love so she just hung up without saying anything and went to look for blue roses in basically all of Munich's flower shops.

Of course, she knew that blue roses were very rare and literally unobtainable in nature. That's the whole reason why she got the tattoo in the first place, but what else could she have done? Give you normal roses? As if! She was the blue rose empress, that was literally her symbol. She wanted to get you blue roses so that every time you looked at them, you would think of her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her phone ringing. When she took it out of her pocket, she was relieved to see it was you calling her and not someone else to bother her even more.

"Hello, what is it schatz?"

"Hi Michelle, noa wanted me to ask you why you didn't come at practice today"

"Oh, I'm just shopping"

".....really, for what? You usually just send ness to do it or go with me"

".......well-"

"Speaking of ness, where is he? He didn't come either"

"Yeah......i sent him to buy something too"

"So.....you two are trying to buy the same thing but you're not together?"

"......yeah"

"....it must be important"

"It is"

"I see well I'll just tell noa you're busy and not bother you anymore, love you bye"

"Thanks, love you too"

The conversation kaiser had just finished made her feel even more guilty. You were just so sweet and perfect. The roses and chocolates you had given her this morning had already proven it to her among the mountains of other things you did for her.

You knew she didn't like receiving gifts, that she genuinely wouldn't have known how to react, but you still did it, simply telling her that it was just because of tradition and she didn't have to get you anything, but she wanted to, she wanted to get those damn blue roses.

She gritted her teeth as her anger rose. Why today of all days? Somehow, not being able to give you what you deserved felt even worse than getting a goal blocked by isagi

*ring ring*

"What is it?"

This time kaiser didn't even try to hide her frustration at however was on the other side of the phone

"K-kaiser, I found the roses"

"Finally! Where are they?"

"I-it's just-"

"Listen ness, I don't care what's happening there, I'll get the roses even if I have to kill someone to have them"

"But it's 800 euros for a bouquet"

"......ok and?"

"Isn't that......super expensive?"

"Yes and wildly overpriced. Like i told you, I'm getting those roses no matter what ,plus it's not actually that much for me, I can make that back in a match if I play well, and I always do"

"........o-ok"

After going to get the roses, kaiser and Ness went back to the bastard münchen building and were greeted by noa scolding them for not attending practice which Michelle mostly ignored as she told the magician to tell you to come to her room later.

"Hey babe, what-"

You gasped as the first thing you saw when you opened the door was kaiser holding a blue rose bouquet, smiling at you

"Happy valentine's day schatz"

"You didn't have to do this you know?"

"Yes, but I wanted to. You do so much for me. I would have felt terrible not giving you anything back"

She kissed you, wrapping her arms around you and guiding you to her large bed, where she placed the bouquet and opened the chocolate box

"Want some?"

The chocolates all looked amazing....and expensive, some of them had golden wrappers or phrases like I love you written on the chocolates themselves

"How much did this cost?"

"Please schatz don't worry about that"

She grabbed one of the chocolates with her fingers and held it out to you

"Do you need me to feed it to you~"

"I certainly wouldn't complain about that"

You opened your mouth as kaiser fed you the chocolates, you swallowed it, and your eyes lit up at how tasty it was

"So good!"

"Of course, I made sure they were all your favorite flavors. My emperor only deserves the best"

"What did i do to deserve you?"

"Just.....loving me"

Kaiser got close to you once again and hugged you. You hugged back as you let yourself fall on the bed with her on top of you. She kissed you passionately another time and continued kissing your face, leaving blue lipstick marks on it

"I love you so much schatz"

"Me too, I love you so so much"

Kaiser's smile widened as she moved to your right, hugging you even tighter. You were now fully cuddling on the bed

"Should I add the bouquet to the ones you always give me"

"If you want, I'd say this one is special, though. It cost me a lot, both in money and effort"

"Awww and you still brought it for me, you're so sweet"

"It's nothing, I'd do anything for you"

With those final words, kaiser kissed your forehead as you two continued to cuddle in silence. Her love warmed you up as you felt her heartbeat, which you knew was beating for you, the only person who showed kaiser love, her boyfriend, teammate, emperor, soulmate and now her valentine.

[amerricanartwork]

ok fine since you asked so nicely

*provides more cookies*

dont eat too many or else you'll become round

or- roundER anyway

Now that's what I call answering two asks with one post! Featuring more silly superstructure creatures!

Okay, in all seriousness, while I decided to go with the silly and very non-canon drawing idea, if you don't mind I would actually like to leave some ideas related to these asks in a more serious manner with rough descriptions of how I think the Local Group would react if they were offered them some cookies! This is assuming it's the puppets you're talking to, since I actually do have concepts I plan to employ in my AU for a hidden mechanism allowing the iterators to legitimately consume and gain energy from organic matter as "food" when they're off-the-string. If you don't care for these, I don't mind, but they just popped into my mind in response to this ask, and I couldn't resist adding them too!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Looks to the Moon: "Oh, don't worry about me. All I want is to know you and the others have had enough for yourselves, and that you enjoyed them! I'll simply take whatever is left." — Looks to the Moon sees it as her duty to always look out for others first, so if the Local Group were offered any kind of gift, she'd first make sure everyone else got a satisfying share of it, even if it meant she had to miss out. Though she would be rather tempted by the delicious smell of baked goods, the growling of her stomach, and the curiosity to explore something she's heard of and observed many times yet never tried herself before, she'd tell herself (once again) that sacrificing her own satisfaction for others' is The Right Thing To Do™, and therefore she should be glad to give up all the treats to her friends if that was what made them happy. It's perhaps only Sig who would be able to convince her to try some for herself or save her some in secret, at which point she'd savor every bite once assured it was just the two of them and she was allowed to indulge herself without guilt.

No Significant Harassment: "Hey guys! You've gotta try some of these! They smell so good, don't you think, Pebbles?" — Even if he isn't the one who actually makes the cookies himself — whether purely to see if he can, or as some sort of prank towards a friend — if Sig ever managed to obtain some cookies he'd be the first to try them out. Though being a considerate and amicable person who highly values his good relationships, he'd waste no time in sharing them with his friends, making sure to take no more than his fair share. If he were sharing with just the Local Group, he'd definitely make some time to tease Pebbles, Suns, and Wind about their refusal to try them by waving them in their face, making exaggerated noises while savoring the taste, and doing anything else he can to really emphasize just how much they're missing out. But even more so, he'd be the one urging Moon to get some for herself before they're gone, reassuring her that she deserves to enjoy them just as much as any of the others do. And heck, if half the group isn't gonna get any, it would make those three more "happy" for the two of them to eat the rest themselves and rid their friends of the bothersome treats!

Five Pebbles: "Cookies? What use do I have for these? Even with the mechanisms to consume food, I have better means of getting sustenance than to resort to something so useless, yet dangerously addictive. If you were an intelligent creature, you'd dispose of them as well." — Even after he discovers that iterator puppets can consume food, Pebbles is far from happy about it. He already wants to minimize the frequency and amount with which he has to eat, and the thought of succumbing to the Fourth Karmic Urge from a sugary food that's especially easy to overindulge in, combined with Sig's unrelenting teasing reinforcing the "danger" of indulging in the cookies, would be more than enough to make him quickly yet firmly reject it. He would stay committed to remain "above" the simpler creatures of the world who would gladly gobble up such an offering in an instant, no matter how enticed he too would be by the scent and delectable appearance or how much hidden envy he'd feel from seeing the others enjoying them.

Seven Red Suns: "I cannot believe it! You truly thought a divine being like myself would ever succumb to the temptations of a small confection? It's clear you've lost sight of the Great Problem! Quick, we must provide you a new means of sustenance to cleanse you of your worldly attachment to these treats!" — Suns is perhaps even worse than Pebbles when it comes to "worldly attachments". Not only would he immediately refuse the idea of betraying Transcendental Ascensionism by indulging in something so basic, yet so easy to grow overly attached to, but he'd give anyone who offered them a long lecture about how they must have succumbed to "sin" and "temptation" to even have thought about giving him some, then try to be their savior by urging them to "separate" from these attachments. He would demand they not just immediately throw away every one of the cookies, but that they permanently revoke any and all but the most light, plain, and flavorless forms of sustenance from their diet as soon as possible, if not also immediately. And while he would definitely be slightly less condescending and forceful on the surface with them, don't think the Local Group would be spared if he caught any of them enjoying cookies either. Most likely he and Sig would end up in an argument about it, with Sig teasing and exploiting the flaws in Suns's logic and Suns doing his best to maintain his assertion that cookies will doom all but the very highest of creatures to suffer in the Cycles forever.

Chasing Wind: "... You disturbed me for these? Is that all?" — Chasing Wind would be utterly unimpressed by an offer of almost anything that isn't a rational solution to an important problem, which includes cookies, and would be unable to understand why Sig — and Moon, once she'd pick up on it — seems to enjoy them so much. In fact, she'd most likely assume it was a prank from him, yet either way would be mad at whoever else interrupted her work just to bother her with something so "useless" and unimportant. Perhaps the only reason she'd even try them would be if someone were to be especially annoying and beg her over and over to give them a try, after which she'd give it one taste and consume one piece just to shut them up, remain utterly unimpressed and additionally upset at the anticlimax, and scoff before returning to her previous work, with a mental note to ignore future inquiries from whoever had the audacity to waste her time with cookies, of all things.

Unparalleled Innocence: "Those look really good... Uh, um... I-if it isn't, I mean... I hope it's not bad... but, uh... c-could I, um... could I have one...?" — Innocence is always curious about new things, and would probably be the first of the Local Group to notice and take interest in the cookies as soon as she sees them or smells them. However, her biggest problem would be working up the confidence to try one for herself, fearing that the rest of the Local Group would be too busy indulging themselves to even hear her ask for some, let alone actually agree to share some with her of all people when they could just as easily continue sharing them amongst themselves. It'd probably have to be either Sig or Moon explicitly giving her permission to take some (and then to take more than one) to convince her to actually try one. Though rest assured, of all the Local Group she'd perhaps savor them the most of all, having read stories about such treats countless times and simply cherishing the chance to finally experience their deliciousness for herself.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Once again, this was just something that came to my mind after seeing these asks, but I thought it was cute! I hope to get back into the swing of making longer posts about my headcanons and whatnot for these characters! Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this!

[jules-ln]

Viktor and Jinx as Zaun, Jayce as Piltover, Arcane's use of art movements as a storytelling device

I am once again writing about Arcane because I am mentally ill and I also love Art history

So anyway I've already talk about Viktor being Art nouveau And how Art nouveau's history was similar to Viktor's story, and I wanted to talk about Jayce being Art Deco, because of his fashion choices in the last episode are pretty much art deco

But then I thought, what if it isn't just about Viktor and Jayce, but it's about Zaun and Piltover in general, and how the relationship between these two cities reflects in these two characters

And somehow I ended up writing this because FUCK

Look, I even got subtitles and everything

But anyway, I won't put citations on this because I'm not that crazy so this isn't a serious academic essay, and as anything else you read on the internet, take the parts about Art history with a grain of salt and you should read more about it (yess, this my elaborated plan to get people into Art history)

Jinx and Viktor as the personification of Zaun

Zaun actually has more of a punk on top rather than just art nouveau, a lot of people seem to think it's steampunk, but honestly, I think that's the result of putting punk and art nouveau together rather than it being pure steampunk

The thing that made me connect the characters as the embodiment of the cities was the fact that I've noticed that Zaun actually has a lot of art nouveau elements; is just that this art nouveau elements seem to be old and broken (I would show you but Tumblr's dumb image limit won't let me)

Now, I've actually talked about the story of art nouveau on another post but to make a brief summary, art nouveau started as a way to give common people art, to redistribute it rather than it just being something for rich people, it failed. But the important part is that art nouveau originally was a leftist art movement, like punk. Punk was a response to the social and economic crisis at the time of its origin; but where Art nouveau was a solution (solution that didn't work, mind you) punk was more of a response (again, don't quote me on that lmao)

Similar to this we can see, how both Viktor and Jinx then embody different responses to the same thing. Viktor is proposing a solution for the problems of Zaun (solution that didn't work) meanwhile Jinx is a reaction to everything that has happened to Zaun, she isn't a problem, she's a consequence

But not only are they the responses to Zaun, they ARE different parts of Zaun

We can see this with Jinx in the relationship she has with Vander, Silco and Ekko.

Both Vander and Silco nurture her and Zaun, and she wouldn't be what she is without both of them

That's why neither Silco nor Ekko could leave her. Silco couldn't give her away because that would be equivalent to him giving away Zaun, and Ekko couldn't give up on her because that would be like giving up on Zaun

Meanwhile with Viktor the influence of his style predominantly being art nouveau reflects in the background at different parts of the city,

And most noticeable is that when Zaun is in a better place, the elements of art nouveau are more prominent, like in episode 7 where punk takes a back seat to the art nouveau. It seems that generally art nouveau signifies a better Zaun, or the potential of it being better

We also see a lot of elements of art nouveau in Viktor's commune, and I know that the commune is interpreted as a negative thing. But look at it this way, what Viktor is doing, is probably doing more good than whatever the hell Caitlyn had going on during the first act (no hate to Cait btw)

Like, I know there are Caitlyn fans out there that defend her decisions of using the gray to attack the Chem barons, but in reality doing that wouldn't solve anything, just create a power vacuum that later could be filled by someone worse (like Renata Glasc) without solving the addiction to Shimmer (again, No hate to Cait). But what Viktor is doing, offering a safe space to recovering addicts and sick people, is actually solving the shimmer problem by eliminating the demand of it; and it's making Zaun better

(I also want to point out that the decision of framing Viktor's commune as a mind controlling cult is very politically charged, because even if it's not perfect; think about it; they're framing a commune in which money probably isn't used at all, and that accepts both recovering addicts and sick people freely and without judgment as something negative)

Add the fact that Viktor is one of the few characters that didn't talk negatively about Jinx (If I remember correctly); neither when he is disarming her bomb nor when he's in the commune talking directly to her; this could be interpreted as Viktor always seeing the potential within the Zaun of now

Adding to that, I want to make the point that Viktor and Jinx probably would be friends if they got to know each other. And I think this headcanon is so popular because they both are expressions of Zaun, of course they're going to be similar and get along

Art deco

Now, I'm not an expert in art deco (I've always been more interested in art nouveau and impressionism). But I know some things about it

Basically Art Deco comes from from the words art décoratif; and it was an art movement that emphasized the utility of art; it had different influences like Mayan art, Egyptian art, Art Nouveau, Rococo etc etc

Some of its characteristics are: straight lines, geometric patterns; a lot of gold, lots of triangles, more is more ideology and ornaments

But the important thing is that Art deco is supposed to be a very superficial art, merely decorative (hence the name); that signifies wealth. It also became strongly associated with machinery and progress. I would argue that in recent years there has been a new connotation of corruption and darkness to it thanks to media like Bioshock

It's definitely a perfect art movement for Piltover; to show the shallowness and money the city has. But the show not only attaches this art movement to the city, it also gives it different characters

Mel and Art Deco

This is the part where my ramblings got out of control because at first I was going to just point out how Jayce has an art movement too; then I realized that Viktor also uses clothes with an art deco pattern in them: (red lines to make the pattern more clear)

But that's weird; why does Viktor uses art deco here when later his main style is art nouveau? Then I realized, it's not just about Viktor and Jayce. But as Zaun and Piltover in general

And I realized that because of a character that also uses a lot of art deco without being from Piltover herself

Mel

Mel during the series uses different clothes, but most of them have in common the geometric pattern of art deco

But she isn't from Piltover; she isn't part of the city in the same way Jayce is. While she has a very big connection to it; the simple fact is that Mel's story is about finding herself; and she can't do it while in Piltover. In Piltover she's only doing what she's always done, searching for her mother's approval

Then why is she associated with art deco?

But I noticed, she isn't. Not completely

Let's look at what Mel actually does instead of what she's wearing

Here we can see one of Mel's paintings

Let's not look at what it is, (it's Noxus) let's look at how Mel painted it; it's has more emphasis on colors and ambient, the form is not very defined; it plays with the light, it almost gives you an impression of Noxus

Yes, Mel is an impressionist painter (think Claude Monet (Vincet van Gogh is post impressionsism btw))

And I think this is important for her character because at the end of the season, she goes back to Noxus looking for who she really is; who she is beyond her mother's influence and beyond Piltover. And guess what

If you hate abstract art blame it on Impressionsism. It came to be around the same time of the invention of photography. Photography filled the role painting had of representing reality, and it did it better, faster, and cheaper. So painting had to change to be more abstract instead of simply aiming to represent reality and all of that started (at least within the context of Europe at that time) with impressionsism

What I'm trying to say it's that impressionism was painting as a medium trying to redefine itself again, it was trying to find its own identity apart from photography. Just like Mel is trying to define herself

Now, if Mel is impressionism; it stand to reason that she's using Art deco, not because she's representative of the city, but simply as a way of showing how she adapted to the city, how it influenced her and helped her grow as a person

I was thinking about that before she debuted as a champion, but I think her voice lines kind of confirmed it

So, hers and Viktor's use of art deco signifies how important Piltover is for them; and if you look at it in a certain way, it's could also be a connection to Jayce

Jayce as Art deco

Now, before anything, I want to analyze Jayce's first design, when he's young

Here it is (and Viktor's, for reasons)

And you know, the first thing it jumped out to me while analyzing it, is that there isn't a lot of art deco elements; more than that, it's too simple for art deco, and he looks almost childish; like if you told me the guy was 18 here. I would believe it

But it also applies with Viktor, the clothes make him look so young and are too simple for art deco

So let's see how both of them look after the timejump

Now, Jayce here has his white blazer (is that the right word?) but again, where are my patterns? My ornaments? My geometric shapes and straight lines? There are some on the blazer; not enough that I would call it art deco

But take it off and boom

It's almost the same as his academy uniform, just change some things and colors here and there, but other than that, it's the same

Compared it with how different Viktor looks

Now, I know the first thing that stands out with Viktor is his change in health, but let's look beyond that, his clothes are completely different

Sure, he still uses elements that are reminiscent of his academy uniform, but that definitely isn't his uniform. The shape is different, the pattern is different, even the colors are a bit different. Viktor changed, but Jayce didn't?

That's because Viktor grew up, Jayce stayed the same, just add some things on top

Jayce's character design in season 1 reflects his mental state, he stayed innocent, naive

Now, why does all of these matters? Because it wasn't until I was looking at Jayce's design in season 2 that I noticed he's Art deco;

The straight lines, the geometric patterns, the ornaments. But he only won the art deco elements after he learned about Zaun, after he had to go through what Viktor had gone through. Before that he wasn't ready yet

Now, I think it's important to say that I'm interpreting Jayce as not only related to Piltover, but as the representation of the best of Piltover itself; he's the best side of Piltover in the same way that Viktor is the potential for a better Zaun

A tale of two cities

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times and I'm a nerd

Now, I think that even after the whole magic plot, Arcane is still fundamentally a story about two cities, and that same relationship it's reflected on its characters; more than that. The dumb ending where Zaun and Piltover forget their differences and work together; I think it was the plan all along and as proof of that, I present to you Viktor and Jayce's relationship

I've seen a lot of people say that the dynamic between Piltover and Zaun reflects itself in the dynamic between Vi and Jinx, and honestly; that doesn't makes sense to me

Because, I understand Jinx being Zaun, I've already said it myself; but Vi isn't Piltover, and the relationship Vi has with Jinx isn't even remotely similar to the relationship Piltover has with Zaun (If you want to make the case, I would say it would be more accurate to say that Jinx is Zaun and Cait is Piltover, and Vi is the person trapped between the two, unable to choose)

But if look elsewhere, you know who would be a perfect comparison for Piltover and Zaun? Jayce and Viktor, and you might say "well, Jayce and Viktor's relationship isn't at all like Piltover and Zaun's relationship either"

That's because, like I've already said, Jayce is the better version of Piltover, and Viktor is the potential yet to realize in Zaun. So basically if Caitlyn and Jinx's relationship is meant to reflect the problems the two cities have in the present. Jayce and Viktor's relationship gives the solution, which is "put aside your differences and work together as equals"

And you can see that as well in their design

Side to side, these two designs exemplify the fundamental differences between Art Nouveau and Art Deco

Art Nouveau looks flowy, soft, feminine, floral patterns, asymmetry. Art Deco is expensive, machinery, modern, sharp angles, symmetry and straight lines, but that's not all

I've already said that Jayce design changed at the end of the season because Jayce finally matured, he's ready to be the best of Piltover, now he has earned the art Deco. But what do my eyes see here?

A flowy soft pattern on Jayce? A Floral pattern even? That's art nouveau right there

And then you look at Viktor's final form (in this picture is easier to see) and What's that on his chest? Symmetry? Straight lines? Machinery? That's art deco

So are you telling me that Jayce will always have some Viktor in him, while Viktor will always have some Jayce in him?

Are you telling me that the best of Piltover will always have some Zaun in it? While the potential of Zaun will always involve Piltover?

And you might think that is a bit of a stretch, but it makes sense with the ending Arcane has

Think about it; the show says that the best solution for the two cities is for them to put aside their differences and work together as equals; and I can't help but think that's what Jayce and Viktor are already doing

Jayce doesn't care that Viktor is from Zaun, and Viktor trust Jayce even with him being from Piltover; and it's only working together that they can reach their true potential. As in every time-line in which they aren't together, they never invent Hextech

The ending of arcane

Tbh, I'm not saying that the ending of the Piltover and Zaun conflict was good even if it was planned all along; but I also think a lot of people expected a leftist masterpiece, like the moment the most revolutionary character is also a mob boss and the main villain of season 1, you can totally tell that it wasn't going to another disco elysium (funnily enough disco elysium also has the mob boss being the union leader lmao)

I'm just analyzing the things I found, and while some might seem like a reach, I'm a 100% death of the author guy and I believe in making my own meaning

And I want to say this is the first time I've seen art history used in this way for visual storytelling. They could've very well just use generic steampunk visuals; but they decided to do something meaningful. Just for that alone I consider Arcane a masterpiece of animation

[lsunstreakerl]

Sunny, depending on the analogy you want to use, you are either a mafia boss (haha) or a high priest(ess)

you decide what approximately 100 people (based on your ask box and the recurring usernames I see) hyper fixate on for a time.

Because I had this thought while brushing my teeth, Crow is your right hand, there in your ear reminding you to remove your precious commas.

This is literally due to tti and dark rb happening in a weeks time and the only difference is you and the amount of info we gained from you vs the community ( as someone who sold my soul for tti, im not upset with where we are right now in the new verse) (adds dark rb to tti somehow)

hijacking your ask. demographics time!!

- as of this post, there are 192 people following this blog

- as of this post, I have 92 asks in my inbox

- most posts range from 9-20 likes

- most ficlets range from 40-80 likes

- most of my 24 hour polls range from 50-70 votes by the end, so that's a lot of you that check my blog frequently (I see you, lurkers)

- a few of you might have my post notifications on, most notably @burningallofmybridges and @thebrokenellevator who are usually the first people to like literally anything I post (I don't have confirmation that my post notifs are on for you two, but unless you are on tumblr 24/7 there's no other way for you to be that fast.)

- most serial reblogger of my posts is @max-verstappens-boy-car, who reblogs I believe every ficlet, as well as my more comprehensive ask responses.

- @farvres is entirely responsible for darkbull/dark redbull, and a few other brainworms here and there. they're also partially responsible for 1+1+1, along with @coldplums

- @decidedly33 is a complete saint for putting up with me complaining about school or work or quite literally anything. they're also the artist of any of the art you see floating around for my fics!

- calling @ahappycrow my right hand is certainly a choice. I think they were put on this earth to humble me, actually. (the historical definition of a jester maybe?)

- tti is still happening, I just also have to get dark redbull wrangled into a fic or something, because it's completely invaded my head.

- tti verse, max multiverse, whatever you want to call it. you guys are ridiculous, making me Deus Ex Machina the rookies. how am I even supposed to write that it's going to be so hard to keep track of

Anyways, potentially more yapping than you intended but I thought your ask was an interesting opportunity to point out some of the fun numbers stuff I've noticed on my blog :)

[putschki1969]

2025/01/30 Blog post by Wakana 明日は締め切り日だよ！全員集合！〜名店「姪っ子寿司」に行って来ました〜

❗This is Fan Club EXCLUSIVE content❗ ❗PERSONAL USE ONLY❗ ❗Do NOT SHARE on other sites❗ ❗Join her FAN CLUB! Check out my detailed TUTORIAL ❗

Tomorrow Is The Deadline！Everyone, Send In Your Questions！〜Went To The Famous Restaurant, "Niece Sushi"〜

The other day, I met up with my family (^o^)/ My sister-in-law made a cake for me! It was cute, beautiful, and really delicious…😭✨Amazing…✨[Can anyone tell hat's written on the plate next to the cake? The second line is definitely "Kalafina" but I'm not sure about the first and third line. First line looks like a name maybe (first word kinda looks like "Wakana")? Third line is something in Japanese but it's hard to make out. The part on the right side looks like "すてきな歌声=amazing singing voice". Anyway, how cute is it that Wakana's family is holding a party to celebrate the Kalafina concert?!]

The main event of our get-together was a sushi-fest🍣💕(The meat was also really delicious…🤤💕) My niece has recently become obsessed with a sushi game and she likes to pretend to be a sushi chef and even opened her very own famous restaurant called "Niece Sushi"! ＼＼\٩( 'ω' )و //／／There's a proper menu. (The first thing I noticed was the special Totoro sushi) Recommendations for me, my mother, and the whole family are written on the menu😊There are many sets on the left side but the ones that really caught my eye were under the "Pattern Sushi☆" section. Among them was a set called "Kalafina"!! But it was quite expensive at 10,000 yen *laughs* At such a high price, I thought it would take too much time to prepare so I decided not to order it 😂 (I wonder what it would look like though) There were also other items on the menu like "Shark à 100 yen" and "Gyoza à 100 yen" 😂 (I think you can tell that the "Kalafina Sushi" must be super special *laughs*) Here's some of the sushi made by my niece! 🍣Some tuna too!! ! (The small sushi plate is super cute)

After my niece made a bunch of sushi, we each made our own hand-rolled sushi😊(I tried making my own "Totoro" sushi) It was nice spending family time together and eat delicious food〜😆I also have a somewhat trivial story to share from that day. When my niece was making her sushi, I happened to look down and and suddenly saw…!! My brother was wearing my niece's Gyozame-chan slippers😂They were waytoo small on him and his heels were sticking out (the one on the right with no slippers is my niece by the way *laughs*) On that day, my brother was working as an assistant for my niece, the master chef. Secretly he had snatched the master's slippers, hilarious😂I was focusing on the master's preparations so I didn't evn notice😂 I couldn't help but take a picture😂

Now, on a completely different side note, tomorrow is the day!! It's the deadline to send in submissions for my podcast "Wakana's Talk Garden". The next episode will air on February 10th! (((o(ﾟ▽ﾟ)o))) Next month's episode will be the first in a while to have no dedicated talk theme! You can send me whatever you like! Anything goes😊💕You can tell me all about your thoughts on the Kalafina live! You can ask questions or just send a random comment! Since we want to read as many messages as possible, there won't be any presents this time🙇‍♀️I hope you don't mind💦I'll be waiting for your submissions!! ＼(^o^)／Click here♡↓↓

So, since I haven't posted them yet, I'll post my dresses from the Kalafina live the other day‼ ︎＼＼\٩( 'ω' )و //／／

This is my dress for the main performance👗(There's an excited expression on my face before the live) All three of us were wearing matching white and gold outfits😊The back was gorgeous too! (everyone said is was super sparkly)

And this is my dress for the encore 👗(This is my face after the show. Looks quite different from before the show started!😂)For the encore, we had dresses made for us to match our individual image, I got to wear a lovely white dress😊I really like both of my dresses!

The stylist team took care of us in so many ways right up until the live started. I can't thank them enough…! This concert was made possible thanks to the support from so many people. It was a great time to be able to sing together as a trio again, and to share Kalafina's music with so many people in the audience. Thank you so much😊

(Everyone's colourful dresses are so cute😊) The other day, on January 23rd, We as Kalafina celebrated our 17th Anniversary🤗 It's all thanks to you😭✨1, 2, 3‼️＼＼\٩( 'ω' )و //／／

Well, until next time~☆( '▽')/

＊＊＊Wakana＊＊＊

[thyras]

→ of mourning & loss (bonus chapter)

PAIRING → mairon | annatar | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 6.2k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → grief, loss, angst, dad!sauron

SUMMARY → face to face with her father for the first time in years, aerilaya confronts him about her mother.

AUTHORS NOTE → so this has a spoiler in it for the next chapter, but I never planned for this to be the ending of the story, but it was one of the possibilities. just going to post it anyways as I think we all kinda knew where i was going with their story. the next chapter is taking longer than i thought so i hope this holds y'all over till then.

masterlist // series playlist // mood board

Aerilaya pressed the tip of her blade against his throat, the steel cool and unyielding against his unnatural skin. Her emerald eyes blazed with fury, burning like embers stoked by years of pain. She had not seen him in all that time, yet here he was—a specter of the man she once knew.

He had been radiant once, his icy blue eyes and elven grace masking the darkness that had always lurked beneath. Now, that mask had fallen away. His eyes, once bright and piercing, were nothing more than endless voids, hollow and cruel. His skin, once kissed by moonlight, had been leeched of all warmth, pale as bone. Whatever remnants of the man she had once trusted, even loved, had long since rotted away.

Aerilaya’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade, steady despite the storm of emotions surging within her. He swept his gaze over her, unbothered by the threat of death lingering at his throat. His brow arched slightly, amusement flickering in his darkened eyes, mocking her.

“I was not expecting you,” he mused, his voice smooth but edged with something sinister. His gaze flickered to the silver chain around her neck, where a jewel shimmered, pulsing with an ethereal glow. The flames of the burning ruins around them danced upon its surface, casting fragmented reflections in the suffocating night.

For a brief moment, silence stretched between them—an aching, suffocating thing, heavy with all that had been lost. Then, he smiled. “But it warms my heart to see you, Aerilaya.”

His voice was velvety, almost tender, yet it slithered through the air like a serpent coiling around her. That smile—sickly sweet, a mockery of affection—curved his lips, sending a shiver down her spine.

Aerilaya’s heart pounded in her chest, a war drum beating against her ribs.

“I had hoped to see my daughter once more.”

The words struck her like a dagger, sharp and merciless. Daughter. The title, once sacred, now dripped with something tainted, something wrong. He was no father to her—not anymore.

Her grip on the hilt tightened, fury swallowing hesitation. She pressed the blade harder against his throat, her resolve unwavering. A dark liquid oozed from the tip where steel bit into flesh, thick and viscous, unnatural. It dripped to the ground, sizzling softly against the scorched earth, staining it like ink spilled upon an ancient parchment.

Yet still, he did not flinch. Instead, his smile widened. “You truly are the spitting image of your mother.”

Aerilaya’s face hardened, but the words struck deep, an invisible wound reopened with cruel precision. He spoke of her so freely, as if his hands were not stained with the grief that had driven her to despair. As if he had not been the one who shattered her beyond repair.

A sharp ache settled in Aerilaya’s chest, tightening like a vice around her ribs. She could still remember the way her mother had wept—silent, broken—until sorrow became too great a burden to bear. In her darkest hour, she had whispered her final plea to Nienna, the Lady of Mercy. And Nienna, ever compassionate, had answered.

She had gathered her fëa into her arms, cradling her as a mother would, and guided her into the halls of Mandos, where pain and longing no longer reached. There, at last, she had found peace. A peace Aerilaya had never been granted.

Her grip on the blade never wavered, but something burned behind her emerald eyes—rage, grief, and the unyielding weight of all she had lost.

“You speak so freely of her, snake," Aerilaya spat, her voice sharp as the blade at his throat. "But you were the cause of her pain. Her torture.”

The words trembled on the edge of grief and fury, a storm barely restrained. Her chest ached, her throat burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. Not before him. Not before the one who had shattered her mother beyond repair.

She searched his face, waiting—hoping—for something. A flicker of regret, a shadow of guilt, anything to betray that he was not as hollow as he seemed. But there was nothing. His expression remained untouched, carved from something colder than stone, a mockery of what he had once been.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt, knuckles whitening.

"Do you feel nothing?" she whispered, the question slipping past her lips before she could stop it.

Still, he did not answer.

And that silence was an answer all its own.

Aerilaya's jaw tightened, her emerald eyes narrowing as she stared into the abyss of his gaze. The silence stretched between them, thick with centuries of pain and betrayal, an unspoken chasm neither could cross.

"Nothing," she echoed, her voice barely more than a breath, fragile yet unyielding. "You truly are lost."

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, but there was no warmth in it—only something hollow, twisted.

"I feel things, Aerilaya," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, yet frayed at the edges. "I feel the pain of your mother’s absence."

Before she could react, he moved. A sudden shift, swift as a shadow, knocking her back a step as he rose to his full height. He loomed over her now, his presence suffocating, his darkened eyes locked onto hers.

“I ache,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost wistful. “Because she left this world and went where I could never follow.”

Aerilaya’s breath hitched, her grip tightening on the hilt of her blade. She had spent years imagining what she would say to him if ever they stood face to face again. But the words she had prepared, the accusations, the fury—they faltered against the quiet agony laced beneath his tone.

"You could have followed," she whispered, her voice breaking against the weight of the truth. “You could have gone with her, if only you had listened.”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression—a ghost of something lost. But it was gone just as quickly, swallowed by the darkness he had long since embraced.

Aerilaya had only come to understand the truth of her father’s origins after Erynwyn and Elrond had told her. Her mother had never spoken of it, never uttered a word that might taint the image of the man Aerilaya had once loved with all her being. He had been her anchor, the guiding star by which she measured all others, the standard to which she held the world.

But those days were long gone.

Gone were the stories of a time before creatures roamed this land, before Arda had even settled into its first breath of life. Gone was the father who had once smiled so effortlessly in her mother’s presence, whose very light had radiated for her alone. Aerilaya had spent her life longing for that kind of love—to feel the unshakable bond of two souls woven together by fate itself.

To share in the beauty of Ages spent side by side. To fill them with warmth, happiness, and the promise of a child born of that sacred union.

But her mother had known the truth long before Aerilaya had. She had known that he would never change. That no matter how much light he tried to grasp, the shadow had already claimed him. It had consumed him so entirely that even his choice to live in the light had been a deception.

His greatest deception.

And it had been her mother’s last straw. The last fragile piece of love she had clung to had been smothered by the darkness he had embraced.

Elrond had told Aerilaya that after Eregion fell, her mother had been little more than a shadow of herself—heartbroken, laced with grief. Yet she had endured. She had carried on for Aerilaya’s sake, laying the foundations for her daughter to know only the light.

To ensure that Aerilaya would never fall as he had.

She had taught her to wield her gifts only for virtue, for the betterment of the world. Her power over the elements, particularly over beasts and the living things of the earth, was proof of Yavanna’s blessing. But it was in rare moments of great need that she was granted something more—a gift beyond even her mother’s teachings.

A gift of the stars.

A light so pure it could blot out the deepest shadow. A force that turned any darkened beast or figure from her path. A gift of protection from Varda herself—a preservation of the grace and radiance her mother had instilled within her.

A light that would never bow to the darkness.

Aerilaya's fingers unconsciously ghosted over the jewel resting against her breastbone, feeling its warmth pulse in time with her heartbeat. It was a piece of her mother, a lingering ember of her love and sacrifice, shining defiantly against the darkness that sought to swallow it whole. The silver chain and the gem it held had been forged by none other than the very man before her—the one she once called father. He had created it for her mother when they wed, binding light and shadow together in a union that had long since crumbled into ruin.

Sauron’s eyes followed the movement, a flicker of something passing over his features—hunger, longing, perhaps even possession.

Even now, he wished to claim that piece of her. To seize the last remnant of what had once been his, of the light that had drawn him in, ensnared him in the promise of redemption. The light that, for a fleeting moment, had made him yearn to walk a different path.

But that moment had passed.

Now, he coveted it for what it could do—for the power it held, for what it might grant him. His desire was no longer for the love it once symbolized, but for how he could twist it to serve his will.

Aerilaya’s fingers curled protectively around the jewel, her grip tightening as its warmth pulsed against her palm, steady and resolute. She met Sauron’s gaze, unflinching.

"You cannot have it," she said, her voice low and fierce. "This light was never meant for you."

A shadow passed over Sauron's face, his features contorting, shifting into something cruel and insatiable. "Oh, but it was, Aerilaya," he murmured, his voice like a silken snare. "It was always meant for me. Do you not see? Eru himself wove us into existence together—light and shadow, twined in a harmony that could never be broken."

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his presence thick and suffocating. Aerilaya tensed, her blade rising between them in silent warning.

But Sauron paid it no heed. His gaze remained fixed on the jewel at her throat, as though it called to him in ways neither steel nor words could deter.

"I forged that jewel for her," he continued, his voice dipping into something almost reverent. "In a light as pure as Aman itself. It holds a part of me, just as it holds a part of your mother."

His fingers, cold and relentless, reached toward it, seeking to reclaim what he had lost.

Aerilaya jerked back, her grip on the jewel tightening until it burned against her skin. A shudder ran down her spine as his voice slithered closer, each syllable a whispered ghost of a past she refused to acknowledge.

"I vowed to her that night," he murmured, a glint of something dangerous in his darkened eyes. "That she would never be parted from me. Never again."

But she had been.

By her own will.

By the mercy of the Valar.

And Aerilaya would not let him defile that mercy now.

“Let her be at peace. Let her know the light of Aman, for she has suffered too long.”

Aerilaya’s voice wavered, but her resolve did not. Tears spilled down her cheeks in silent streams, tracing paths of grief across her flawless skin. She did not try to stop them. Not now. Not when she was pleading for the one who had given her life, for the mother who had borne the weight of love and loss alike.

“Let her have those memories, those pieces of you that she now finds comfort in. Let her be as she was when we were a family—happy, joyous, full of life.”

Sauron's expression flickered—an unreadable shift in his ever-darkened gaze. A shadow of something long buried, some fractured remnant of a feeling he had once known.

For the briefest moment, he seemed to waver.

“Peace,” he echoed, the word slipping from his lips as though he had never spoken it before, never tasted its meaning. His eyes drifted past Aerilaya, unfocused, searching for something unseen beyond the charred ruins that surrounded them. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost distant.

“Do you think she sits in the gardens of Lórien, basking in the light of the Two Trees? That she walks among Melian and the others, free from the burdens of this world?” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Or does she wander the Halls of Mandos, reliving every moment of her life—every joy, every sorrow?”

His voice, once cold steel, turned to something quieter, something raw.

“Does she remember the warmth of my embrace? The nights we spent whispering dreams to one another? Or has she cast it all away, erased me from her memory as though I never existed?”

Aerilaya’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white with fury.

“You have no right to speak of her,” she hissed, her voice trembling under the weight of barely contained rage. “No right to wonder about her fate when you were the one who drove her to it.”

Sauron’s gaze snapped back to her, the softness vanishing, swallowed whole by something dark and violent.

“I loved her,” he growled, his voice laced with something dangerously close to pain. “More than you could ever understand.”

Aerilaya’s breath hitched, her grief and anger coiling into something sharp, something merciless.

“Love?” she spat the word like venom. “You know nothing of love. You twisted it, tainted it until it was nothing but a weapon in your hands—”

Before she could finish, his hands shot forward, gripping her wrists with an ironclad hold.

The blade fell from her grasp.

The world around them wavered.

And then—

Darkness.

A shift in time, in space. The cold ruins, the fire, the pain—they were gone.

Aerilaya gasped as the world pulled her under, not into blackness, but into something else.

A memory.

One that still lived in the fractured, dying ember of the man he used to be.

Aerilaya blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift. The charred ruins, the suffocating heat of fire and smoke—all of it was gone. In its place, a garden stretched before her, bathed in soft, ethereal light. The air was sweet with the scent of night-blooming flowers, their delicate petals glowing beneath the silver radiance of the stars. A gentle breeze whispered through the towering trees, their silver leaves rustling like a distant melody.

She knew this place, though she did not remember it being as such.

Eregion.

Not as it lay now in ruin, but as it had been in its prime—before shadow and flame had ravaged its beauty, before betrayal had sunk its fangs into the heart of all that was good.

A melodic laugh drifted through the air, light and carefree, like the chiming of distant bells. Aerilaya’s heart clenched as she turned toward the sound. Beneath an archway of intertwined vines and starlit blossoms, she saw her mother.

She was radiant.

Her hair cascaded down her back like liquid starlight, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Her eyes, bright with love and joy, reflected the very light of the stars. She wore a flowing gown of deep cerulean, silver embroidery catching the light like woven constellations. The sight of her, untouched by sorrow, unhardened by grief, stole the breath from Aerilaya’s lungs.

She had never seen her mother like this—so full of life, so unburdened.

And then she saw him.

He stepped into view, his movements fluid and assured, his presence commanding without effort. His arm slipped around her mother’s waist, drawing her close with effortless familiarity. Aerilaya's breath hitched as she gazed upon the face of the man her father had once been.

Mairon.

His eyes—clear and piercing, like the sky over the sea—held no trace of the darkness that would later consume him. They shone with something Aerilaya had never known from him: unguarded devotion. His smile, free of cruelty or cunning, was warm and genuine as he looked upon the woman in his arms.

"Mairon," her mother whispered, reaching up to caress his cheek.

The name struck Aerilaya like a physical blow. Mairon. Not Sauron. Not the monster he had become. But the being he had once been—the one her mother had loved.

She watched, transfixed, as Mairon leaned into her mother’s touch, his eyes closing briefly, as if savoring the warmth of her palm against his skin. When he opened them again, they burned with an intensity that stole even the breath from memory itself.

“My love,” he murmured, his voice a low caress, rich with devotion. “Divine.”

His fingers traced the curve of her cheek before coming to rest upon the jewel at her breastbone—the same jewel that now hung around Aerilaya’s own neck, years later. In this memory, the gem pulsed with a gentle, living light, as though it breathed in tandem with their love.

“Do you remember the day I gave this to you?” Mairon asked, his thumb gliding over its smooth surface.

Her mother smiled, and the sheer beauty of it made Aerilaya’s heart ache. It was a smile untouched by sorrow, unmarred by regret—a sight she scarcely remembered.

Mairon’s gaze drifted downward, his expression softening further as his hand ghosted over the gentle swell of her mother’s stomach. Beneath the flowing fabric, Aerilaya lay, not yet born, cradled in warmth and light.

“My greatest inspiration,” her mother whispered, placing her hand over his. “My light in the darkness. May you wear this, so I am never truly parted from you.”

Her eyes sparkled against his soft gaze, and for a moment, they stood together—whole, unbroken, untouched by the tragedy yet to come.

Aerilaya felt her knees weaken beneath her as she watched.

For the first time in her life, she saw them as they had been.

Before the fall. Before the lies. Before everything was lost.

The vision shattered like fragile glass, dissolving into the acrid air of the present. Aerilaya gasped as the scent of sweet night-blooming flowers faded, replaced by the stench of smoke and ruin. The warmth of a life that once was—one she had never known—slipped through her fingers like sand, leaving only the cold weight of reality.

Sauron—no, Mairon—stood before her, his grip on her wrists loosening. His eyes, no longer the piercing blue of the vision but fathomless voids, searched her face. For a fleeting moment, he seemed unsure, untethered. A man caught between past and present.

"Do you see now?" he whispered, his voice rough, raw with something Aerilaya couldn't name. "Do you understand what was lost?"

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her mind struggling to reconcile the man she had just seen with the being before her. The father who had held her mother so tenderly, who had spoken with devotion, who had placed a reverent hand on the swell of her stomach—where had he gone?

Was he ever truly there?

"I..." she began, but the words caught in her throat. For a moment, the monster before her was gone, replaced by a ghost—a shadow of what could have been. "I see what was," she finally said, her voice wavering. "What you chose to throw away."

Sauron's grip tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin like iron shackles. His eyes darkened, pain flashing behind them before twisting into anger.

"I did not throw it away," he hissed. "It was taken from me."

Aerilaya wrenched free, stumbling back, her hand flying to the jewel at her throat. The warmth of it pulsed against her skin, steady, grounding.

"No," she said, her voice gathering strength. "You chose this path. You chose darkness over her—over us. You deceived her, even when she begged you to turn back."

She swallowed hard, her grief sharp-edged and burning. Then, her eyes locked onto his, ablaze with a fire that once—perhaps—mirrored his own.

"You killed her," Aerilaya whispered, the words laced with quiet fury. "You killed her with grief and sorrow."

Sauron's face contorted, a storm of emotion flickering across his features. For the briefest moment, he looked almost—human. Vulnerable. Lost.

But then, as swiftly as it had come, the moment passed. The mask of cruelty slid back into place.

"You speak of things you do not understand, child," he snarled, his voice like distant thunder. "The choices I made were necessary. The power I sought—it was all for her, for us."

Aerilaya shook her head, tears burning her vision. "No," she whispered. "It was for you. Always for you."

She stepped back, her hand clutching the jewel as its warmth pulsed stronger, as if responding to the storm raging between them.

"She loved you," Aerilaya continued, her voice trembling with the weight of truth. "She believed in you—until the very end. But you twisted that love into something unrecognizable."

Sauron's eyes darkened, a tempest brewing within their depths. For a heartbeat, Aerilaya saw something fracture—a glimpse of the man from the vision, the one her mother had loved, the one who had once spoken her name with reverence.

But it vanished just as quickly, swallowed whole by the abyss.

"You know nothing of what transpired," he snarled, taking a slow, menacing step forward. "Nothing of the choices I was forced to make. Of the sacrifices—"

"Sacrifices?" Aerilaya’s voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. "What did you sacrifice, truly?" Her eyes burned with accusation. "Your conscience?"

Sauron recoiled, his expression flashing with something that might have been pain. A wound long buried, suddenly laid bare.

But then, just as quickly, he recovered. His features hardened into a cold mask of fury.

"You dare speak to me of sacrifice?" he hissed, his voice low, dangerous. "I, who have given everything for the greater order of this world?"

He advanced, his presence suffocating, shadows pooling at his feet like a tide of darkness.

"I offered her the world, Aerilaya," he continued, his voice thick with conviction. "A place where she could walk unshackled by the burden of the Morgoth’s curse. We could have been a family still." His expression twisted, anger warring with something dangerously close to longing. "She threw it away."

Aerilaya did not move. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she stood her ground.

"She wanted none of that," she retorted, her voice steel despite the tremor in her breath. "She wanted you. The real you. Not this..." she gestured at him, her voice thick with sorrow and rage, "this twisted shadow you've become."

For a moment—just a moment—his mask cracked. The glimmer of something human, something aching, flickered behind his darkened gaze.

But then it was gone. Replaced by cold certainty.

"Mairon died long ago," he said, his tone eerily calm. "And even if your mother still saw good in me, it would have never been enough for her."

He sighed, almost as if speaking to himself now.

"She doubted me at every turn," he murmured, his eyes dark, distant. "Held onto petty notions of the being I once was. Redemption is not earned through love. It is earned through peace. Through order."

Aerilaya's heart clenched, a storm of emotions surging through her—grief, fury, pity.

"You still don't understand," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Sauron’s eyes snapped back to her, narrowing into dark slits of fury. "What don’t I understand, child?" he hissed, his voice low, dangerous—a blade hidden in shadow.

Aerilaya stood firm, though the weight of centuries pressed down upon her shoulders. The chasm of loss and betrayal stretched wide between them, yet she did not waver. Her emerald eyes burned with an unyielding fire, one that would not be swallowed by darkness.

"Love," she said simply. The word hung between them, quiet yet powerful.

Sauron scoffed, but there was something in the way his jaw tensed, in the way his hands curled into fists at his sides—something that betrayed him.

Aerilaya pressed on.

"True love doesn’t seek to change or control," she continued, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart. "It accepts. It nurtures. It grows."

Her fingers curled protectively around the jewel at her throat, its warmth a steady pulse against her skin, as if her mother’s spirit stirred within it.

"She saw the light in you," Aerilaya said, her voice softening. "Even when you couldn’t see it yourself. She believed in you. She chose to believe that the goodness in you had not been completely consumed by shadow."

Sauron’s expression twisted, his features contorting under the weight of something unspoken.

For a fleeting moment, she saw it—the ghost of the man from the vision. Mairon, standing beneath starlit blossoms, his clear blue eyes alight with devotion, his hands cradling her mother with reverence.

His mask cracked.

Pain flickered across his face, raw and unguarded. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Then—the moment passed.

A flicker of grief. Then fury.

Sauron’s face hardened, his expression twisting into a snarl of denial, of defiance. His eyes burned with something dark and unrelenting, swallowing whatever brief weakness had surfaced.

"You speak as if love is some divine force," he spat, his voice laced with venom. "Some unshakable power that bends the will of all who encounter it. But love is fragile, Aerilaya. It is fleeting. It fails."

His gaze darkened further, shadows coiling around him like living things.

"And when it fails," he whispered, stepping closer, his voice dangerously low, "it is nothing more than a weapon. A tool to shackle and blind those foolish enough to believe in it."

Aerilaya’s breath caught in her throat, but she refused to step back.

"That’s where you’re wrong," she said, her voice like tempered steel. "Love is not weakness. It is not a weapon. It is the one thing the shadow will never understand."

Sauron's expression flickered—an almost imperceptible hesitation. But then his fury returned, colder than ice, hotter than flame.

"Then you are just as blind as she was," he said.

Aerilaya’s grip on the jewel tightened.

"And you," she whispered, "are more lost than I ever imagined."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, thick with all that had been lost. Aerilaya’s words lingered in the air like a final judgment, reverberating through the shattered ruins around them. For a heartbeat, Sauron remained still, his face carved into an unreadable mask.

Then—he moved.

Faster than a striking viper, his hand shot out, reaching for the jewel at Aerilaya’s throat. His fingers, cold as iron, grazed the silver chain, but she was faster.

With the reflexes honed by centuries of battle and bitter expectation, she twisted away, her grip closing protectively around the gem.

"No," she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper—yet filled with unyielding resolve.

Sauron’s eyes ignited with fury, but beneath it, something flickered—something darker, rawer. Desperation. Or perhaps—longing.

His gaze burned into hers, his presence suffocating, his form wreathed in shifting shadows.

"Give it to me," he snarled, stalking forward with slow, deliberate steps, a predator cornering its prey. "It was never meant for you."

Aerilaya stood her ground, her heart hammering, but her grip did not falter. She could feel the warmth of the jewel pulsing against her palm, steady, unwavering—a heartbeat not her own.

"This was hers," she said, her voice a quiet storm. "It was forged for her—by you. You cannot take back what was freely given."

Sauron’s face twisted, his expression unreadable, torn between anger and something far more dangerous.

"I forged it," he murmured, his voice low and almost reverent. "I shaped it with my own hands, with light I captured in the fires of my own making. It carries a piece of her—and a piece of me. It belongs to me as much as it ever did to her."

Aerilaya’s fingers tightened around the jewel.

"And yet, she chose to give it to me."

A muscle in Sauron’s jaw tensed. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if struggling to contain himself.

"She is gone," he said at last, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. "Clutching that trinket will not bring her back."

Aerilaya’s breath shuddered through her, but she lifted her chin, emerald eyes locking onto his with unwavering defiance.

"No," she said, "but it will keep you from defiling what remains of her light."

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his expression—a shadow of the man from the vision. A sliver of grief, buried so deep beneath centuries of cruelty that it barely existed anymore.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Sauron’s face twisted into a snarl, his eyes darkening into fathomless voids. The air thickened, pressing against Aerilaya like an unseen force, the very atmosphere trembling under the weight of his wrath. Shadows coiled at his feet like living things, writhing, shifting, reaching—hungry.

"You speak of defiling her light?" he hissed, his voice a blade honed to cut deep. "I sought to build altars in her name, for all to revere her as I did. To worship even one like you."

He took a step forward, his presence suffocating, his movements slow and deliberate.

Aerilaya did not move.

Then, to her surprise, he reached for her.

His hand, cold yet impossibly gentle, lifted toward her cheek. She did not flinch.

For this moment alone, she allowed it.

His fingertips brushed her skin, a ghost of a touch—something that might have once been tender, but now felt like a whisper from the past.

"You are as beautiful as Lúthien herself," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "A flame of eternal light, carved by the hands that shaped you—the hands of a Moriquendi and a Maia."

Aerilaya’s breath caught, not from fear, but from the weight of the truth in his words. She had always known her lineage, but to hear him speak of it—to acknowledge it, to honor it—felt like standing at the precipice of something ancient and powerful.

But she would not be swayed.

She reached up, her own hand closing around his wrist—not in acceptance, but in restraint.

"You speak of worship," she said, her voice steady, unshaken. "But worship is not love."

His expression flickered, a crack in the stone.

"You claim to have honored her," she continued, her emerald eyes burning. "Yet you destroyed all that she held dear. You claim to have loved her, yet you twisted that love into a cage. And when she could not live within it—you let her die."

A shadow passed over his face, something dark and deep and aching.

His fingers twitched against her cheek—then withdrew.

"You think you know love," he whispered, his voice barely more than breath. "But love is a force far older than you, Aerilaya. Older than even I.” He paused. “I never meant for any of this, never meant to drive her away. I only did as I saw fit.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with centuries of grief and regret. His words had settled between them like the final toll of a bell, reverberating through the shattered remnants of all they had lost.

Sauron—Mairon—stood before her, no longer the unshakable force she had always known him to be. His expression, once so meticulously controlled, had fractured. His shoulders, which had borne the weight of ages, sagged as if the truth she had spoken had finally sunk its fangs into his very soul.

And yet, his eyes—once dark voids of hunger and fury—now shimmered with something Aerilaya had never expected to see.

Tears.

"You're right," he whispered, his voice raw, brittle as glass. "I lied to myself. I twisted the truth until I could no longer see it."

His eyes drifted past her, lost in the ghosts of what had been. "I loved her," he continued, his voice breaking under the weight of the admission. "More than anything in this world or beyond it. But I was afraid."

Aerilaya’s breath caught in her throat. She had never imagined she would hear such words from him, the being she had spent a century despising, the one she had blamed for all her mother’s suffering.

"Afraid of what?" she asked softly, hardly daring to believe this moment of vulnerability.

Sauron's gaze remained distant, unfocused, as if he could still see her mother standing before him, radiant in her love.

"Of losing her," he murmured. "Of being unworthy of her light. I thought... if I could reshape the world, make it perfect, then perhaps..."

His voice faltered, dissolving into silence. He looked lost—adrift in memories of what could have been.

Aerilaya swallowed against the lump in her throat. Despite everything—despite the devastation he had wrought, despite the choices he had made—she ached for him. For the father she had never truly known, the man who had once cradled her in reverent hands, who had adored her mother beyond reason.

"But you did lose her," Aerilaya whispered. "By trying to control her, to reshape her world, you pushed her away."

Sauron's eyes snapped back to hers, a storm raging behind them. "I never meant—" he began, but the words faltered, as if they no longer held weight.

For a long moment, the air between them was thick with everything unsaid, everything too late to change.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, Sauron reached out.

His fingers trembled as they hovered near the jewel at Aerilaya's throat—the very last remnant of her mother, the final link to a love long buried beneath centuries of ruin.

"May I?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aerilaya hesitated. Her instincts screamed to refuse, to pull away, to protect this piece of her mother from the very man who had driven her to despair.

But then she saw it—the vulnerability in his gaze, the unspoken plea buried beneath the weight of all his sins.

Slowly, she nodded.

His fingers brushed against the jewel, and in an instant, it pulsed with a brilliant, ethereal light. A warmth unlike anything Aerilaya had ever felt surged through her, spreading from the gem and wrapping around her like an embrace. A love so pure, so fierce, it stole the breath from her lungs.

Sauron gasped softly, his eyes widening in something like awe.

"She’s still here," he murmured, his voice thick with wonder and grief. "After all this time..."

His fingers lingered on the jewel, and for the first time in all her years, Aerilaya saw the impossible.

A single tear slipped down his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. A confession years too late, yet filled with a depth of pain Aerilaya had never known he was capable of.

Her hand moved of its own accord, covering his where it rested on the jewel. Its warmth pulsed beneath their joined fingers, a steady heartbeat of light and memory.

"She loved you," Aerilaya said softly, her own tears falling freely now. "Even at the end. Even when it broke her heart."

Sauron's eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw the full depth of his torment—centuries of longing, of regret, of sorrow so vast it threatened to consume him whole.

How long had he endured, shackled by the choices he had made? How many times had he dreamed of her mother, only to wake in the darkness of his own making? How much had it destroyed him to know she had chosen peace over him?

Aerilaya saw him now—not as the tyrant, not as the Dark Lord, not as the shadow looming over Middle-earth.

But as a man.

A man who had once held everything—and lost it all.

Her grip on the jewel tightened, and she took a shaky breath.

"Is this what you wanted?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sauron blinked, his brow furrowing. "...What?"

"This," she gestured around them—the ruin, the darkness, the power that weighed so heavily upon him. "Did it bring you what you wanted? Did it ever fill the emptiness?"

A muscle in Sauron’s jaw twitched. He looked away, but not before she saw it—the hesitation, the doubt.

The answer was there, unspoken.

And for the first time, Aerilaya saw it.

He did not know.

For all his centuries of conquest, for all his hunger for dominion, he did not know if it had ever been worth it.

And that was the greatest tragedy of all.