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kukuandkookie · 6 months ago

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The end of 2024 has proven that 2025 seems to be a huge year for donghua and I’m gripping everyone to give all these donghua besides just the most popular ones a chance!!!:

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Link Click, Yingdu arc: releasing December 27, 2024

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Nezha 2, sequel to Nezha 2019 aka Nezha zhi motong jiangshi, confirmed for January 2025

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To Be Hero X, likely April 2025 release (I hope people will also support the version with Chinese VAs! 🙏)

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Lord of the Mysteries, 2025 summer release—accompanied by more good news: the novel has officially entered the British Library and it will also be translated into English by Yen Press

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False Memory, series version, confirmed 2025 release

I am making this post because False Memory just released its new trailer and I am very much so looking forward to it! The series started as an indie short before growing into a bigger thing, much like Fog Hill of Five Elements and The Legend of Luo Xiaohei and Alita’s Trial. We’ve thus been waiting a couple years for news so this is really exciting, especially after it recently got a Twitter account!!

Bonuses:

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Ya She, released a couple months ago but late enough into 2024 I’d still love for more people to check it out!

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Scissor Seven, another one that’s had its newest season out for a while now, but I assume that for those who have Netflix, it hasn’t been officially English subbed or dubbed yet. We’re also still getting trailers for its game!:

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I Am What I Am 2, released Dec 14, 2024 in China!

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Reminder that Mo Dao Zu Shi is now on Crunchyroll! They may have removed it from Tencent’s donghua YouTube channel for this, so definitely go support it if you do have Crunchyroll!

Some children’s donghua have also recently released, including news of the new Balala the Fairies season and the other magical girls show, Rainbow Crew! The latter is confirmed for an official release in English.

The Yi Ren Zhi Xia game is also coming soon to global, and Fox Spirit Matchmaker even updated their OP recently after quite a long time of silence.

And speaking of silence, even the long-awaited SVSSS donghua saw some movement recently!?

Now if I could get a confirmed 2025 release for White Cat Legend season 3 (and maybe God Troubles Me and Lie Huo Jiao Chou and Fei Ren Zai and All Saints Street and The Legend of Luo Xiaohei and Wo Jia Dashixiong Naozi You Keng etc…)), I could die a happy man (gender-neutral)—after watching all of these newly released donghua shows and films and seasons, of course ahaha. 🙏

For more news and info on donghua, you can check here:

There’s a bunch of new donghua information in the above document that came from 2024, even though they don’t have official release dates yet! Including but not limited to:

The announcement and PV of Call-Up Girls, based on a baihe manhua

The announcement of a Nirvana in Fire donghua, based on the danmei novel with a famous cdrama adaptation (with the manhua having recently gotten an official English license via Aloha Comics)

Trailer and announcement for 《向火而生》, based on Shui Qian Cheng’s danmei novel Blazing Armour

More announcements for Jing Wei Qing Shang, based on the popular baihe novel

Trailer for The Story of Rong Song, a spin-off of the famous Big Fish and Begonia movie

and many, many more…!

Hope everyone can join me in watching more donghua for 2025!! :D

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rorylovesangst · 7 months ago

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A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Pretend by Alex G

tws: sh injury, physical discomfort, violence

previous chapter → chapter 4 -> next chapter

word count: ~3.5k

You’re sick as a dog. Panting and slimy in your creaky bed, blanket kicked and crumpled to the footboard. The burn on your chest is swollen, angry, and oozing under the makeshift bandages Olive swathed you in days ago. Ronny has called you at least five times, each ring prising you from the fragile cocoon of restless sleep you’ve managed to weave. Your phone buzzes now, taunting you from the dresser. Just a mere few feet away. A short reach.

You stretch out your hand, your fingers twitching, aching for just one more inch of reach, hoping—praying—that your arm might suddenly grow longer. Long enough to brush the phone. Long enough to silence it. But every attempt leaves you with a limp hand dangling over the side of your bed and a hollow, wheezy sigh escaping your lips.

Olive sent you home yesterday. She took one look at your sunken eyes, pale complexion, the way you swayed on your feet as you knotted your apron, and didn’t give you a choice. “I’ll cover your shifts,” she said, her tone tolerating no argument. “Until you’re looking more like a human being than a ghost.”

The thought comes to you slowly, sluggishly, like a heavy tide creeping in: Maybe this is an easy way out. Just stay here. Let the fever do its work. Let the infection take over, creeping through your veins like rust on old pipes. Rot away in your bed until the light above drinks you up.

How pathetic. Dying of an infection from a self-inflicted burn. Too scared to do the job yourself, so you let the elements finish it for you. Let them break you down, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to recognize.

Suddenly, a knock rattles through the silence, edged and obstinate, pulsing in your skull like a drumbeat. Your breath hitches, shallow and ragged, as if the sound itself has stolen the air from your lungs. Frozen in place, you don’t answer. You can’t. The weight of the fever presses down on you, but it’s the icy prickle of panic that locks your body in place. Your mind spins: Did someone find you? How? Each knock feels denser than the last, and a thousand explanations churn in your head.

The phone on the dresser buzzes again—another call from Ronny—and for a moment, you wonder if it’s connected, if somehow he’s sent someone here to lug you back to a life you’ve worked so hard to enshroud. Your pulse croons in your ears, every nerve on edge, waiting for what comes next.

Then, a voice muzzled by the door: “Blue, it’s Riley.”

You almost laugh—if you could find the strength. Riley. You think about his crooked nose, the way he speaks without hurry, like the world will wait for him to finish. A construction jacket and a coffee order. That’s all you know.

Another knock. Blairing this time. “I know you’re in there. Olive told me.”

Olive. That traitor.

Your hand sags off the side of the bed, fingers twitching toward the phone that buzzes again, its vibrations rattling the chipped wood of your nightstand. You try to form words, but they deteriorate before they leave your tongue.

And then you hear it: the soft click of the front door. The scuffle of boots on your entryway floor. He’s inside.

“Blue?” His voice moves through the house like it belongs there, moored but heedful, as though he’s navigating a minefield. You want to yell, to tell him to leave, but all you manage is a puny groan that catches in your throat.

It doesn’t take him long to find you.

“Jesus Christ.”

He’s a haze in the doorway of your room, framed by peeling paint and sagging drywall. His shadow stretches across the floor, falling just short of your bed. You squint, trying to push away the fog in your eyes, and there he is. Tall, broad, the hem of his faded green jacket brushing his thighs. The material strains slightly at the shoulders when he crosses his arms, the soft crinkle of the paper bag in one hand breaking the tense silence.

“Olive said you ‘aven’t been answerin’ her texts. Sent me to check on you,” he grumbles, stepping further into the room. His gaze sweeps over you—hair slick to your forehead, barely clothed, glowering—before landing on the burn. Raw. Oozing. Pleading. His lips press into a thinner line.

“She said you weren’t takin’ care o’ yourself. Thought maybe she was exaggeratin’,” he mutters, setting the bag on your nightstand. The red of the burn cream box catches your eye. “Lemme see it.”

Your head shakes feebly against the pillow. “No.”

“Fine. I’ll jus’ call Olive. Get ‘er over here.”

“No, no!” You want to sound flinty, but your voice is crazing and brambly. “You can’t tell her. She’ll hate herself—hate herself for not noticing. Please, please don’t.” You’re out of breath, your hand that was limply hanging over the bed now holding onto the fabric of his jeans.

He sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “I won’ tell her. But you hav’ to show me. I don’t believe that its fine.”

“The fuck would you know? I am fine.” You screw your eyes shut, wishing that when you open them, he is gone.

“Sure,” he drawls, squatting beside the bed. His presence is overwhelming, the scent of cedar and smoke luxuriant in the close space. “Sweatin’ like it’s a thousand degrees in ‘ere. Burnin’ up.” His hand moves, wiping the damp hair from your forehead, palm sultry against your molten skin. “Not to mention I can smell it. But yeah, let’s pretend you’re just peachy.”

“Fuck you,” you carp, turning your face away.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, his dark eyes scintillating with something like amusement. “Now sit up. If you can.”

You glare at him, a mix of dissent and exhaustion guttering in your fevered eyes, but you don’t argue. Not verbally, anyway. Instead, you brace your quavering arms against the mattress and push. The muscles in your shoulders scream in protest, your elbows wobbling under the weight of your own body. It’s a pitiful attempt, and you hate how much of that struggle he sees.

Before you can slumping back, his large hands are on you—steady, firm. His arms slink under yours, lifting you with ease, as if you weigh nothing more than the blanket tangled around your legs. His chest skims yours as he sets you against the headboard, and for a moment, you feel the surprising gentleness beneath the bulk of his strength, that faint cushion of chub that makes his size even more intimidating. His heat lingers even after he steps back.

“You’re not gonna yell at me for doin’ it myself?” His voice is low, imbued with dry humor as he glances at you.

“Shut up,” you mutter blandly, bending further into the headboard. The cool wood presses against your spine, a stark contrast to the fire licking at your chest.

Simon doesn’t press further. He reaches for the roll of bandages wrapped haphazardly around your chest, the adhesive tainted with sweat and… something worse. His thick fingers, marked with scars and nicks, work carefully to peel them away.

“Gonna sting,” he warns, glancing up at you, his dark eyes searching your face as if gauging how much you can take.

“No shit,” you sneer, though your voice lacks its bite.

The first pull makes you flinch, your head snapping forward on instinct. His free hand pinions gently against your shoulder, keeping you in place without force.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice softening in a way that almost makes you wince more than the pain. “I got you.”

You don’t respond. Can’t. The adhesive wrenches at your raw skin, ripping a low hiss from your lips. Simon pauses, glancing at you again, but you wave him on. The quicker it’s over, the better.

The bandage finally comes free, leaving your burn displayed to the cool air. A fresh wave of pain flourishes in its wake, sudden and throbbing, making you gasp. Simon grimaces, his lips pressing into a hard line as he takes in the furious, provoked wound.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, his brow furrowing deeply. “That’s worse than I thought.”

Your stomach froths at his tone. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, his voice sharper now. He tosses the stained bandages into the paper bag before pulling out the burn cream and gauze. “You need more than this shit,” he grumbles under his breath, shaking the cream tube. “You need a fuckin’ doctor.”

“I said no hospital,” you snap, though the words come out weaker than you want. “No doctors. No Olive.”

He leans back on his heels, staring at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue. Up close, his crooked nose casts a slight shadow on his face, and his lips part, only for him to close them again in frustration. His fingers tap against his thigh, the faint smell of cedarwood and smoke mixing with the metallic tang of your wound.

“Fine,” he says finally, the word heavy. “But you’re gonna let me clean this up proper. No arguing, no whining, no tellin’ me to fuck off. Got it?”

You nod, too jaded to fight.

“Good,” he mutters, leaning closer as he unscrews the cap of the cream. He scoops a dollop onto his finger and pauses, his eyes flickering to yours. “This is gonna hurt.”

“It already hurts,” you reply hoarsely, your voice more resigned than bold now.

His hand, warm and steady, presses against your skin, the cool cream a sharp contrast to the burning heat radiating from the infection. The pain grinds for a moment, making you wince and fist the sheets, but his touch is oddly precise, methodical. You feel every callous on his fingers as he works, but his hands never falter, never shake.

“Still breathin’?” he asks after a long moment, his voice lighter, almost playful.

“Barely,” you manage, earning a faint grin from him.

When he’s done, he wraps fresh gauze around your chest, his fingers unexpectedly gentle as they secure it in place. He steps back, surveying his work with a critical eye, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light of your bedroom.

“There,” he says, standing to his full height, his presence towering over you again. “Better than it was, but you need to keep it clean. No more half-assin’ it.” His voice relaxes slightly, though his words remain compressed. “And you’re gonna eat somethin’. I’ll grab somethin’ from the kitchen.”

“Bossy,” you gabble, letting your head fall back against the headboard.

“Someone’s gotta be,” he counters, the faintest hint of a smirk jerking at his lips as he turns and heads toward the door, the floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. The scent of cedarwood and smoke lingers behind him, a faint reminder of the storm of a man who’s somehow decided to fix you.

Simon returns less than ten minutes later, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he steps back into the room. In one hand, he’s holding a steaming bowl of soup; in the other, a plate with a single piece of buttered toast balanced precariously on the edge.

“Had to scrape together somethin’,” he mutters, setting the plate and bowl on your nightstand with a clatter. His dark eyes narrow as they flick over you, still slumped against the headboard. “You’ve got nothin’ in that fridge. I mean nothin’. How the hell are you not starvin’ to death?”

You don’t answer immediately, too busy concentrating on the smoke wafting off the soup. It smells faintly like chicken, or maybe just broth—nothing elaborate, but it stirs a hollow ache in your stomach you’d ignored was there in the first place.

Simon doesn’t wait for you to reply. “I found a half-empty jar of pickles, a loaf of bread that’s probably older than I am, and some butter that looks like it’s seen better days.” He crosses his arms, his bulk looming over you like a scolding parent. “You expect to live off that? What, you just sittin’ here waitin’ to waste away?”

You glare up at him weakly. “Wasn’t hungry,” you mutter, though even you don’t believe it. Your body practically wobbles with the need for sustenance.

“Bullshit,” he snaps, grabbing the plate and holding it in front of you. “Eat.”

You stare at the toast, mulishness flaring despite the gnawing in your gut. “I’m not a child.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he quips. “Only difference is, kids don’t usually try to kill themselves by neglectin’ a fuckin’ infection.”

With a sigh, you reach for the toast, your fingers trembling as you bring it to your mouth. The butter has melted unevenly, pooling in one corner, but it doesn’t matter. The first bite is bliss, the saltiness grounding you in a way that feels almost humiliating.

Satisfied, Simon turns to the soup. He dips the spoon in and holds it out to you. “Come on.”

“I can do it,” you say, but your attempt to take the bowl from him is so poor it barely counts.

“Sure you can,” he replies sarcastically, keeping a steady grip on it. “Open your mouth.”

You scowl but comply, taking the spoonful of broth he offers. It’s warm, salty, and comforting, soothing some of the ache in your chest that isn’t from the burn. He feeds you spoonful by spoonful, his patience unexpected given the size of his frame and the frankness of his demeanor.

“You’re a terrible patient,” he grumbles between bites. “Makin’ me play nurse ‘cause you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

“You volunteered,” you point out weakly, though the retort lacks bane. The warmth of the food is lulling you into a foggy calm, and your eyelids start to feel heavy.

He shakes his head, scoffing softly. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

By the time the bowl is empty, you’re slinking lower into the mattress, the exhaustion from your fever pulling at you more demandingly now. Simon notices, his gaze softening slightly as he sets the empty bowl and plate aside. He stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and pulls the blanket up over you.

“You’re a bloody mess,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Gotta figure out how to keep you alive long enough to fix that.”

His scent—cedarwood and smoke—lingers as he adjusts the blanket, making sure it covers you properly. You mumble something incoherent, your voice fading as sleep pulls you under.

When you finally drift off, your breathing slow and even, Simon lingers for a moment, watching. His broad shoulders sag slightly, the weight of something unspoken heavy in the air. Then, as silently as a man his size can manage, he slips out of the room with a quiet Pain in my ass. The front door clicks softly shut behind him, leaving behind only the faint traces of his scent and the warmth of his presence in the empty house.

He’s a shaken can of soda. Bottled up and eager to bubble and fizz over the edge at the first snap. His knuckles aren’t just bloody—they’re raw, split, and sparkling under the yellow warehouse lights. The wraps are long gone, shredded after the first round, leaving his bare hands to meet flesh and bone with nothing to soften the impact.

The air down here is suffocating—thick with the stink of sweat, blood, and desperation. It clings to Simon’s skin like a reminder of where he belongs. Around him, the crowd churns, their voices a discordant purr of bets and roars, urging him forward like he’s nothing more than an animal in a pit.

He exhales slow, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his opponent looming like a freight train. The guy’s face is a mess—a swollen eye, split lip, blood streaking down his neck. Good. Simon’s done his work. But the man’s still standing, fists tight, chest heaving. Another swing could end it for either of them.

Simon feels the ache in his ribs. A rib is cracked—maybe two—but he pushes past it, lets it fuel the fire under his skin. Pain’s a language he knows better than most, and tonight he’s fluent.

But through the haze of bloodlust and adrenaline, a thought cuts through. You. The memory flickers, uninvited but sharp: you, curled up on that worn mattress, sweat gluing strands of hair to your temples, your voice small and tired when you said It doesn’t matter. I'm fine.

He hadn’t answered you then—hadn’t trusted himself to say something that wouldn’t make you retreat further into yourself. You’d looked so fragile, so wary of being seen like that. Vulnerable. Human. And yet, there was something in the way your eyes softened when he stayed, when he didn’t push too hard.

He adjusts his stance, shaking the thought loose. There’s no room for you here—not in this ring, not in this fight. But your image lingers, shadowing his movements like an echo of something he can’t quite name.

The signal comes—just a nod from Price—and Simon thrusts forward, fists flying, every ounce of pent-up rage and guilt exploding in raw, ruthless force. He lands a right hook that rocks his opponent back, the crunch of bone reverberating up his arm.

The guy swings back, wild and reckless, his fist grazing Simon’s jaw. It’s enough to make his ears ring, but he recovers fast, dodging low and countering with an uppercut that lands hard. The man stumbles, spit and blood spraying from his mouth as the crowd howls their approval.

For a moment, Simon falters—not physically, but somewhere deeper. He hears your voice again: It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. A lie so thin it was nearly transparent. How many times had he said the same thing to himself?

His opponent surges forward, and instinct takes over. Simon plants his feet, pivots, and throws everything he has into one last punch. His knuckles connect with the man’s temple, and it’s over.

The guy crumples to the ground, and the crowd erupts, a cacophony of cheers and stomping boots. Price is there almost immediately, clapping Simon on the back, his voice low and approving. “Good work,” he says, already turning away. “Now clean up and get outta here, I need you early tomorrow morning. New buildings and shit.”

Simon stands there, chest heaving, his vision swimming. The blood on his hands feels stickier than usual tonight. He doesn’t know why.

As he stumbles toward the shadows to catch his breath, your face drifts back to him again. Fragile, guarded, but alive in a way that this place never will be.

What the hell am I doing here?

The thought lingers, just long enough to sting. Then he shakes it off and sinks back into the noise.

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