#none of us are connected to our source

[starstruck-sillies]

Putting out sourcecalls in servers really does feel like being a fisherman putting a bunch of lines in the water and hoping for bites

-Xero

[kyri45]

When you long for a cat so much you create a soft magic system where almost everyone has a cat familiar that gives them small abilities and protagonist has none.

Let me know what you think of this concept! More info below the cut

Slightly longer summary: In a world much like ours, every person is supposely destined to bond with a cat.

This sacred connection isn’t just companionship, but also a magic source. Cats have always been venerated for their raw magic energy, and with the centuries, humanity learned to develop bonds with them to harness it in order to help them with everyday tasks. When a bond is formed, the cat and human share their lifespans, emotions, and their talents. The human gets to use their abilities in a refined way. The felines in exchange develop longer lifespans, a conduit for their own magic and the ability to speak the human language.

These cats don’t walk on leashes, they ride on shoulders, nest in scarves, or custom-worn leather pads. Over time, bonded humans begin to subtly reflect their feline companions (their hair shifting in color, their senses sharpening).

But not everyone has a cat. And not every cat has a human.

In order of slides (none of them have names yet):

an archivist whose red british shorthair cat help her memorize the whole library!

a pottery artist whose Devon Rex helps him with problem solving and tinkering

An explorer whose Norvegian Forest cat helps him have outstanding sense of direction.

A barista whose Tonkinese cat helps her immediately understand which mood their customer have and which beverage they need.

A high class lady is able to slightly change the luck odds thanks to her Nebelung

A catless night guard. Has never passed their childhood bonding ritual.

A human-less Blue Russian cat, whose now lives with other cats in the city forest sanctuary.

Every bonded human owns a badge that shows which breed and, consequencially, their ability.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Billionaire-proofing the internet

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

During the Napster wars, the record labels seriously pissed off millions of internet users when they sued over 19,000 music fans, mostly kids, but also grannies, old people, and dead people.

It's hard to overstate how badly the labels behaved. Like, there was the Swarthmore student who was the maintainer of a free/open source search engine that indexed files available in public sharepoints on the LAN. The labels sued him for millions and millions (the statutory damages for digital copyright infringement runs to $150,000 per file) and, when he begged for a settlement, said that they would accept his life's savings, but only if he changed majors and stopped studying Computer Science.

No, really.

What's more, none of the money the labels extracted from teenagers, grandparents (and the dead) went to artists. The labels just kept it all, while continuing to insist that they were doing all this because they wanted to "protect artists."

One thing everyone agreed on was how disgusted we all were with the labels. What we didn't agree on was what to do about it. A lot of us wanted to reform copyright – say, by creating a blanket license for internet music so that artists could get paid directly. This was the systemic approach.

Another group – call them the "individualists" – wanted a boycott. Just stop buying and listening to music from the major labels. Every dollar you spend with a label is being used to fund a campaign of legal terror. Merely enjoying popular music makes you part of the problem.

You can probably guess which group I was in. Leaving aside the futility of "voting with your wallet" (a rigged ballot that's always won by the people with the thickest wallet), I just thought this was bad tactics.

Here's what I would say when people told me we should all stop listening to popular music: "If members of your popular movement are not allowed to listen to popular music, your movement won't be very popular."

We weren't going to make political change by creating an impossible purity test ("Ew, you listen to music from a major label? God, what's wrong with you?"). I mean, for one thing, a lot of popular music is legitimately fantastic and makes peoples' lives better. Popular movements should strive to increase their members' joy, not demand their deprivation. Again, not merely because this is a nice thing to do for people, but also because it's good tactics to make participation in the thing you're trying to do as joyous as possible.

Which brings me to social media. The problem with social media is that the people we love and want to interact with are being held prisoner in walled gardens. The mechanism of their imprisonment is the "switching costs" of leaving. Our friends and communities are on bad social media networks because they love each other more than they hate Musk or Zuck. Leaving a social platform can cost you contact with family members in the country you emigrated from, a support group of people who share your rare disease, the customers or audience you rely on for your livelihood, or just the other parents organizing your kid's little league game.

Hypothetically, you could organize all these people to leave at once, go somewhere else, and re-establish all your social connections. Practically, the "collective action problem" of doing so is nearly insurmountable. This is what platform owners depend on – it's why they know they can enshittify their services without losing users. So long as the pain of using the service is lower than the pain of leaving it, the companies can turn the screws on users to make their lives worse in order to extract more profit from them. This is why Musk killed the block button and why Zuck fired all his moderators. Why bear the expense of doing something nice for users if they'll still stick around even if you cut a ton of headcount and/or expensive compute?

There's a way out of this, thankfully. When social media is federated, then you can leave a server without leaving your friends. Think of it as being similar to changing cell-phone companies. When you switch from Verizon to T-Mobile, you keep your number, you keep your address book and you keep your friends, who won't even know you switched networks unless you tell them:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/29/how-to-leave-dying-social-media-platforms/

There's no reason social media couldn't work this way. You should be able to leave Facebook or Twitter for Mastodon, Bluesky, or any other service and still talk with the people you left behind, provided they still want to talk with you:

https://www.eff.org/interoperablefacebook

That's how the Fediverse – which Mastodon is part of – works already. You can switch from one Mastodon server to another, and all the people you follow and who follow you will just move over to that new server. That means that if the person or company or group running your server goes sour, you aren't stuck making a choice between the people you love who connect to you on that server, and the pain of dealing with whatever bullshit the management is throwing off:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/23/semipermeable-membranes/#free-as-in-puppies

We could make that stronger! Data protection laws like the EU's GDPR and California's CCPA create a legal duty for online services to hand over your data on demand. Arguably, these laws already require your Mastodon server's management to give you the files you need to switch from one server to another, but that could be clarified. Handing these files over to users on demand is really straightforward – even a volunteer running a small server for a few friends will have no trouble living up to this obligation. It's literally just a minute's work for each user.

Another way to make this stronger is through governance. Many of the great services that defined the old, good internet were run by "benevolent dictators for life." This worked well, but failed so badly. Even if the dictator for life stayed benevolent, that didn't make them infallible. The problem of a dictatorship isn't just malice – it's also human frailty. For a service to remain good over long timescales, it needs accountable, responsive governance. That's why all the most successful BDFL services (like Wikipedia) transitioned to community-managed systems:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/10/bdfl/#high-on-your-own-supply

There, too, Mastodon shines. Mastodon's founder Eugen Rochko has just explicitly abjured his role as "ultimate decision-maker" and handed management over to a nonprofit:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2025/01/mastodon-becomes-nonprofit-to-make-sure-its-never-ruined-by-billionaire-ceo/

I love using Mastodon and I have a lot of hope for its future. I wish I was as happy with Bluesky, which was founded with the promise of federation, and which uses a clever naming scheme that makes it even harder for server owners to usurp your identity. But while Bluesky has added many, many technically impressive features, they haven't delivered on the long-promised federation:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/02/ulysses-pact/#tie-yourself-to-a-federated-mast

Bluesky sure seems like a lot of fun! They've pulled tens of millions of users over from other systems, and by all accounts, they've all having a great time. The problem is that without federation, all those users are vulnerable to bad decisions by management (perhaps under pressure from the company's investors) or by a change in management (perhaps instigated by investors if the current management refuses to institute extractive measures that are good for the investors but bad for the users). Federation is to social media what fire-exits are to nightclubs: a way for people to escape if the party turns deadly:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/14/fire-exits/#graceful-failure-modes

So what's the answer? Well, around Mastodon, you'll hear a refrain that reminds me a lot of the Napster wars: "People who are enjoying themselves on Bluesky are wrong to do so, because it's not federated and the only server you can use is run by a VC-backed for-profit. They should all leave that great party – there's no fire exits!"

This is the social media version of "To be in our movement, you have to stop listening to popular music." Sure, those people shouldn't be crammed into a nightclub that has no fire exits. But thankfully, there is an alternative to being the kind of scold who demands that people leave a great party, and being the kind of callous person who lets tens of millions of people continue to risk their lives by being stuck in a fire-trap.

We can install our own fire-exits in Bluesky.

Yesterday, an initiative called "Free Our Feeds" launched, with a set of goals for "billionaire-proofing" social media. One of those goals is to add the long-delayed federation to Bluesky. I'm one of the inaugural endorsers for this, because installing fire exits for Bluesky isn't just the right thing to do, it's also good tactics:

https://freeourfeeds.com/

Here's why: if a body independent of the Bluesky corporation implements its federation services, then we ensure that its fire exits are beyond the control of its VCs. That means that if they are ever tempted in future to brick up the fire-exits, they won't be able to. This isn't a hypothetical risk. When businesses start to enshittify their services, they fully commit themselves to blocking anything that makes it easy to leave those services.

That's why Apple went so hard after Beeper Plus, a service that enhanced iMessage's security by making conversations between Apple and Android users as private as chats that were confined to Apple users:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/07/blue-bubbles-for-all/#never-underestimate-the-determination-of-a-kid-who-is-time-rich-and-cash-poor

It's why Elon Musk periodically freaks out and suspends users who list their Mastodon userids in their Twitter bios:

https://techcrunch.com/2022/12/15/elon-musk-suspends-mastodon-twitter-account-over-elonjet-tracking/

And it's why Meta will suspend your account if you link to Pixelfed, a Fediverse-based alternative to Instagram:

https://www.404media.co/meta-is-blocking-links-to-decentralized-instagram-competitor-pixelfed/

Once upon a time, we had a solid way of overcoming the problem of lock-in. We'd reverse-engineer a proprietary system and make a free, open alternative. We've been hacking fire exits into walled gardens since the Usenet days, with the creation of the alt.* hierarchy:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/11/altinteroperabilityadversarial

When the corporate owners of Unix started getting all weird about source-code access and user-modifiability, we didn't insist that Unix users were bad people for sticking with a corporate OS. We reverse-engineered Unix and set all those users free:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GNU_Project

The answer to Microsoft's proprietary SMB network protocol wasn't a campaign to shame people for having SMB running on their LANs. It was reverse-engineering SMB and making SAMBA, which is now in every single device in your home and office, and it's gloriously free as in speech and free as in beer:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/samba-versus-smb-adversarial-interoperability-judo-network-effects

In the years since, a thicket of laws we colloquially call "IP" has grown up around services and products, and people have literally forgotten that there is an alternative to wheedling people to endure the pain of leaving a proprietary system for a free one. IP has put the imaginations of people who dream of a free internet in chains.

We can do better than begging people to leave a party they're enjoying; we can install our own fucking fire exits. Sure, maybe that means that a lot of those users will stay on the proprietary platform, but at least we'll have given them a way to leave if things go horribly wrong.

After all, there's no virtue in software freedom. The only thing worth caring about is human freedom. The only reason to value software freedom is if it sets humans free.

If I had my way, all those people enjoying themselves on Bluesky would come and enjoy themselves in the Fediverse. But I'm not a purist. If there's a way to use Bluesky without locking myself to the platform, I will join the party there in a hot second. And if there's a way to join the Bluesky party from the Fediverse, then goddamn I will party my ass off.

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/14/contesting-popularity/#everybody-samba

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A decorative orange ceramic plate with a pyramid of green herbs and sesame seeds, topped with deep red sumac and more sesame seeds. End ID]

زعتر فلسطيني / Za'tar falastinia (Palestinian spice blend)

Za'tar (زَعْتَر; also transliterated "za'atar," "zaatar" and "zatar") is the name of a family of culinary herbs; it is also the name of a group of spice blends made by mixing these herbs with varying amounts of olive oil, sumac, salt, roasted sesame seeds, and other spices. Palestinian versions of za'tar often include caraway, aniseed, and roasted wheat alongside generous portions of sumac and sesame seeds. The resulting blend is bold, zesty, and aromatic, with a hint of floral sourness from the sumac, and notes of licorice and anise.

Za'tar is considered by Palestinians to have particular national, political, and personal importance, and exists as a symbol of both Israeli oppression and Palestinian home-making and resistance. Its major components, olive oil and wild thyme, are targeted by the settler state in large part due to their importance to ecology, identity, and trade in Palestine—settlers burn and raze Palestinian farmers' olive trees by the thousands each year. A 1977 Israeli law forbade the harvesting of wild herbs within its claimed borders, with violators of the law risking fines and confiscation, injury, and even death from shootings or land mines; in 2006, za'tar was further restricted, such that even its possession in the West Bank was met with confiscation and fines.

Despite the blanket ban on harvesting wild herbs (none of which are endangered), Arabs are the only ones to be charged and fined for the crime. Samir Naamnih calls the ban an attempt to "starve us out," given that foraging is a major source of food for many Palestinians, and that picking and selling herbs is often the sole form of income for impoverished families. Meanwhile, Israeli farmers have domesticated and farmed za'tar on expropriated Palestinian land, selling it (both the herb and the spice mixture) back to Palestinians, and later marketing it abroad as an "Israeli" blend; they thus profit from the ban on wild harvesting of the herb. This farming model, as well as the double standard regarding harvesting, refer back to an idea that Arabs are a primitive people unfit to own the land, because they did not cultivate or develop it as the settlers did (i.e., did not attempt to recreate a European landscape or European models of agriculture); colonizing and settling the land are cast as justified, and even righteous.

The importance of the ban on foraging goes beyond the economic. Raya Ziada, founder of an acroecology nonprofit based in Ramallah, noted in 2019 that "taking away access to [wild herbs] doesn't just debilitate our economy and compromise what we eat. It's symbolic." Za'tar serves variously as a symbol of Palestinians' connection to the land and to nature; of Israeli colonial dispossession and theft; of the Palestinian home ("It’s a sign of a Palestinian home that has za’tar in it"); and of resistance to the colonial regime, as many Palestinians have continued to forage herbs such as za'tar and akkoub in the decades since the 1977 ban. Resistance to oppression will continue as long as there is oppression.

Palestine Action has called for bail fund donations to aid in their storming, occupying, shutting down, and dismantling of factories and offices owned by Israeli arms manufacturer Elbit Systems. Also contact your representatives in the USA, UK, and Canada.

Ingredients:

Za'tar (Origanum syriacum), 250g once dried (about 4 cups packed)

250g (1 2/3 cup) sesame seeds

170g (3/4 cup) Levantine sumac berries, or ground sumac (Rhus coriaria)

100g (1/2 cup) wheat berries (optional)

2 Tbsp olive oil

1 Tbsp aniseed (optional)

1/2 Tbsp caraway seeds (optional)

Levantine wild thyme (also known as Bible hyssop, Syrian oregano, and Lebanese oregano) may be purchased dried online. You may also be able to find some dried at a halal grocery store, where it will be labelled "زعتر" (za'tar) and "thym," "thyme," or "oregano." Check to make sure that what you're buying is just the herb and not the prepared mixture, which is also called "زعتر." Also ensure that what you're buying is not a product of Israel.

If you don't have access to Levantine thyme, Greek or Turkish oregano are good substitutes.

Wheat berries are the wheat kernel that is ground to produce flour. They may be available sold as "wheat berries" at a speciality health foods store. They may be omitted, or replaced with pre-ground whole wheat flour.

Instructions:

1. Harvest wild thyme and remove the stems from the leaves. Wash the leaves in a large bowl of water and pat dry; leave in a single layer in the sun for four days or so, until brittle. Skip this step if using pre-dried herbs.

2. Crumble leaves by rubbing them between the palms of your hands until they are very fine. Pass through a sieve or flour sifter into a large bowl, re-crumbling any leaves that are too coarse to get through.

Crumbling between the hands is an older method. You may also use a blender or food processor to grind the leaves.

3. Mix the sifted thyme with a drizzle of olive oil and work it between your hands until incorporated.

4. Briefly toast sumac berries, caraway seeds, and aniseed in a dry skillet over medium heat, then grind them to a fine powder in a mortar and pestle or a spice mill.

5. Toast sesame seeds in a dry skillet over medium heat, stirring constantly, until deeply golden brown.

6. (Optional) In a dry skillet on medium-low, toast wheat berries, stirring constantly, until they are deeply golden brown. Grind to a fine powder in a spice mill. If using ground flour, toast on low, stirring constantly, until browned.

Some people in the Levant bring their wheat to a local mill to be ground after toasting, as it produces a finer and more consistent texture.

7. Mix all ingredients together and work between your hands to incorporate.

Store za'tar in an airtight jar at room temperature. Mix with olive oil and use as a dipping sauce with bread.

[thealtoduck]

Secret Saviour

Damian Wayne x Male Reader

Warnings: None…

Part 1: Being the son of Roulette and meeting Damian Wayne…

Summary: When Bruce goes missing Damian finds an unexpected help in Y/n Sinclair…

(A/n: I changed the title from the poll)

——

Ever since the two of you studied together you and Damian had grown fond of each others company. Despite that Damian would never admit this fact, he insisted to his family that he was simply investigating you to see if you were somehow involved with your mother’s criminal activities.

He hadn’t actually found anything suspicious connecting you to Roulette yet which pleased him. Because according to him it means ”he dosen’t have to contact the GCPD… yet”. But Damian would have to put his ”investigation” on halt for a bit.

One dark night during patrol Bruce had suddenly disappeared without a trace, no comms could reach him and they had no way to track him except for the Batmobile’s last location, which hadn’t revealed the slightest hint. His allies looked for him for days trying to find even the smallest clue that would at least let them know he was alive but nothing.

Just when they felt like there was no where else to look they got a call from the watchtower. They answered and Martian Manhunter appeared on the screen of the Batcomputer.

”Hey J’onn, good news I hope” Dick greeted. ”The watchtower recieved an urgent message about Batman’s current whereabouts from an unknown source” J’onn said and another voice started playing from the speakers, one which Damian recognized…

”Is this the watchtower?” A voice came over a weak signal making the sound crackle lightly. Despite the bad audio quality Damian knew that voice immediately it was Y/n’s voice. ”I know Batman has disappeared and I think I know where he is, have someone meet me on the 4th floor of parking garage next to the Royal Hotel, on Wednesday at midnight and I’ll tell you what i know”.

The message then ended and J’onn said ”I’ll let you decide how to deal with the informant, make sure to be careful, contact the League if you need any further help, good luck”. Then he hung up and disappeared from the main screen.

”Do we go meet the informant? It could be a trap to get us too” Duke questioned. ”We don’t have anything else to go off, this could be our only lead, we have to go” Tim stated. ”How about two of us go meet the informant, while the others keep watch in the surrounding area and Oracle monitors, incase it’s a trap” Dick said drawing up a plan.

The others muttered and nodded in agreement of the plan. ”I wanna meet the informant” Damian then voulenteered on impulse making the others turn to him suprised by his eagerness. But Damian needed to make sure it was you, even if you might be luring him in to a trap.

”Alright” Dick said and walked them through the plan ”Me and Damian meet the informant on the 4th floor. Jason, you keep an eye from above the top of the Royal Hotel. Cass and Steph, i want one of you on the 5th floor and one on the 3rd floor, incase we need back up. Duke and Tim, you’ll watch from the building across the street, everyone clear?”.

The each member of the team uttered a quick ”Yes” in understanding. As Damian went to bed he knew needed to keep an eye on you tommorow.

——

The next day when Damian attended school he was on the watch for you. Once he found you, you greeted Damian as you usually did but as you got to class he noticed you seemed off. You were usually the more talkative out of the two of you but today you seemed distracted, almost nervous today.

When you got to lunch time and you and Damian sat down together he questioned ”Are you okay? You’re being quiet”. ”Oh… no I’m fine I just got a lot to do, so just a bit stressed you know” you answered vaguely.

The fact that Damian had pointed it out, made you seem more focused and yourself, he assumed it was to not seem suspicious and make him ask more questions. Once the school day ended you were quick in saying goodbye to him before you got in to a car as your chauffeur took you home.

——

Later that night Nightwing and Robin grappled to the 4th floor of parking garage and started looking around. There were some cars parked there that they kept a watchful eye on in case any goons were hiding inside. Soon the two spotted a figure dressed in all black.

The figure was looking down to the streets below the garage. The two approached slowly ready to grab their weapons in case of an ambush. As they stopped behing the stranger he turned around.

Damian had been right there you were hidden in a black hoodie. Not something you’d usually wear but Damian understood it was for stealth purposes. And even then he thought black suited you well.

Dick however was caught slightly off guard a kid was the one who had made an emergency call to the Watchtower…

”Thanks for meeting me” you said, your voice cautious as you looked around to see no one would hear you. ”So, what do you know?” Nightwing asked.

”I think that Batman was taken by the criminal, Roulette, ever heard of her?” you started. ”Yeah, she’s the one who runs those illegal cansinos, what makes you think she’s behind this?” Dick asked.

”I… have sources who work closely with her” you said Robin and Nightwing noticing the slight hesitation in your voice. ”They say she’s advertising a special event with her superhero cage fights that started around the same time Batman went missing” you explained.

”Any idea where she might have taken him?” Robin spoke up, his voice throwing you off for a moment, Robin sounded kinda like Damian. You got back on track and answered ”My guess would be her casino in Las Vegas, it’s her biggest one, she holds all her major events there and I think she’d make having captured Batman, a big event”.

You held out a flash drive in your hand and said ”This contains the layout of the Vegas casino”. Nightwing picked it up and said ”Thank you, you’ve been very helpful to us”.

”It’s the least I could do after all you’ve all done for the city” you told him with a small smile. ”I have to leave now” you told them. ”Good luck” you said walking off, you felt someone grab your shoulder.

Making you turn around being met with Robin. ”You shouldn’t walk home alone, It’s dangerous this late at night, someone should escort you” he stated. You smiled at him. ”Don’t worry I’m a tough boy, who can take care of himself, thanks for the offer though” you stated, a teasing tone to your voice and you once more turned around and strolled off.

——

Dick and Damian then started their drive home in the Batmobile. ”I wonder what sources he had, hope he’s not mixed up in that crowd, he seemed pretty young” Dick said with a worried tone.

”That was Y/n Sinclair, he probably got the info straight from Roulette herself” Damian revealed. ”Oh! That was your boyfriend? The one you’re ”investigating”? He seemed nice, I like him, Good pick” Dick stated.

”He’s NOT my boyfriend!” Damian said annoyed.

”You just offered to walk him home” Dick accused. Damian glared at his brother and said ”Just to make sure he stays out of trouble”.

”…Right” Dick said not believing a single word Damian said.

[fxirybun]

💭 PAC: your DR s/o’s messages for you

this is a shift-related pick-a-card reading. DR means “desired reality” whilst s/o means “significant other”.

this is a collective reading ! take what resonates and leave what doesn't. i cannot guarantee 100% accuracy. take the pac reading lightly ჱ̒ ｰ̀֊ｰ́ )

ෆ⸒⸒ cat 🐈

thank you for being my source of light during my lowest point. you inspire me to think things positively and to motivate myself to improve on certain aspects of my life. your words of reassurance comforted me when I was doubting myself and my abilities of striving forward.

i see you as my mentor , the one who teaches me the art of appreciating oneself. you make me want to be a better person for you , sweetie , and I mean it. i don’t want to succumb myself in the dark any longer, and it was all thanks to you. thank you at the bottom of my heart for accepting me for who i am , even though you have seen my vulnerable side.

i may not be the perfect person that you wanted me to be , but I would like to ask you if you could give me a chance. a time for me to adjust myself and to reflect upon the flaws i have. life has been cruel to me ever since , and it was all because of the karma that I need to face from my past. but all this enduring misery led me to you and that our paths are meant to be crossed.

ෆ⸒⸒ coffee ☕

i came here to write down my thoughts about our connection. i've encountered numerous people in my life , who want to have a piece of myself and taste it for their pleasure. however , i can feel my heart wandering as if it were in constant search of something , of someone. who knew that this stained heart of mine was craving for you ? as i laid my eyes on you , i can feel the everlasting warmth that is emitted from you.

my sweetest devotion , your beauty outshines the rest , and better yet , i instinctively can see myself transforming into a moth , trying to come closer to the luminous star that can be only seen during the evening. i love how nurturing you are and that your intentions are pure , similar to how a mother fosters her children.

i would be lying if i told you that I’m not enthusiastic about our meeting. as a matter of fact , i'm getting impatient and am very much eager to encounter you sooner. i've been reckless about my actions in life by making poor choices and dating multiple people who would bring me more harm than good. please forgive me , my love , for being clueless that you were the one who could fill my heart’s desire.

ෆ⸒⸒ earphones 🎧

i've been meaning to write down my thoughts , though I’m not sure words can capture how much i miss you. i've met countless people , crossed paths with those who’ve sought my attention , but none have stirred my heart the way you do. lately , it feels as though my heart is wandering , always searching for something that’s missing—and that something is you. without you near , it’s as if a piece of me is lost , drifting in the void.

i think back to the moments when i was by your side , and the warmth you bring feels like a distant memory i can’t let go of. your presence has an undeniable gravity , pulling me in like the moon draws the tide. even in the quietest of nights , i find myself longing for the sound of your voice , the comfort of your touch. my world feels dimmer without you here , as if the light only returns when you’re close.

i never thought that i'd feel so incomplete in someone’s absence , but the truth is , i'm counting down the moments until we can be together again. every day that passes without you feels like a lifetime. please do know that you are never far from my thoughts , and i'm longing for the day when this distance between us is finally closed.

[ranchstoryblog]

Fandom Memories: HMFarm

Hmmm. So, nearly a quarter of you whippersnappers wanna hear about the good ol' days, huh? Well, back in the day, you wouldn't just hang out on one or two big websites to try to find people who shared your niche interests among a million random users. Everything had its own dedicated site, with its own special pack of weirdos that you probably wouldn't find anywhere else. Home grown fandom, sprouting from the cement sidewalks of the freshly paved internet like so many weeds with pretty little flowers on top. So, let's take a little stroll down memory lane and visit one of the oldest fan sites with Archive.org's "Wayback Machine."

Ahh, just like I remember it. This here is "Harvest Moon Farm." 'course, we just called it HMFarm, like the URL did. This used to be the place to be. The prime progenitor of all farmin' fansites in the English speaking community. Maybe not the literal first, but up until around 2005, this was where you would go if you wanted to know anythin' about digital farmin'. It truly was a magical place to visit.

This screenshot isn't the oldest design, but it's the one I fondly remember. The majority of my time using the site was during the lead-up to A Wonderful Life, which was probably also when it was the most active as an information source. Seeing the screenshots, checking the forums, speculatin', wonderin', dreamin'... It's a warm feeling. I can't really describe how it felt to look at these shots for the first time. Granted, they were mostly sourced from various places like IGN or Newtechnix, but who wanted to go to THOSE messy sites when all the info I wanted was right here? IGN wasn't telling me how to revive the Vineyard in Harvest Moon 64 while I was waiting for AWL news either.

Our first look at the character we would come to know as Muffy, the sheer novelty of being able to go into the townsfolk's glorious, 3D-rendered rooms, the apparent misidentification of flowering tomatoes... The webmaster, Gamergirl87, would caption each one as well. Some of the captions of those screenshots ended up not being exactly true, but it was the closest thing to on-going coverage we really had. Who else was there to trust?

It's a little off topic, but I think at one point after learning about the GBA connectivity, I must have dreamed about this very gallery and seeing a screenshot of a Gamecube-ized Popuri with the caption that Mineral Town villagers would visit after connecting the GC and GBA together. At least, I'm pretty sure it was a dream. I've met some people who claim they saw the same thing, but none of us have been able to find that screenshot or comment again.

The one that would most catch my attention was the one on the left here. I didn't have a PlayStation 2, so I was coming fresh off of the GameBoy and Nintendo 64 when going into A Wonderful Life. The pond, the mysterious glowing plants, the mood and ambiance of their lighting, the little tree on the door... Naturally, I mirrored it on my first day the remake was available.

It's a real shame that the message boards are poorly preserved, since it doesn't look like there was a news post about the pre-order plush cow. I was hoping to find the name of whoever it was that convinced me to commit my first ever preorder. I still have the receipt, but without the forum post it's really only tangentially related to HM Farm.

'course, just learning about existing games and upcoming games wasn't the only good thing HM Farm was for. As I alluded to, there was a whole community here! While it's a shame that the message boards aren't well preserved by the Wayback Machine, you know what is?

The "ideas" list! This incredible time capsule was one of the first "interactive" parts of the site, starting in the year 2000. It's kind of fun to see how many of these ideas actually happened. Obviously, new characters and personalities were probably expected, but Animal Parade would eventually feature a honeymoon, several games have clothing and other customization, a mall, city, and pig would be added as soon as GBC 3, a goat would be in A Wonderful Life... It's actually amazing how prescient a lot of the suggestions are.

I'd share the whole thing, but the amount of e-mail addresses involved gives me pause. Still, there's a couple I wanna highlight:

Considering how often I still hear about people wanting to marry the moms and people attributing it to just "the fans getting older," it's funny to see Laserion lay out that, no, we've always been like this. Right down to using Manna's unhappy marriage and Lillia's husband never returning as valid reasons they should be available.

Tuan145, on the other hand, I just find extremely amusing because of the specific "2002 Escalade" part. Yes, this is clearly the ideal vehicle for all farmers in the Story of Seasons universe. This is now accepted headcanon. The boat was added in GBC 3 too, so obviously a 2002 Escalade is going to be added any day now.

Another thing that's amazingly well preserved is the site's fan art section. There's a few missing images here and there, but for the most part the entire thing is open to explore. People of basically all ages and skill levels happily submitted their creations, including original characters, digital art, traditional art, crossovers with popular series like Sailor Moon, a liiittle bit of drug use... Y'know, all the kinds of things you'd expect to see in a fan art gallery of the day.

Even better, some of the artists are still doing art today! Looking around, I quickly discovered one of my favorites, Rina Cat, is now on Blue Sky. I made sure to ask for permission to repost their art before including it here. Reaching out to everyone would be a bit much though, so I'll just encourage you to just browse the gallery using the Wayback Machine yourself. There's poetry and fanfics too!

There's a lot more to the site, including useful bits of history like keeping track of release dates for games, pre-release screenshots, and information that was only available on Japanese websites at the time, but I'll leave it at that for now.

Unfortunately, though the site continued to be updated until 2010 and stayed online until 2021, it's no longer available on the regular internet and the URL doesn't seem safe to access anymore. I wanted to include an interview with the former webmaster as well, but all their readily available contact information was tied to the website and I haven't had any luck so far in finding other means of contact. If I have any success, I'll be sure to make a follow-up! If you have any memories of HMFarm, or other fan sites, I'd be happy to hear about it.

[centrally-unplanned]

The trick on the whole "Israel banning UNRWA" thing is that most militaries - like say the US in Afghanistan for example - directly provision aid. American soldiers would often be handing out food packages themselves, and even if they weren't the aid organizations would be directly contracting with the US government and the Department of Defense. You have a group in the military and the government that is like, okay, how do we feed people, let's hit those targets.

So if Congress decided to ban the United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan in 2006 from operating in the country or whatever, that bill would say like "we hand over its mission to USAID, which has been allocated $2.1 billion dollars in FY-2005 to do X Y Z". It would probably be a dumb move that would create unnecessary friction and cost lives for political bullshit, but that is also life, people dying for political bullshit is a universal constant. It would probably be pretty small bore in the scale of things, like switching over contractors.

That isn't how Israel does things. I might be wrong about this, Israel is deliberately opaque about these things and I just gave this the ol' half hour of googling, I am open to being contradicted here. But my current understanding of net spending by the government of Israel itself on aid to Gaza is...$0. They do not provide aid. They permit aid from other organizations, funded by other countries, to be provided! But they don't take responsibility for the provision; meeting targets, outcomes, etc, none of that is their job. (I am sure it isn't literally zero btw, but I think you get my point)

It is really telling that when you look up pro-Israel statements by say AIPAC on aid, their headlines are:

Israel Facilitates Humanitarian Aid to Gaza as Hamas Continues to Attack

And they criticize the UN because the UN trucks aren't being delivered:

The United Nations and other international agencies are largely responsible for the existing delays in aid deliveries into Gaza. The U.N. has not been able to distribute aid at the rate that Israel is processing it, causing back-ups at the border crossings after Israeli inspections are completed. On March 3, the U.N. received 234 trucks in Gaza but only distributed 131 trucks of aid to civilians in the enclave.

If this was the US military, and the UN was getting aid trucks and failing to send them, we would send more of our own trucks? That we have? Because aid is part of the military operation. But Israel doesn't do that - because it doesn't have any trucks. Because aid isn't part of the military operation.

Which is why the bill banning UNRWA that is being passed does not mention aid provision to Gaza:

The international community has raised alarm over the legislation, which was passed without a plan in place for a humanitarian agency to replace UNRWA.

Again going off news sources here, link for the actual bill is currently down, if I am wrong will correct here, but I think it all tracks. So in the article above, you get statements from the government when people ask about aid, they reply, oh yeah these other aid organizations will fill the gap.

Then you ask the aid organizations themselves and they go, no, we won't fill the gap! We don't have the resources to do that! Which is logical when you realize Israel isn't funding those orgs. They don't know or care about their funding status. Hopefully someone else will figure that out - aid is someone else's problem. Those government remarks are just off the cuff, they aren't a plan.

Which I want to loop back around to the casus belli for the ban - UNRWA having ties to Hamas. That, to me, is one of those "uh duh, and?" things - Hamas is the government of Gaza. UNRWA runs schools there? And medical clinics? You think they do that...without contact with the government? This is just silly, the UN Mission in Afghanistan obviously had connections to the US Government! Government officials, working in both, par for the course.

But, and this is far more important, it is irrelevant. I completely agree that UNRWA has many people who are sympathetic to Hamas in it, because obviously they do. You want to ban it, dumb but okay. You propose a bill outlining the $2 billion dollars and the 5 partnered aid organizations and the 400 IDF trucks that will deliver aid to replace their work, sure. Whatever man, do your small bore politics bullshit.

That is not what they are doing.

Now, Israel has in fact allowed a bunch of aid in Gaza, I don't doubt that like USAID and the non-profit community and the governments of the UK and Japan and so on are gonna pivot funding to a bunch of organizations that will do herculean work stepping up operations and interfacing with the IDF checkpoint system and get aid in. Maybe they will do such a bang-up job that the cost in suffering won't be that high. Israel did give 3 months after all, they aren't the literal worst they could be.

But I do think at a certain point, the line between indifference and malice just ceases to matter. The UNRWA bill isn't some breaking point or big policy shift - it is just a highly revealing moment in the Israeli approach, why the war there has gone the way that it has. And it is, as the kids say, not a good look.

(h/t @loving-n0t-heyting as this was initially a reblog of their post, but they mentioned getting drama in the notes so I split it off; sorry to deny you the precious +1 internet point)

[lecsainz]

Hope you're doing amazing! I love your blog so much! I come here almost every other day to day dream about my favourites and read your pieces again and again. Could i request Carlos x reader fic where Carlos comforts the reader after some reporters prod into their private life and the reader feels overwhelmed... Angst to fluff and maybe smut in the end?

SHE’S A BAD BAD GIRL

parings: carlos sainz x famous!reader

authors note: I gotta say, mixing a bit of AU with regular fanfic, can I just say I love doing magazine features?

summary: that one where the media makes up stuff about your relationship with carlos but he ain't gonna let that shake our relationship.

☆. . . masterlist !

Exclusive Source Reveals Startling Insights Into the Relationship of F1's Rising Star and the Elusive Heiress

The Power Couple: Carlos Sainz and Y/N Y/L/N's Love Story or PR Masterpiece?

By TMZ Magazine - September 2023

In the glitzy world of fame and fortune, where the line between reality and illusion often blurs, power couples are born just as swiftly as they fade away.

None have captured the public's attention quite like that of Formula 1 sensation Carlos Sainz Jr. and the enigmatic heiress Y/N Y/L/N. This power couple's whirlwind romance has been the subject of intense speculation, with many questioning the authenticity of their love. In a TMZ exclusive, we delve into the inner workings of their seemingly sensational union, revealing what lies beneath the surface.

It's no secret that the world of celebrity romance often blurs the lines between genuine affection and calculated publicity. In the case of Carlos Sainz Jr. and Y/N Y/L/N, sources close to the couple suggest that their relationship might be more PR strategy than a heartfelt connection. Our exclusive source, a close friend of the couple, disclosed that the pair has carefully orchestrated their romance to maximize benefits on both ends.

"They both know that being in the spotlight can help boost their respective careers," our source shared. "They decided it's a mutually beneficial arrangement. Carlos gets more media coverage, and Y/N can use his popularity to her advantage."

Y/N Y/L/N, the elusive heiress whose life has been shrouded in mystery, has raised eyebrows with her numerous high-profile relationships over the years. It's no secret that she's been romantically linked to at least eight A-list celebrities, including musicians, actors, and even fellow heirs. Despite her apparent aversion to fame and the media circus that surrounds it, Y/N has consistently found herself in the headlines due to her high-profile affairs.

"The irony is that Y/N has always claimed to hate the attention that comes with dating famous people," our source revealed. "Yet, she's continued to choose partners from the same world she professes to despise."

As the couple's relationship has garnered more attention, their PR teams have been working tirelessly to manage the narrative. They've employed tactics such as carefully timed public appearances, social media posts, and interviews to keep the public intrigued and invested in their romance. This calculated approach, however, has led many to question the authenticity of their connection.

"Their teams are skilled at using the media to their advantage," our source admitted. "It's all about perception and maintaining their status as a 'power couple.'"

As the world continues to watch this captivating couple's every move, one question lingers: Is their love story genuine, or is it a calculated maneuver to seize the attention of the masses and advance their respective careers? Are Carlos and Y/N truly in love, or are they orchestrating a well-choreographed PR campaign for mutual benefit?

Stay tuned for more exclusive updates and revelations from TMZ Magazine.

Y/N lay sprawled across the plush sofa in the cozy living room of her shared home with Carlos in Spain. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting warm rays of light across the room. She'd been catching up on some reading when her phone buzzed incessantly, drawing her attention away from the book.

The headline on her screen was impossible to miss: "The Power Couple: Carlos Sainz and Y/N Y/L/N's Love Story or PR Masterpiece?" The TMZ article had surfaced online, and her heart sank as she read through the scandalous claims about their relationship. It was a relentless invasion of their privacy, dissecting their love as if it were a staged performance.

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes, and she felt overwhelmed by the intrusion into their lives. She knew she had to confront this with Carlos, who had always been her rock in times of turmoil.

Carlos entered the room, sensing the tension in the air. "Y/N, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice filled with concern as he sat down beside her.

She handed him her phone, unable to speak the words herself. Carlos read through the article, his expression growing darker with every word. He clenched his jaw, his protective instincts kicking in. "This is complete nonsense," he muttered angrily.

Carlos's anger simmered as he continued to read the invasive article. His protective instincts flared, and he couldn't fathom how anyone could twist their love into something so far from the truth.

"They have no idea what they're talking about," Carlos said, his voice low but filled with determination. "This is just trash journalism trying to stir up controversy."

Y/N looked up at Carlos, her eyes filled with gratitude. She'd always admired his strength and resilience. "I know, Carlos, but it still stings. I hate how they're trying to make our love seem fake."

Carlos's expression softened as he turned to her. "Mi sol," he whispered, using the affectionate term he had for her. "Our love is as real as the sun streaming through those windows. Don't ever doubt that."

Y/N managed a faint smile, her heart aching a little less with his reassuring words. "I just wish we could shut them up, Carlos."

A mischievous glint flickered in Carlos's eyes as he looked at her. "Well, maybe we can," he said cryptically.

Before Y/N could ask what he meant, Carlos swept her into his arms and stood up. She laughed in surprise, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Carlos, what are you doing?" she asked, her laughter mixing with curiosity.

He grinned down at her, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I'm taking my sunshine to our room," he said, "away from all this nonsense."

Y/N couldn't help but giggle as Carlos carried her bridal style down the hallway to their bedroom. His laughter joined hers, and it echoed through their home, drowning out the noise of the world outside.

In that moment, as Carlos playfully carried her, Y/N realized that their love was a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of fame and gossip. It didn't matter what others said or wrote about them. What they had was real, unbreakable, and filled with a kind of love that could weather any storm.

As they reached their bedroom, Carlos gently set Y/N down, and they both burst into laughter. He pulled her into a tender kiss, sealing their promise to protect their love from the prying eyes of the world.

As Carlos set Y/N down in their bedroom, their laughter filled the air like a sweet melody, banishing the remnants of unease brought on by the intrusive article. With a loving smile, Carlos cupped her face in his hands, his gaze locked onto hers.

"You know," he whispered, his voice laced with desire, "there's one thing those journalists will never understand."

Y/N's breath hitched as she met his intense gaze. "What's that?" she asked, her voice barely more than a soft murmur.

Carlos leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a teasing, tantalizing kiss. "That our love," he murmured, his voice husky, "is the real deal."

Their kisses deepened, their passion igniting like a flame. Carlos's hands slid from her face down to the small of her back, pulling her closer. Y/N's fingers tangled in his hair, and she moaned softly against his lips.

Their love was a fire burning brightly, an unbreakable bond that no amount of gossip or scrutiny could diminish. As their clothes fell to the floor, they reveled in the intimacy that was entirely their own, a celebration of their genuine love.

In the quiet of their bedroom, away from the prying eyes of the world, Carlos and Y/N proved that their love wasn't just a masterpiece of public relations. It was a passionate, fiery, and deeply genuine connection that left no room for doubt.

As their bodies entwined and their moans of pleasure filled the room, they knew that their love was their most cherished secret, a sanctuary where they could be their true selves, far away from the judgmental eyes of the world.

liked by charlesleclerc , taylorswift , and 13.657.473 others

carlossainz55 just had the best night of my life! thanks, gossipmongers, for the motivation.

tag: yourusername

comments have been disabled.

[gwenyn28]

It has been two days now and I had a lot of time to think about the whole discourse that happened especially yesterday. I was also able to talk things through with a friend. So here, have my thoughts on that discourse and the show in general.

In my opinion the whole discourse started because of Eddie not being in the episode at all. I think we all can agree on that, right? But actually, I also think that the problem runs a lot deeper. It might have been Eddie this time while the source of this whole discourse lies somewhere else.

We need to acknowledge one thing before diving into this. And that is that this show isn‘t high peak media. It is our „silly little wee woo show“. And we should treat it like that, first and foremost. Knowing about its flaws and how they often handle stuff not properly or how it should have been done. But we still love it, right? That is what we‘re here for.

So. With this out of the way… You can love something and still criticize it. There is no „go big or go home“ here. I can‘t speak for everyone but most of the people I saw on my timeline, speaking for the „Eddie side“ were like this: „I loved the episode. The emergency was great, the acting was amazing. I am excited for the second part. Even though it would have been nice to have Eddie included somehow.“ In the first place, most people acknowledged that it would have made no sense to put him into the emergency itself because he is still in Texas. But there could have been other ways like a facetime call during the first few minutes when we had the unrelated Batheny, Madney and HenRen scene. People complaining about him not being in the emergency? That was added later on, after the whole thing already escalated into a „everyone against everyone“ monster.

I don‘t want to blame any „side“ with „but you started it“. No. For me, that would be the wrong approach. Yes, the topic with Eddie still stands. But actually, it runs deeper in a way that this show has lost one essential part in general lately. This time the discourse started with Eddie but to be honest, it is lacking the familial connections in general. Not only for Eddie. It feels as if all these characters/couples just coexist in the same universe without having any deeper connection. It‘s mostly an outsider brought in to give them a story.

Ortiz was a threat to Mara and HenRen adopting her. Gerrard was the new Captain after Bobby quit that tormented the team. Brad was the obstacle that annoyed Bobby.

The question is: What about the sense of cohesiveness? The emergencies themselves might have gotten better this season, switching between serious and whimsical in a nice way. In the usual and well-known 911 way. But why are these emergencies not connected to the characters anymore? None of them really had a huge storyline that was really satisfying and left us „well fed“.

Hen‘s last bigger storyline was the adoption drama that revolved around the kids. Why not show her connection with Chim, especially since him and Maddie temporarily took care of Mara? This would have been perfect for some conflict between these two best friends that maybe could have lasted throughout a few episodes.

Chim‘s last real storyline was… the wedding? I am not sure, I really can‘t remember anything bigger happening to him even though he deserves it. That is why I am not unhappy about him being infected during this two parter (though I think that they could have gone with something else because… another disease? Really?). For the serial killer part the focus was more on Maddie.

Buck had a few storylines here and there and yes, the relationship was one with a bit more focus. But I think we all agree that they didn‘t do him justice at all with that. He hasn‘t even acknowledged his bisexuality yet. Instead he is floating around, having some minor spotlights here and there and that‘s it. He wasn‘t even shown after that kind of „big“ reveal about „Would it be that crazy to be in love with Eddie?“. These feelings haven‘t been explored yet. On the contrary. It felt as if the seed was planted… but someone forgot to water that plant now.

Bobby had more storylines, yes. But that is all. The amount is different. But there was no complexity and well thought-through plot. Stuff was made up for him but then changed halfway and switched and got twisted until we had weird things that made no sense (the cartel in season 7). Why did he even forgive his mother that fast? It was resolved in one episode. While he started angry and distant (relatable) he forgave her all of a sudden just because she has cancer now. Everything is roses and bubbles. Wow. Or what about the Brad thing? Yes, I know a lot of people have problems with the Hotshots storyline. Because it was not used to its full extent. It would have been amazing (and a lot of people were anticipating it) to parallel the Hotshots episodes and filming to the real life 118 stuff. It was there - rebar guy, the lightning scene… But it went absolutely unused. And instead of a fun little nod towards a 118 meta it was just annoying that Brad got that much focus (not to shit on the actor because he is sweet and well-loved by the cast and crew).

Athena‘s last bigger thing I can remember was the cart cop and the rookie who shot a woman. We know that they love the copaganda life. But why does nobody talk about another rookie now? The episode ended with her acknowledging that it might be the right thing to take a step back (paraphrasing it). But nobody has heard something about it ever since.

And last but not least, Eddie. The source of the whole discourse this time. I get it that a lot of people (me included) are not satisfied with how his storyline was treated these past two seasons. It felt sidelined that after the whole Kim debacle at the end of season 7 it took them six episode to address the „missing joy“ and how much it influenced him not being with Chris. As if they took six episodes and were „oh, damn, we forgot that he has a son in Texas who left. Quick, let‘s whip something up.“ Therefore the dance scene. We might have gotten two episodes now with the Texas arc but… since it has been a while that season 7 ended it feels as if, again, they just remembered that they should do something to wrap up this storyline.

So, let‘s be honest. Like I said. We know that this show isn‘t the best. But we still love it. Mostly because of that feeling the show gives us. How we get emotional. But lately, the emotions were more about fandom stuff than about the episodes. I liked most of them but they somehow felt off. The glue that keeps the 118 family together is missing more and more lately. They act less like a family and more like co-workers. And that feels wrong on so many levels.

And now to episode 14. The first part of the Contagion plot. Let‘s ignore the random scenes in the beginning and focus mainly on the lab accident. The acting was amazing and everything felt good and was exciting. And, let‘s admit it… with how the team stormed into the lab to get that fire under control? The explosion? Hen injured (she was really overdue for an NDE)? Chim infected? Buck in panic that he might loose his team? Maddie devastated because she can‘t do a thing at dispatch? Bobby feeling responsible for his team in that shitty situation? Athena on the outside not able to help her husband? And Ravi somehow finally admitting that he is part of the team, part of the family?

That is what people were waiting for. At least for a bit coming back to the familial connection. They are a team. A family. To say it with Eddie‘s words „That‘s what the 118 is, the family we chose“. But unfortunately he was not a part of the family this time. While everyone else was finally for this one episode (and probably the next) back to the deep rooted bond they share, that they would do everything for the others because they love them and care for each other… he was missing. The family had an Eddie shaped hole the show didn‘t acknowledge.

I don‘t mind that the characters haven‘t acknowledged it. It‘s been… what… an hour? Since the accident happened. No time to call him or inform him yet. But the show could have acknowledged him. With the aforementioned scenes with all the other couples in the beginning. To acknowledge him being there, him still being a part of that family even though there are hundreds of miles between them. The facetime call I was talking about for example.

So, I don‘t want to parrot what has been said so many times over these past probably 48 hours. I am not here to discuss these things again. And while I might have talked a lot about Eddie myself in that time, I think I made it clear that while he is my favorite and that‘s why I talk about him a lot… I can still see the bigger picture. And the actual issues that the show has.

I get it when people say that we should accept the things for „it is what it is.“ And mostly? We do. We accept it. Because we can‘t change it. If we don’t like something, we can always resort to fanfic. But what we can also do is talk about it. And hope and wish for better storytelling for ALL the characters. Because, like I said before, the show is lacking cohesiveness. It feels as if they have a huge pile of boxes and every character is in one of these boxes (in Eddie‘s case it‘s probably a closet xD).

And they have an idea about a story and then pull over one box to use that character to interact with outsiders who create conflict or give them a story while all the other boxes mostly stay closed and untouched. Why not mix the boxes? Why not have them interact more? What about Hen‘s and Chim‘s friendship? What about Buck‘s and Bobby‘s father-son-relationship? What about Athena and Hen? Eddie and Bobby? But all that is pushed aside for side characters or stories that look good on the board.

It wouldn‘t be such a huge problem if these stories would be well-rounded and thought through. But instead of this they lack a lot of connection and since often a lot more is filmed but cut we feel like we‘re missing essential parts in that plot and get confused how this got resolved in the end. Like the story about Bobby‘s mother, for example, who gained forgiveness after years of neglect just because she is sick now. Did we miss something on the way to that?

I know that has been a lot to read now and I am not sure who is still with me but… let‘s sum this up. We might talk and theorize about the show a lot. And that is a good thing. And we‘re all united in the love we have for this show and the characters. But we also should acknowledge that the show is lacking a lot in storytelling lately and that people do and are allowed to talk about that. How disappointed they are in a certain storyline. How something got resolved. How a certain character is treated. That is not hating on the show. It is just an exchange in opinions.

In the end, that is what fandom is there for. Imagine how boring it would be if we‘d all agree after every episode that this was „10/10“ and „amazing“… and then we have nothing to talk about anymore after listing the great things we saw on screen. Imagine we had all the same theories after one bts or still. Wouldn‘t that be boring real quick? „This still could mean that XY happens. - Yeah, you‘re right.“ The fandom would be really… uninteresting, wouldn‘t it?

Fandoms live because of discourse, different ideas, theories and opinions. It‘s okay to voice them in a respectful way, without insulting each other, hating each other or jumping someone‘s throat just because you disagree. I mean… „agree to disagree“ is still a thing, right?

Also, I understand that our nerves are raw. These past months have been hard because of a certain group of people that has constantly attacked and harassed people. So, most of us are probably very quick to get defensive or protective. Because of what has happened over the span of these last weeks and months.

But let‘s not forget that actually we‘re on the same „ship“, on the same side. We should not attack each other because someone has a different thought or theory. If you disagree either talk about it in a respectful way (you might learn a complete new point of view you haven‘t thought about before) or just scroll past it. Don‘t try to act like other people‘s opinions and views are wrong, don‘t invalidate them. Because we shouldn‘t forget that also people‘s own experiences might play a part how some people interpret a certain situation.

So, instead of jumping each other let‘s agree that this is our „silly little wee woo show with flaws“ and that it could be better concerning the character development and cohesiveness for all of them even though some people might just talk about one character in particular but think and care about all of them. Let‘s stop policing what others should think or post. Instead we should unite to enjoy the show together that has a few episodes left this season and is renewed for another one so that we have another year with these beloved characters. Let‘s hope that the writing will get better and unless it does, that people will talk about it.

Because in the end, we‘re here for the same thing, right?

[zaahvi]

a little breakdown of the new mural:

the context: this is part of a quest named "regrets of the dread wolf" in which rook uses a wolf statuette to "restore" this damaged mural in the lighthouse. it's referred to as a "regret" and seems to echo a memory linked to the events shown in the mural

"[Solas'] history, along with the history of the other elven gods, is baked into the Lighthouse, and you learn more and more about the threat you face as you unlock Solas' murals with various wolf statues. You even get to see some of his memories firsthand." [source with timestamp]

first, the imagery:

these "star" symbols are the same as on the "death of a titan" mural from trespasser, and even have similar halos. there are three visible in the circle here, which itself is cracked and there's a beam of light coming from above, sort of mirroring the titan mural:

it's interesting that the beam of light is coming from above, and is hitting the circle at the bottom, illuminating the outline; it seems like the light itself is what "cracked" the circle? there's also light shining from above, and elgar'nan is looking up at it, so... maybe it's the sun? the halos around the hands are also reminiscent of the left figure on the titan mural.

for triangle symbolism enjoyers... there are triangles around the light beam a little further up 👀

this is also our first look at mythal <3 she had dark hair and her headpiece is silver like flemeth's, a nice contrast to the golden crown elgar'nan has! they're like the sun and moon...

elgar'nan appears to have silver hair here, much lighter than the dark greyish he seems to have in-game. i'm thinking that either the blight darkened it, solas painted it differently, OR that the lighting that we've seen him in so far just hasn't shown off the colour properly. on his robes there is a sun pattern on his shoulder :) the bottom of the robes seem greenish and has patterns similar to the lyrium veins(?) on the titan mural above, and now that i look at them side by side... he kinda looks like the figure on the left, doesn't he?

solas with hair real!!! and he has his signature wolf pelt :) he's standing among some kneeling elves, and, notably, none of them have vallaslin.

these leafless trees - usually used as symbols of mythal - are almost framing the piece. the blue coming from the cracked circle is also interesting: solas rarely uses blue apart from his murals inside skyhold, so maybe it means something? it could be lyrium, or the titans' power?

the story:

remembering the context: this is one of solas' old memories, and a "regret" of his. looking at the imagery and pairing it with the dialogue seen, the events portrayed become clear:

Elgar'nan: They need strength. Mythal: And wisdom. Elgar'nan: They need gods who can protect them. Solas: We are not gods. You will learn that.

this is the evanuris first declaring themselves gods, seemingly after whatever war the elves fought; possibly with the titans, judging by the hints in these murals.

elgar'nan and mythal came first, which lines up with the dalish legends. i'm very curious if they were actually a couple or if they were just paired together in legends because they were the first gods (like how falon'din and dirthamen were paired as twin brothers in dalish tales but had no familial connection in elvhen lore). and from what they say... using "they" to refer to the elves rather than "you", implies this was a private conversation, which leads me to believe that they did originally intend to protect the elves. for instance, if they'd said "you need gods who can protect you", that's a whole other story which could be clearly interpreted as installing themselves as rulers in order to gain power and oppress the people. but this? the elves need strength, and wisdom, and protection? it's our first real clue that the evanuris were not always tyrannical, and that is just so interesting! i am very excited to see the story of how they became corrupted 👀

solas has an interesting line here also. using "we" instead of "you"... there's a popular theory that solas was a spirit of wisdom who was asked by mythal to join her, as implied by these lines from cole:

"He did not want a body. But she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face." "Bare-faced but free, frolicking fighting, fierce. He wants to give wisdom, not orders."

so maybe solas was a general alongside the evanuris, and was clearly opposed to becoming a "god" like the rest of them. i find it interesting he doesn't have vallaslin on the mural here. the cole lines implied he had mythal's vallaslin, and i would've assumed he "burned it off" when he started his rebellion. the only thing i can think of is that the vallaslin may have originally acted as a spirit binding (like binding a spirit to a body) but if it could be removed then... idk.

finally, circling back that this is referred to as a "regret"... i suppose this is his regret of not having stopped them before everything that followed. and with regret mentioned as being one of the key themes of the game... aghh this is gonna be so good

[felassan]

Snippets. 🐺💜 DA:TV spoilers under cut.

When the Community Council played the game, in the working version they played, it sounds like when the 'no dying' mode was turned on, when the player's health gets low the screen turns red (but you don't then die, of course) [source]

Caitie of Ghildirthalen shared that everyone that she talked to from the Community Council really liked the gameplay. "They were all into it, none of us had any complaints about how they were doing the gameplay, we all thought it was solid" [source]

The Lighthouse isn't literally an actual lighthouse by the sea. It's in the Crossroads. It's "like a bubble in the Crossroads, kind of like what Morrigan brings you to" in DA:I. "It's its own little bubble, it's not actually the Crossroads, it's like its own little bubble of reality." "It's not really in the Fade, but it kinda is, but it's kinda not". "It's so cool, I loved it so much [...] it's very comfy". It used to belong to Solas and "as you walk around there, you will see, like, stuff, that kinda shows what Solas has been up to for the past couple years" [source]

"They say in the [Game Informer cover] article that [The Lighthouse] like looks gaudy, and stuff, and like it does, in like an ancient elven way, but it's not like going to grandma's house which has that 2005 Tuscan kitchen feel." It sounds like there are a lot of frescos made by Solas in there. "It's kind of like, sad, too, 'cause it's a little bit like, ancient elven bachelor pad that he's been too busy to really keep up with it". "I think it's the coolest hub [in a DA game] by far" [source]

After the gameplay reveal video, Solas essentially gets trapped in the new prison he was trying to build for Ghil and Elgar'nan. "I don't think they explain it well in the [GI cover] article what happens, like, lore-wise, like how this connection between Solas and Rook one, works, and then two, like, how it's done. [...] From that [Community Council participation and talking to devs], I have a better understanding of this link, and I do think the explanation given [in-game] is good, and is satisfying to me. They're just not explaining it well in the article, I do think they give a better reason in the game"[source]

Caitie shared that she doesn't know why marketing for the game keeps saying/trying to say that Rook isn't a Chosen One as a talking point. "Maybe [Rook] wasn't chosen, [they] just happened to be there, but now there is a connection there, like [they] can't just leave, [they] have that strange Solas connection that nobody else has". "In this game Rook was just at the wrong place at the wrong time, or right place right time, depending on how you look at it, and it could have been anyone in that scene, that's kind've what they're trying to say" [source]

Photomode is something the devs expressed to Community Council that they want to include in the game [source]

User: "many of us would love to see cosplay kits again of the new companions. Just thought to throw that out into the ether" Trick: "Agreed! Definitely bring that up to official BioWare accounts. I think it's a great idea." [source]

John: "at this point my brain is about 70% DATV and 30% everything else" [source]

User: "I keep looking at that horn [Taash's blue one], thinking: 1. What -is- it made of?" Karin Weekes-West: "If only we knew!" [source] User: "If this turns out to be some high-value gemstone or crafting mat, I can't promise I'll be able to suppress certain... larcenous urges." Karin: "How very Lords of Fortune of you! :D <3 It really is SO PRETTY, isn’t it? Our art team is so good. :)" [source]

User: "I need to know if Rook gets their own room CAN WE DECORATE" Carly: ":^)" [source]

User: "anyway they [Neve and Harding] are both in this concept art. next to each other even. this has to mean they are both alive after the prologue. right? right???" Carly: ":^)" [source]

Kala: "the overall UI is very nice" [source]

Kala: "I remember the sliders [in CC] having pretty good range tbh, so probably pretty tall and pretty short" [source]

Kala: "I can't wait to learn who the VAs for Rook are! I know one and I know people will be really excited for this person to join the Dragon Age family 🤫" [source]

[foreverisntenough]

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read:  Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic for someone I no longer will support once he leaves my club. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 12- 'The Unspoken' | 'Aperture'

word count - 13.5k

The air outside was thick with the remnants of the night—cigarette smoke curling in the humid dark, the distant thrum of music from other parties spilling into the streets, laughter slurring into the early morning. But the lift doors had closed behind you with a soft chime, trapping you and Trent in a space too small for the weight of what lingered between you, the rest of the world cut off from reaching you. The tension was thick, almost suffocating, wrapping around you like a velvet rope and your only source of oxygen was him.

You and Trent had slipped out of the party drunkenly assuming none of your friends had seen the way your lips had almost touched, the way your bodies had gravitated toward each other like magnets all night. Like they hadn’t watched you curl around him like you belonged there and definitely hadn’t watched you just pull him into the lift after you. As if there was any subtly in the way his hands never stopped touching you—palming your ass, ghosting over your ribs, pressing into the small of your back. You hadn’t noticed that people’s gazes followed you, no, you were too wrapped up in his existence to notice your own. 

[Swim - Chase Atlantic]

The night spilled out behind you in a blur of heat and music, laughter melting into the background as Trent’s arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him. His grip was tight, possessive, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he loosened his hold even a little. But you weren’t going anywhere—not tonight.  The elevator doors slid open, a quiet chime cutting through the air, and you shifted out of his arms eagerly, greedily, pulling him in by the hand after you with a soft giggle, the sound light and sweet and utterly intoxicating. Trent hummed following after you, his eyes alight, drinking you in like you were the only thing worth seeing. The elevator doors slid shut with a quiet finality, sealing you in—a tiny box with him and the feelings you’d tried so hard to ignore. It was suffocating and intoxicating all at once, the weight of it pressing against your ribs, tightening around your lungs. Terrifying, how much you felt for him. How much you wanted him. There was nowhere left to hide, no distractions to blur the edges, just you and him and this thing between you, pulsing, undeniable, plummeting. You couldn’t fight it and you didn’t want to. Maybe you never had.

“Finally have you,” he purred, voice thick with something dangerous, something devastatingly fond. The overhead lighting should have been harsh, unflattering, but on you, it was golden. Angelic. A soft glow kissed your skin, highlighting the curve of your cheekbones, the delicate slope of your nose, the shine of your lips—plump, glossed, perfect. Just for him to steal.

“Yeah,” you cooed, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer. “All just for me now.” You murmured possessively. Trent swore he could feel you everywhere, even in the small space between you, even in the air thick with your scent, your presence bleeding into him like ink in water, impossible to contain. The entrapment of the elevator only heightened everything, locking you in together, no escape. And he didn’t want one. God, how drunk was he? Where even was he? None of it mattered because you wanted him back now. And in this bleak, sterile elevator, everything was vivid in screaming color. You. You were vivid. The sight of you, head tilted just slightly, lips parted in invitation, the heat in your gaze. It was blinding. You were blinding. And whatever this feeling was—this rush of pure infatuation, this ache low in his stomach, this overwhelming, consuming thing—he knew it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just for now. It wasn’t fleeting. It was love. A love neither of you would dare name, not yet, not when everything was burning too bright, too fast.

“Yeah, just for you,” he whispered earnestly, pulling you into him by your hips. And he meant that. No one else had even flickered into his viewfinder tonight, and they hadn’t for a long time before. Only you were left in the frame. And when your bodies met again, he was sure—this was heaven. You fit against him like you were made for him, like you were the only piece he’d been missing. It was almost funny how perfect it was, how effortless. “Sure you’re real?” he murmured, smirking down at you, voice thick with disbelief. You just hummed, brushing your nose against his, smiling against his lips. And then, finally, finally, you kissed him

-

Trent was drunk, you were drunk, and you were both painfully aware of each other in a way that made the whole room tilt. Your body hummed with the weight of it all, the liquor, the tension, the way Trent’s hands felt on you—steadying, possessing, burning. You didn’t know what would come after tonight, didn’t know if this would be the beginning of something or the undoing of everything, but you knew you wanted him. If only for tonight. You wanted him in a way that felt reckless and raw, in a way that made you feel like you could drown in him and never come up for air. You didn’t care about yourself, not in this. You’d take the fall, bear the consequences, wake up with the bruises of this night imprinted into your skin if it meant you could have him. If it meant you could keep this moment, even if only for now. But you didn’t want to hurt him. You didn’t want to pressure him into thinking he had to love you, that this had to mean something more than what it was for him, the way it’d be for you. That you’d remember the whole thing just to save for the moment when you wanted his company again and inevitably wouldn’t have it. He didn’t have to love you, and you’d still be here, still press yourself against him, still let him have you in whatever way he wanted.

Trent’s hands slid up, palms cradling your jaw like he was holding something delicate, something precious. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath warm, uneven. The restraint in his touch was unraveling thread by thread, the air between you charged, electric, dangerous. His nose brushed against yours, lips barely a whisper away. He kissed you again and it was slow at first, languid, like he was savoring the first taste all over again. Relearning the feel of your lips against his. But then you whimpered against him, pressing closer, and something in him snapped. His grip tightened, fingers threading into your hair, molding you to him as his tongue brushed against yours, deep and dizzying. You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders, feeling him everywhere, feeling him take and take and take. It was heady, intoxicating, the way he kissed you—like he had been starving for you, like he had been waiting for this moment longer than he’d ever admit. And yet words rolled out. 

“Missed kissing you,” he murmured, voice rough between kisses, like the words had been clawing their way out of him. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling against his. 

“Good as you remembered?” you whispered, teasing, trying to keep it light, but the words cracked at the edges, unsteady. Trent exhaled a laugh, but it wasn’t just as good—it was like the air he needed. And so he kissed you again and it was worse in the most delicious way. It was devastatingly perfect. And then – a thought sent something sharp through your chest, something terrifying and beautiful. When he just laughed, low and knowing, it was in the way he looked at you, the way his eyes softened even as his grip on you tightened, it had you wondering if he had told people he loved you. And the way he kissed you had you certain that you loved him. And that terrified you. Cassie’s words echoed in your head. Campbell’s made them worse. Delaney’s made you feel sick. So you pulled away, breathless, pressing your face into his neck, arms draping around him like you could anchor yourself there. Your lips found his skin, kissing along the column of his throat, his jaw, anywhere but his mouth, as if hiding in him would keep the truth at bay.

“No feelings, okay” you whispered stupidly, voice small, unsure. the words slipping out like a defense mechanism, like armor. Trent stiffened, his body going still beneath your touch, draining of all it’s liquor. He felt the tequila leave his body all at once because, yes, there was raw, electric physical chemistry between you, but it was the emotions—the feelings—that made it so intense. You knew that. You had to. He needed you to know that. He wanted you to know that. Didn’t he? You felt the shift, felt the air change. His fingers flexed at your waist, like he was trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. You knew it wasn’t true, knew it was the feelings that made this so all-consuming, but you had to say it, had to protect yourself—had to protect him. And he was too drunk to counter with any weight. Trent inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, searching desperately for a semblance of his old self. The one who dreamed of moments a girl would say they wanted no strings but right now he was a shell of himself, locked in a steel cage with too many emotions he didn’t recognize. And yet under your touch his body still pulsed, hot, and needy. He swallowed, his jaw tightening for a split second before he exhaled through his nose. 

“Okay,” he muttered, voice rough, but then he shook his head, like he wanted to say more, like he needed to—but he just held you tighter instead. The elevator kept descending, slow and inevitable, like approaching the ground after free-fall—like crashing into something you weren’t ready for but couldn’t stop.

“Is this a bad idea?” you asked, heart hammering, the words barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears.  You didn’t want this to turn into something messy, something that would hurt—but it already had. Trent didn’t hesitate.

“No. Definitely not.” And then he kissed you again, pressing you against the wall, hands fisting in your hair, your hips, like he needed you closer, needed you now. His lips on yours before you could take it all back. Before you could unsay the words that made something dark and wounded flicker in his gaze. Before you could tell him you didn’t mean it. No feelings. The phrase slithered between you, coiling around your neck like silk and wire, suffocating, intoxicating. If you wanted no feelings, he’d give you no feelings. A rubber band to the back of his neck, he snapped forward, the kiss wasn’t soft, it wasn’t sweet, it was desperate. Desperate to prove he could do this. That he could strip himself down to flesh and hunger, that he could devour you and walk away unscathed. He was invincible. He needed to be, he always had been, and you wouldn’t be an exception. You couldn’t hurt him. He wanted to be untouched and yet all he craved was your hands on him. His fingers pressed bruises into your hips, dragging you into him as if he could fuse you to his bones, as if he could wear you like armor against the emotions you refused to name. It wasn’t enough.

Your back hit the mirrored walls of the elevator, and you gasped, but he swallowed the sound, took it into his mouth and let it linger before pushing deeper. He kissed you like he was mad at you, like he was trying to forget you even as he held you closer. Teeth, tongue, hands mapping the places he already knew, relearning them like he’d never touched you before. And it was cruel, the way he kissed you like he wanted you and didn’t at the same time.

-

The elevator doors slid open, and you barely noticed where you ended up, too caught up in the storm that was Trent Alexander-Arnold unraveling in real-time. He’d grabbed your hand and pulled you through the dimly lit corridors of his mind and in his house, your legs barely keeping up with the urgency of his strides and his spiral. His room. The door. The way it slammed shut behind you, sealing you into a different kind of box, a different kind of suffocation. The bed. The dresser. The wall. The floor. You barely remembered the path you took to get here, only that you did. That his hands were everywhere. That his mouth traced fire along your skin, up your throat, across your collarbones, down to the swell of your tits. He was trying to detach, to turn you into just another body beneath him, but you weren’t. You never would be. And he hated that.  He was angry. You could feel it in the way he took you, the way he gripped your thighs, the way he buried himself deep enough to make you gasp, to make you clutch at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth. And maybe he was. But for him, you were weightless, a ghost in the form of a woman he couldn’t let go of.  

The shift came like a cold front, slow and creeping until you were in the thick of it, shivering from the inside out. You felt it the second the words left your lips—"no feelings." You weren’t sure who you were trying to convince, him or yourself, but either way, it had landed like a blade between you and you both were still bleeding out. And Trent—God, Trent—he took it like a challenge. So now, as he fucked into you, his grip tight and unrelenting, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your throat like he was trying to swallow you whole, you felt it—the sting of distance in the way he held you, the way he kissed you like he was trying to forget. Your heart ached, but your body was too busy falling apart for you to focus on the pain. Orgasm after orgasm, waves of pleasure crashing over you like you were being pulled under, and still, deep inside, there was a dull, throbbing burn. It was like watching him hook up with someone else right in front of you, knowing you had no right to stop him, knowing it was your own damn fault. And still, you clung to him. Desperate in your movements, you took him as deep as you could, trying to be whatever he wanted, pliable and eager, making up for what you’d said with every roll of your hips. You wanted to please him. You wanted him to praise you, to tell you he needed you, wanted you, that he wasn’t going anywhere. To look at you as you gasped his name, nails digging into his back muscles, trying to claw your way back in, trying to anchor yourself, trying to ground him.

The shower. Steam curled around your bodies, turning sweat to mist, drowning out the sounds of his breath hitching when you clenched around him. His forehead pressed to yours, and for a second, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes before he squeezed them shut, like if he didn’t see you, he wouldn’t feel you. But it didn’t work. Nothing worked.

The bed again. You rode him, hands splayed over his chest, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers dug into your waist like he was trying to brand himself onto your skin and you begged for it. But it was his skin that burned, his body that ached. And when his eyes finally locked onto yours, dark and filled with something too dangerous to name, you felt it. The weight of it. The truth neither of you wanted to admit. He wasn’t leaving. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Because as much as you both were tangled in the mental gymnastics of pretending this was just physical, here in the bedroom, with the way he had you stretched and bent for him in every way, all night, reality shattered. Here, with him buried deep inside you, with your body bouncing on top of his, your name a rough groan from his lips—this was the truth neither of you could speak. He was supposed to be fucking you empty, erasing whatever feeling clung to his ribs. But every moan, every time you whimpered his name, only poured it back in. Dripping, milking, soaking him in everything he wasn’t supposed to feel. And when he held you through another shattering high, gripping your hips so tight you knew you’d be bruised, it was clear. You could say ‘no feelings’ all you wanted. But it was already too late. Still, he didn’t stop. Not until he had nothing left to give. Not until he was wrecked and ruined beneath you, until his body was spent but his heart still ached, raw and red and completely, undeniably yours. And it still wasn’t enough.  Because when you curled into his chest after, breath steadying, fingertips tracing absentminded patterns against his ribs, Trent realized—he would never be empty of you.

—

[Hope is a Heartache - Leon]

Morning came softly, golden light slipping through the curtains, tracing the edges of your bare skin, gilding the moment in something too delicate to hold. And beneath you—Trent. Asleep, warm, beautiful in a way that felt too tender. The kind of tenderness that ruined. His sharp features softened, his lashes casting shadows across his cheeks, lips still parted, as if your name lingered there, ghosting on his tongue. His arms, loose but unwavering around you, tethering you to something you knew you couldn't keep. You shouldn't. It wasn’t fair to. And yet, you didn't move.

Instead, you let yourself feel it—the feeling of him beneath you, the rise and fall of his breath, the warmth radiating from his skin, from the night before. And it ached. You felt like you’d ruined him and yet, you were hurting too. You weren’t sure why this wasn’t easy, why it didn’t feel simple. It should have been. But it was too real, and you were terrified you were something he didn’t need in his life, and this– you– was more than he could give and you didn’t want him to feel bad when he ultimately had to tell you that. You had felt it in the way he fucked you last night, in the way his hands clung to you, his lips worshiped you, his body gave into something neither of you had the words for. And yet you had exactly the one. You felt it—God, he must have too. That was the problem. He knew. He knew too much of you. 

You shifted ever so slightly, and Trent stirred, his body instinctively pulling you closer, burying you into him with a sleepy hum. He wasn’t even awake, and yet—he wanted for you. And you wanted him. That’s what hurt. Like a masochist, hugging his waist, you pressed your lips to his chest, lingering, nuzzling into his warmth, your nose against his bare chest, as if you could hide from the heartbreak you felt crawling up your throat. The weight of reality settled over you like a second skin—you were running out of time. If you were smart, you’d leave before either of you had to face it.

"Should I call an Uber?" you whispered, voice barely there, as if saying it any louder would make it real. As if you needed permission. As if you, awake, were asking him, asleep, to stop you. You weren’t sure if you were asking for him to say yes or begging for him to say no. But Trent just groggily groaned, shifting beneath you, his hips lifted, rolling ever so slightly into yours, unintentional, but still sending heat straight through you. His grip tightened, as if even in his half-conscious state, he refused to let you slip away.

"Nah, don’t be silly," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, thick like honey, dragging you deeper into his drowsy warmth, his hands aiding and abetting, pulling you in closer to the sleepy haze radiating from him. Last night, spurred by alcohol and rejection, (sort of)  he had been determined. But now, doused in the golden wash of morning, tangled in sheets scented with you, the fight was gone. Like he couldn’t wake up from wanting you. All that remained was feeling.

"Baby," you whispered, eyes fluttering shut, hating the way the word slipped so effortlessly, so naturally, from your lips. You didn’t even need to try to say it and it fell out.  Trent hummed groggily unphased, and you knew if you looked at him, he’d be watching you with those eyes—deep, drowsy, filled with something you couldn’t name, should name. "Can I have one more kiss?" You asked naively, knowing this should be the end. Knowing it wouldn’t be. Trent exhaled slow, like he already knew the answer, like he already knew he’d never deny you.

"Yeah, c’mere," he murmured, his hand dragging over your thigh, pulling you into him like you belonged there, kneading at your skin like he needed to remind himself you were real. His lips met yours in the sleepiest, sexiest kiss—slow, sensual, stealing the breath from your lungs before you could even give it willingly. And then, like you had any choice, you fell into another. And another. And then one more.

"That’s more than one," you giggled softly, pulling away just a fraction, your lips ghosting over his, barely resisting the urge to give in again. Trent smirked, lazy and breathtaking, his fingers digging into your thigh, heat pooling between you.

"Nah, Shhh, just need a few more f’me," he whispered against your mouth, lips brushing yours, each kiss slower, deeper, dragging you under like the tide. You were lost in the way he felt, in the warmth of his skin, the way his voice dripped over you like honey, the way his body wrapped around you like he was made to. And in the haze of exhaustion, a hangover, and the delirium of something that felt a lot like love, you giggled into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss. 

“Sorry," you giggled, pulling back from him, your eyes bright—so devastatingly alive—beaming into his. This whole thing was just ridiculous and maybe that’s what spurred your laughter. And just like that, Trent felt his heart shatter into a million, irreparable pieces. He needed you like this. Happy. Every morning. Every night. Forever, if you’d let him. "You’re a really good kisser." The words falling from your lips on the tail end of laughter, your body stretching as you pulled away, falling onto your back against his sheets like disbelief had knocked you off balance. Trent’s smirk curled into something toothy, boyish—God, he was gone for you. The sound of your laughter, the way your smile crinkled at the edges, the way you looked in his bed. He exhaled slow, rolling his head against the pillow, surrendering to the permanence of it. He couldn’t fuck this out. Couldn’t drink it away. This wasn’t fleeting—it was etched into him. Your laughter, your eyes, your body tangled with his. 

"Yeah?" he teased, questioning this unsolicited yet adorable spout of unprompted giggles. His voice was warm, deep, dripping in affection. Trent rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, just to watch you—completely transfixed. He couldn’t help it. You were still giggling, eyes squeezed shut, dainty hands resting over your face like you could stop the sound from spilling out. But you couldn’t. It tumbled from your lips, warm, shaking your whole body beside him. Trent swore he’d never forget this. The way your laughter bubbled out unfiltered. It wasn’t funny—really, nothing was funny, at all—but you couldn’t stop. You were gone in it, eyes shut, lips curled, breath catching between gasps of laughter that made his heart ache in the best, most unbearable way.

God, he wished he had that silly little camera of yours again. Because this was the one. The shot.  You—naked, unarmed, tangled in his sheets, golden in the morning light. The laughter,  so pure and unrestrained, that it made your whole face light up, the way you tilted your head back into the pillow behind you, the curve of your smile hidden beneath your hands, the sheer joy spilling from you. Your whole face glowed like something divine. And him—he was just there, utterly gone for you, drinking you in like you were something holy, soaking in a moment he already knew he’d never be able to let go of. He smiled to himself, at you, accepting it for what it was—his fate. It’d always be you, whether you meant to or not.

"I’m so sorry! I don’t even– " You gasped between laughter, shaking your head, falling further into the kind of breathless, tearful laughter that made no sense, the kind that bubbled up from nowhere and turned your whole body weightless. There was no reason to explain this, it was just one of those inappropriately timed moments, completely unmerited, you just couldn’t help but laugh. Trent felt it take him too, felt the joy creep into his ribs, bubbling over, his chest shaking with it.

"Yeah!?" he taunted again, grinning as he crawled over you, his hands slipping beneath the sheets, fingers pressing into your waist, squeezing. A soft tired squeal shot from your lips, laughter spilling over, breathless and bright, as you twisted beneath him, trying to escape the playful grip of his hands. But he didn’t let you go. His fingers tightened, teasing, gripping, claiming. Holding you in the way only someone who knew you—truly knew you—could.

"Baby—stop!" you yelped the pet name loose into the air between giggles, but you weren’t really trying to get away. Not from him. Never from him. And that’s when you both knew. Silently, in the space between breaths, in the weight of his hands on your waist, in the way your laughter melted into soft exhales, in the way his body hovered over yours like he was afraid to crush something too precious. It wasn’t about the sex because here, in these moments, this was where you felt loved. This was where you felt seen. You were completely soft with him—melted, mollified, stripped of every guard you had ever built. And Trent? He was the same. It was in the way his hands no longer teased, but held. The way his smirk faded into something quieter, deeper. The way his thumb traced over your skin like he was memorizing something important.

"Hmm? Think I’m a good kisser?" he mused, lowering his lips to your collarbone, then your shoulder, then the hollow of your throat. You shook your head no and the laughter softened, replaced by something warmer, something heavier. You hummed, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed slow, languid kisses across your skin, his lips dragging, lingering. And then the air shifted. Laughter melted into something else, something quiet, something slow. Trent sank lower, dragging the sheets down with him, his body slipping between your thighs, hands kneading at the soft flesh. The weight of his gaze alone stole your breath. He watched you like you were something sacred, something he shouldn’t touch but needed to ruin anyway. "What about if I kiss here? Still good?" he whispered, pressing his lips to your hip, voice nothing more than a rasp of want. Your breath hitched, laughter slipping from your lips entirely, leaving only need behind. You hummed a soft nod. "And here?" he purred, his hands gripping gently, opening you up for him, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh, his voice smooth. Like you were a doll just for him to position, gently pushing your knee up to your side. Another nod. Another hum. Trent smirked, responding with a low hum of his own—like some silent agreement between you. And then, he devoured you.

—

Trent’s car idled beneath the quiet hush of the afternoon, the world outside carrying on while time inside felt caught in suspension. You sat curled in the passenger seat, knee bent, tucked beneath you, drowning in the warmth of his jumper—his scent woven into the fabric, wrapping around you like something you weren’t ready to let go of. Your fingers disappeared beneath the too-long sleeves, gripping the soft cotton as if it could anchor you, hold you steady amidst the unspoken weight pressing against the air between you. You’d gotten coffee, but on the way, it was passive and now those coffee cups sat in their holders, remnants of a morning that had been easy—full of laughter, fleeting touches, moments that felt like something worth memorizing. But now, the journey back had been quiet, conversation thinning into comfortable silence that, somewhere along the way, had turned into something else. Something heavier. The door to your building loomed just beyond the windshield, sharp-edged in its finality, an exit you weren’t sure how to take.

Trent exhaled through his nose, gripping the gear shift, his fingers flexing before slipping the car into park. The engine stilled, and the silence in its wake felt deafening. Your jaw tensed as your eyes flickered to his hands—strong, familiar, the same hands that had steadied you, teased you, traced over your skin like he was learning something only he had the right to know. Now they rested there, motionless, as if waiting. As if hesitating. And just like that, the car felt impossibly small. The weight of goodbye settled between you, thick and unspoken, stretching the space that already felt too small. You shifted, twisting in your seat, fingers playing with the hem of his jumper still drowning your frame. 

"Okay… well, I guess I’ll see you," you murmured, voice lighter than the moment deserved. Trent's jaw ticked, his fingers flexing once against his thigh before he exhaled. 

“Yeah, well… thanks.” The words landed wrong, heavy and misplaced, and he seemed to realize it at the same time you did, a wince flickering across his features. You scoffed, half-giggling as you swatted at his leg. 

“Oh my god, don’t say ‘thanks’ like it wasn’t some sort of service!” He huffed a chuckle, catching your hand in his own before you could pull away, squeezing once before lacing his fingers through yours like it was second nature. The way he turned toward you, fully facing you now, made your stomach dip—anticipation settling in the spaces where words failed.

“You know what I meant,” he said, softer this time, almost apologetic, gaze searching, his pout forming—God, that pout. That signature look he kept in his arsenal, the one that was equal parts sincere and devastating. The one that made your lips press together to suppress the effect he had on you. But then his smirk edged in, lazy and knowing, right before he moved. Time folded in on itself, his hand sweeping into your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as he leaned in. His lips found your forehead, lingering, pressing something unspoken into your skin—something careful, something loaded. A whisper of possession, of hesitation, of wanting but waiting. The air still clung to him as you stepped out, closing the door with quiet finality, but it felt like shutting something far deeper than just his car. You stood there, the city humming around you, wrapped in his jumper, in the remnants of his touch—the burn of his lips still ghosting over your skin, the bruise at your hip, the love bite grazing your collarbone like a secret only he knew hidden underneath the fabric. And then, just as you started toward the door, the low hum of the window rolling down had you pausing.

“Y/N…” His voice was softer now, coaxing your gaze back to his. The dim glow of the sun through the clouds caught the unreadable expression in his eyes, something careful, something that made your pulse skip. “You doing anything next weekend?” You tried for indifference, you really did, but your smile betrayed you before you even spoke. 

“Erm… don’t think so. Think Fos said Cloud 23, no?” You furrowed your brow, pretending to recall the details you already knew about the Saturday night plans. Trent smirked. 

“Yeah, so you’ll be there…” He confidently said. Your breath caught, but you nodded, eyes dipping for a second before flicking back to his. 

“Yeah. I’m going.” You replied. And maybe it was just your imagination, but his smirk softened, something flickering beneath the playful charm—a quiet kind of certainty.  “You want me to be there?” you asked, tilting your head, arms crossed over your chest as you shifted in your heels from last night. Trent scoffed with a roll of his head. Trying to downplay the heat he felt creep up his neck. He felt a bit of embarrassment he didn’t know what to do with. Still, the smirk twitched at the corner of his lips, uncontrolled, betrayed him. He couldn’t hide it.

“Yeah. Gotta make sure you’re not off with any other friends.’” He teased with a smirk. It was honest, maybe a bit of cheek, obviously nevertheless but laced with subtle possession, maybe even insecurity. You raised a brow, suppressing the grin threatening to break free. 

“Oh? And if I was?” You asked smoothly. His tongue poked at his cheek, dimples pressing in. 

“Then I’d have to remind you exactly who made you laugh like that this morning.” His voice was low, teasing, but the way his eyes roamed over you—the silk shorts, the sweatshirt drowning you, your lips still swollen from him—said he meant it. You hummed, pretending to think. 

“Not sure if it was really you…” You giggled bashfully, completely smitten by him. Because the inhibited laughter came from a myriad of emotions and yet all of them lead back to him. “I do have a lot of  friends, y’know.” You smirked trying to play with him. Trent leaned his arm over the wheel, eyes gleaming.  

“Oh, yeah? Ones you like spending time with more than me?” He taunted you. You opened your mouth, then shut it. He let out a boy-ish laugh, triumphant, childish, and utterly adorable. “Yeah, thought so. Don’t forget that, baby.” He cooed. 

“Shut up,” you grumbled, but your smile was soft, your cheeks warm. He exhaled a little laugh, shaking his head before giving you one last once-over. 

“Get inside, beautiful. Before I change my mind and take you back home with me.” He nodded his head towards your building's door.  Your stomach flipped at that, but you only rolled your eyes, stepping back toward your building. 

“See you, baby.” You whispered bashfully.

“Countin’ down already.” Trent’s fingers drummed against the wheel before he winked at you, The window rolled up, and you stood there, lips pressing together, heart hammering as you watched his car pull away.

—

[Dance With Me - Lucidbeatz]

The club pulsed around you, the low throb of the bass sinking into your skin, vibrating through the air like a second heartbeat. Glimmers of light cut through the darkness reflecting off disco balls — flickering gold that shimmered across Trent’s skin like firelight. The air was thick, a dizzying mix of perfume, sweat, and the sharp tang of expensive liquor spilled over marble counters. Bodies moved like waves, lost in the music and laughter or conversations fueled by cocktails. And in the middle of it all—him. Trent was drowning, and you were the tide.  Foster had had a dinner at a restaurant earlier somewhere else in Manchester with a few friends, Leon there with a few other boys, Campbell and Delaney too. Trent had a match that afternoon. But now he was here and you couldn’t get enough.

You moved against him with a lazy sort of confidence, like you knew exactly what you were doing, exactly how your body fit against his. The sequined knit of your dress [ref index] whispered along his skin, your warmth pressing into him, teasing, taunting. The sway of your hips matched the rhythm, slow, deliberate, igniting something in him that he couldn’t control. His fingers twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to grip your waist, to pull you even closer, to press himself into the curve of you like he could mold you there. He swore he ran less in ninety minutes on the pitch than he had just trying to keep up with you tonight.  You were different now. There was something in the way you moved—self-assured, untouchable in the way that made you more tempting. You acted like you didn’t need his attention, but Trent felt like you were commanding it. You thrived in this moment, and for once, it wasn’t because of him. And that should’ve been enough to make him back off, to leave you to it. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to feeling like the one left chasing. His usual nights out had a different rhythm. The game was easy: a glance, a smile, a tilt of his head. Girls gravitated toward him, caught up in the pull of his name, in the thrill of what he could give them. It had always been effortless. Expected. But this? This was something else entirely. This wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just another girl pressing against him, looking for a fleeting moment in the dark. This was you. You, who had somehow, somewhere along the way, become the one thing he wanted beyond a guarantee. And you were fucking wrecking him. He let himself give in, just a little. One hand finally landed on your waist, his fingers brushing and bunching up the fabric of your dress. He felt the way your muscles tensed, just for a second, before melting into him. His grip tightened, his thumb grazing circles over your hip, firm but reverent.

—

“You’re being a tease,” Trent murmured, his voice a slow drawl against the shell of your ear, barely audible over the music, but you heard him. You felt the way his lips curled into a smirk even without seeing it. His lips, warm and plush, hovered just behind the delicate skin, not quite touching—just enough to make you shiver.  Your arm stretched behind you, nails tracing lazy patterns against the nape of his neck, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingertips. 

“I am not,” you countered, but the words melted before they could hold any weight, dissolving into the heat of his skin as you tilted your head back, whispering into the crook of his neck. He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against you. His self-control was slipping, and he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to hold onto it anymore.

“You are, baby,” he rasped, lips brushing just enough to set every nerve in your body alight. His grip finally settled, firm and possessive at your waist, holding you against him, pressing you back into him with a silent claim.

“Oh, we’ve hit the ‘baby’ stage of the night, have we?” You teased with a soft hum, letting your hands smooth over his, locking them there. Even through the playful defiance, you wanted him to stay. He’d called you ‘baby since the moment he arrived tonight, but a little joke didn’t hurt. He let out a quiet, satisfied purr, dipping his head lower, his nose tracing the slope of your jaw. His lips hovered dangerously close to your pulse, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything—just breathed you in, like he needed a second to get himself under control.

“C’mere.” His voice was low and easy, a single tug at your hips guiding you back with him as he settled into the plush suede of the chair behind him. The movement was fluid, like he’d planned it, like he already knew you wouldn’t resist. And you didn’t. You landed on his lap, legs draped over his thighs, every point of contact burning. From across the room, Leon and Foster shared a knowing glance, their smirks barely concealed over the rims of their glasses.

“What? Do I look good tonight, baby?” you asked, turning slightly to look at him. He rolled his eyes at the smug lilt of your voice. “So do you disagree or agree with all that attitude?” you teased, tilting your chin at him.

“I really, really agree,” he admitted, the words laced with something almost dangerous as his smirk deepened. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, his grip tightening at your waist. 

“Think anyone will want to take me home?” You tested him, baiting, prodding. His lazy grin didn’t waver.

“Mmm… maybe,” he mused, but there wasn’t an ounce of worry in his tone. He knew the answer as well as you did. And yet, your teasing was cut short when the music shifted, the tempo switching to something lower, something that made your body move before your mind could catch up. You twisted on his lap, tugging at his hands, silently pleading for him to stand with you. But he didn’t move. Instead, he stayed put, grip tightening just slightly, keeping you there.

“T, come on! I know you love this song. Come on, pleaaase,” you pouted, shifting in his lap, pushing against him with a sway of your hips in his lap that you knew would undo him.

“Nah, nah, nah,” he smirked, pulling you closer instead, his hands sliding to your hips.

“Pleaseee,” you crooned, looping your arms around his shoulders, voice syrupy sweet. “You can put your hands anywheeeere you want.” His breath stuttered, his fingers pressing into you just slightly before he caught himself. 

“Baby… don’t do this to me.” He whispered slow and calm but his composure was slipping. 

“Fine, just come dance, T,” you giggled, rolling your lip dramatically. Still, he didn’t budge. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a smirk. “Fine,” you huffed, feigning exasperation as you turned your gaze outward. “I’ll just find another friend.” His grip tightened in an instant.

“Nah, nah, nah. Not that either,” he chuckled, pulling you back against him. You laughed, victorious, letting your hands glide over his broad shoulders greedily, desperate for his attention.

“How will I know if you’ve got any rhythm? If you can even move your hips, hmm?” You teased him.

“I’ll show you somewhere else. How about that?” He leaned forward, his lips barely brushing against your ear. Your breath hitched. He was good—too good. It was too easy for him and you didn’t even care. 

“What if I don’t want to go somewhere else?” you whispered, forehead pressing against his, your voice barely audible over the thrum of the club. His lips parted, a reply sitting heavy on his tongue, but then he stopped himself, a slow smirk curling his mouth instead. It was too hot, he was too close, you wanted him so badly and yet the game was too good to resist. 

“Trust me,” he said, voice rich with promise. “You won’t be disappointed.” You held his gaze, eyes searching his, waiting for something, anything, to give him away.

“And if I am?” you pushed, just to see if you could. Trent let out a quiet chuckle, leaning back slightly, hands dropping from your waist as he exhaled, feigning deep thought. 

“If you are…” He began to try to give options but  then he shook his head, confident, assured. “Nah. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.” Slowly he leaned back in a towards you, holding you completely captive with just a gaze. “You know that too.” He whispered quietly. 

“Not gonna try and, like, kidnap me?” You quipped, your brow furrowing in intrigue, your head tilting just slightly as you studied him. He’d let go. Pulled away. Sat back in his seat, you perched on his leg but his hands not on you. Like he was surrendering, and that—somehow—felt more dangerous than anything else. Trent only smirked, easy and unbothered, draping himself back against the chair like he had all the time in the world. 

“I mean,” he mused, slow and teasing, “I don’t think I could get away with that.” The casualness of it made your pulse trip over itself. He wasn’t scrambling for you, wasn’t chasing. He had control, and it left you feeling suddenly desperate, like you wanted to tip the scales, like you needed to pull something from him.

“No, suppose not, but…” Your words faltered, catching on a breath.

“But maybe.” His voice was smooth, thick with amusement, his smirk darkening as he leaned forward again just enough to let the words linger. “We’ll see how tonight goes. Maybe I’ll handcuff ya to the bed.” His gaze flickered away then, casting over the club like he was only half invested, like this conversation—this entire game—was just another indulgence for him. A stray flicker of light catching the edges of his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbone, the flicker of mischief in his eyes. You swallowed, the heat in your body curling into something molten, something reckless.

“Maybe I want that too.” You stood, slow and deliberate, and the moment you did, you felt it—the shift. The instant loss of contact, the cool air rushing in where his touch had been. And Trent—who had just seconds ago been the picture of composed, effortless confidence—leaned forward in a jolt. Like you’d pulled the plug on him. Like he’d lost you for even a second, and it had knocked the breath from his lungs.

-

[Until We Bleed (Slowed) - Kleerup ft. Lykke Li]

The room pulsed, a living, breathing thing of heat and bodies, but it wasn’t the bass that thrummed beneath your skin—it was him. It was Trent. It was the weight of his gaze, the burn of his attention, the way he watched you like he had no other choice. Like you were the only thing that existed. You used to be above this. Used to float through nights like these untethered, untouched by the pull of another’s validation. But now? Now, you orbited him. Silent. Subtle. Desperate in a way you refused to name. You needed him to need you. To see you. To want you. And maybe, just maybe, to crave you in the same way you craved him. But the game was delicate. It had to be played just right. So you danced. Not with anyone, not really. Your movements weren’t for their hands or their hungry stares—they were for his. For Trent’s. Every sway of your hips, every roll of your body was a taunt, a whispered dare. The lights dripped down your skin, the sweat at the nape of your neck glistening, and you knew—without even looking—that he was watching. And when you did glance his way, just for a second, the breath left your lungs. He was locked in.

His jaw sat loose, his lips parted in something between disbelief and greed, his tongue darting out to wet them like he was tasting you from across the room. And that smile—lazy and sloppy, dimpling at the corners like he couldn’t quite believe the audacity of you—sent a shiver down your spine. He knew. He knew this was for him. And he fucking loved it. His fingers tapped against his thigh, twitching like they wanted to grip something—grip you. His knee bounced with restless energy, like he was holding himself back, waiting for the moment he’d had enough of this game, when he’d stalk across the room and claim his prize. Your heart slammed against your ribs, but you didn’t stop. You rolled your hips slower, your lashes fluttering just so, your mouth curling into the ghost of a smirk before you turned away again. He exhaled a curse and so did you. Both of you feeling like the other had an upper hand.

—

“Alright… enough. Let me take you home.” He’d seen enough. His voice was silk, rich and low, but there was an edge to it—possessive, undeniable. You barely had time to process it before his hands found you, warm and insistent at your waist, fingertips pressing into the fabric of your dress like he was branding you through it. His chest met your back, solid and certain, a quiet demand.

“Hmm?” You hummed, feigning innocence, your hips still swaying, still teasing. You felt the moment his patience frayed, the way his fingers flexed against you before gripping tighter, stilling you. His body pressed in, heat seeping into your spine, the evidence of his frustration thick and hard against you.

“Yeah. Enough of this.” His voice was clipped, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

“Of?” You asked lazily, letting your weight sink into him, pushing your ass back just enough to test the fire in his restraint. His exhale was sharp, barely controlled. 

“You. This.” His lips brushed your jaw, a ghost of a touch. “C’mon, stop playing, baby.” Your heart was a war drum, but you didn’t fold.

“I’m not playing…” You whispered, tilting your head back against his shoulder, letting your lashes flutter as if this meant nothing. “Are you?” He stilled. A beat. 

“Nah. Never play about you.” His voice was raw, stripped down, bared to you in a way that sent your stomach plummeting. And you? You had the audacity to hum, to let doubt lace the sound, to make him prove it. His grip cinched tighter, a silent correction, and your chest ached with the pressure of it—of him, of this.  He didn’t like that hum. Fine, if you wanted to call him your friend, he understood. But, you needed to understand that he wasn’t playing about you now, not ever. He wanted this. He wanted you. His hold on your tightening along with your chest.

“Okay…” you whispered, softer this time, turning in his arms, trailing your fingers up his chest, feeling the erratic drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. His jaw ticked, his eyes dark as they searched yours. 

“Yeah. Not playing.” He murmured, almost to himself, before pulling you in, greedy and sure. His hands skimmed your hips, curled around your waist, slid up your spine as if memorizing the dip of it. “Want to see how many times I can make you cum.” He whispered. The words spilled from him like a promise, like a threat, and your breath caught. Your lips curled, your fingers twisting in the fabric at his collar. 

“Okay. I’ll keep count.”  His smirk was slow, dangerous. 

“Let’s go, baby.” A pause. A flicker of mischief. “Someone wants to take you home.” And you let him. Because deep down, you wanted to be taken.

—

“So do you actually have handcuffs?” you teased, standing at the foot of the bed, tilting your head back just enough to catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes as he moved around the room.

“Nah.” His voice was a velvet murmur, steady, confident. “Not really one for all that. You know that.” His approach was slow, unhurried, like a lion closing in. And then his chest met your back, the warmth of him seeping into you, his hands settling firm against your waist. You laid your own over his, anchoring yourself to him.

“I think we just play it cool, calm, collected,” he cooed, lips brushing your ear, each syllable igniting something deep in your belly. “Chill out… let our bodies do all the work.” A smirk toyed at your lips. 

“What work?” you murmured, dragging your nails lightly over his knuckles, taunting. He hummed, the sound low and knowing, before dipping his head to your neck. 

“Think about it, baby,” he mused against your skin, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. “Every time my lips are on you, you’re getting goosebumps, your brain rattling with ideas, your mouth going dry…” He trailed his hands lower, fingers pressing into the softness of your stomach. “And I think your pussy might even be getting wet.” A sharp inhale stung your lungs. He felt it, smirked against your pulse, rewarded himself with a bite just beneath your jaw before chasing it with a kiss. His hands were slow, purposeful, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts, kneading you with a reverence that made your head tip back onto his shoulder.

“That’s a lot of work,” you admitted, breathless, melting. His chuckle rumbled through you. 

“Mmm, yeah. I can tell, baby. I can read you.” His fingers flexed over your ribs, his lips dancing over your throat. “Like I know you want my lips here…” he whispered, pressing an open-mouthed kiss below your ear. “And my hands…” He exhaled, palming your chest, teasing your nipples through the fabric of your dress, rolling them between his fingers. You sighed, eyes fluttering, the heat between you thick enough to drown in.

“You’re wrong,” you exhaled, though the words were weak.

“Yeah?” His grip stilled, just for a second—his breath catching, the smallest hitch in his control.

“Almost where I want your hands.” Your voice was honeyed, teasing, and you guided him lower, your fingers dragging his to the hem of your dress, pressing his touch into the skin beneath. He groaned, the sound a deep, guttural thing, appreciation laced in every second of it.

“Fuck,” he murmured, his hands obedient now, peeling the fabric from your body with a slowness that felt reverent, aching. His breath hitched as your dress hit the floor, pooling at your feet in a soft whisper of fabric. He needed you. Not just in the way he was used to needing, not just to feed an impulse—but biblically, irreversibly. Like he’d worship you if you let him. Like maybe, just maybe, he already was.

–

The dim glow of the bedside lamp painted your bare skin in gold, and his hands—shaking slightly now—ghosted over your waist as if he couldn’t believe you were real. You’d turned to face him, moving him to be in front of you, in front of the bed. 

“Wow,” he muttered again, this time more to himself than to you, as if the sight of you had knocked the air from his lungs. His fingers traced slow, burning paths down your ribs, his touch featherlight but scorching. You were just as desperate, just as awed by him, but you couldn’t show it—not yet. You wanted to make him unravel first. So you pushed him, firm and demanding, and he let himself fall back against the bed. He looked up at you, lips parted, pupils blown wide with something dangerously close to worship. His hands found your thighs, gripping, squeezing, and then dragging you over him, your legs straddling his hips. “You’re not playing very fair, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, his hands moving up, over, everywhere—mapping you like he was trying to memorize you.

“I’m not playing at all,” you whispered, leaning down, your lips a breath away from his. He surged up, meeting you in a kiss that shattered whatever restraint had been holding him back. It was messy, feverish—his hands clutching at your back, your hips, dragging you down against him. His tongue swept into your mouth, swallowing the quiet moans you didn’t even realize you were making. The friction between you was maddening, dizzying, his hips rolling up to meet yours, pressing against you in a way that made your stomach tighten, your breath stutter.

“Need you, baby” he rasped against your lips, his voice breaking on the words. “Fuck, needed you all night.” You whimpered, rocking against him, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Baby,” you whispered, and it wrecked him. He flipped you onto your back in one swift motion, his mouth trailing down your throat, over your collarbone, leaving a path of heat and reverence. His fingers skimmed between your thighs, teasing, testing, before pressing into you, slow and deep. His forehead dropped to your shoulder as he felt how wet you were, a groan tearing from his throat.

“Always so wet f’me, hmm?” He muttered, his breath hot against your skin.

“Yeah,” you gasped, tilting your hips up, your body already arching for him. “So wet for you baby. Need more of you. Please.” You whined. There was no teasing now, no game—just hunger, raw and unfiltered. He lined himself up, his gaze locked onto yours, something unspoken and trembling between you. And then he pushed in, slow, sinking into you inch by inch until there was no space left, no room between your bodies. A sharp inhale from him, a breathless moan from you.

“Ah,” he rasped, his fingers gripping your thighs, his forehead dropping to yours. “You feel—fuck—” You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him in place, trembling with how full he made you feel. And then he moved. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careful, either. It was deep, deliberate—his strokes measured, his pace slow but relentless. Each roll of his hips sent shockwaves through your body, your hands grasping at his back, his hair, his face—needing to hold onto something, anything. His lips brushed over yours, barely touching, and when he spoke, his voice was wrecked.

“I love–” He choked on the words, and then he buried his face in your neck, his thrusts growing uneven. “I —fuck—” You didn’t let him finish. You surged up, kissing him like you could pull the words from his tongue, like you could keep them from tumbling out before he was ready to say them. But you knew. You felt it in the way his hands trembled, in the way his mouth lingered on yours like a prayer, in the way he filled you over and over like he never wanted to leave. “Love the way you take my cock.” He tried to rectify almost slipping and a part of you wish he hadn’t. You wanted him to love you, you could feel he did. You hoped he could feel you did.

But the desperation crested, eclipsing any thought, white-hot and overwhelming, and you shattered beneath him, your body clenching tight around him as you cried out his name. He followed, groaning into your skin as he came, his arms locking around you like he was afraid you’d disappear. And then, silence. He rolled onto the mattress and pulled you into him.The air between you changed, from fire to something softer, sweeter. You traced lazy circles into his back as his breathing slowed, his heart hammering beneath your palm. But even like this, wrapped around him, chest to chest, skin to skin, it wasn’t close enough. You shifted, draping yourself completely over him, your bare body pressing into his, your ear resting over his heartbeat. Trent hummed sleepily, his fingers ghosting over your spine.

“You’re crushing me,” he murmured, but there was no bite to it, no teasing. He just sounded content. You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone.

“Don’t care.” And you didn’t. Because for the first time in what felt like forever, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

–

[Crush - Cigarettes After Sex]

The warmth of him seeped into your skin, into your bones, anchoring you in a way that nothing else ever had. Your fingers traced lazy, looping shapes against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. His skin was hot, damp from the lingering sweat of what had just passed between you, but you didn’t care. You welcomed it, wanted to soak him in, let him stain you in ways that wouldn’t wash away. The rise and fall of his breath was a lullaby, the scent of him—faint cologne, salt, and something distinctly, comfortingly Trent—wrapping around you like a cocoon. You never wanted to leave. 

“Mmm, just want this all the time.” You pressed a slow kiss to his collarbone, your lips barely brushing his skin as you whispered.  Trent hummed, the deep vibration rumbling beneath your cheek, his fingers coasting over the bare expanse of your back, stroking up and down, up and down. He wasn’t even aware he was doing it, like touching you had become instinct, like his hands refused to stop memorizing you.

“You can have this, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, hushed, tender. “Can be with me any night you want.” His words settled somewhere deep inside you, curling into the softest parts of you, making your chest feel too full, like it might burst if you let yourself believe him completely. But you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

“Mmm yeah,” you purred, burrowing impossibly closer, melting against him, the heat of your body molding to his. “Just want to hold you… cuddle with my baby.” His breath hitched. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but you felt the shift in him—the way his body tensed for just a second, the way his hand stilled on your back before pressing you even closer, holding you like he could pull you into his chest, into his heartbeat, into him. Trent exhaled sharply, a slow, shaky breath against your hair, and you didn’t see it, but his eyes fluttered shut, his heart stuttering beneath your touch. Because the boy who was praised around the world, who had crowds chanting his name, who had stadiums screaming for him—felt more special in this moment, hearing that soft, possessive “my” slip from your lips, than he had in a long, long time.

–

The mornings were always the hardest. Nights were easy—wrapped in his sheets, in the warmth of his body, tangled together until you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. In the dark, it was simple to let yourself have him. To let him have you. It was all hushed whispers and fingertips tracing secret constellations over bare skin, lips pressing into places words never dared to go. The way he murmured your name like a prayer just before sleep claimed him. The way you found yourself curling tighter against him, as if even pressed chest-to-chest, you weren’t close enough. But the mornings… mornings meant peeling yourself out of his bed, slipping back into the silence of reality. He never made you leave. He never rushed you. He’d stretch lazily in the dim morning light, voice still hoarse with sleep as he hummed a soft ‘morning, baby’ into your hair. He’d pull you back against him, as if to delay the inevitable. As if keeping you wrapped in his arms for just a little longer might change something. But it never did. Because once you stepped out the door, it was back to pretending.

You weren’t friends anymore—obviously. Friends didn’t sleep in each other’s beds. Friends didn’t pull each other into their laps on the sofa, didn’t tangle their fingers through each other’s hair, didn’t press bruising kisses into one another’s skin just to hear the way their breath hitched. Friends didn’t make each other come undone with just a look. But you weren’t talking about what you were either. Because putting a name to it would make it real. And real meant messy. Real meant opening something that couldn’t be shut again. So instead, it was this. Hushed. Contained. Unspoken.

It was the way his car was already waiting outside the station when you stepped off the train, his hood up, his fingers tapping absently against the wheel as he watched you approach. It was the way his hand found its way to your thigh on the drive home, his thumb tracing soft, absentminded circles into your skin like it was instinct. It was the way you’d slip inside, past the threshold of his front door, and everything would melt away—the questions, the uncertainty, the weight of it all. The second his hands found your waist, the second his lips brushed your temple, the second you let yourself sink into him, it didn’t matter anymore. It was a cycle you both clung to. A delicate balancing act. And neither of you dared to acknowledge just how close you were to falling.

–

And the cycle continued; delicious and vicious. Trent had left early for training, kissing you slow, reluctant, before dragging himself out of bed. You had lingered in his sheets for a while after he left, but the silence had felt heavier than usual. Like it had pressed into your chest, thick and suffocating. So, you found yourself here.

The vintage camera store smelled the same as it always had—faintly of dust and darkroom chemicals, of old leather camera cases and time suspended in celluloid. It was the kind of place that made you feel small in the best way, like you were just a blip in a long history of people who had passed through, collecting fragments of their lives frame by frame. The owner greeted you warmly, the bell above the door jingling softly as you stepped inside. Your fingers traced over the barrels of old lenses, the worn leather straps of vintage polaroids. The weight in your chest eased. For a little while, at least.

The soft chime of the door again barely registered as you traced your fingers along the cool metal of an old Canon, your touch light, reverent. This place had always been beloved—untouched by the chaos of the outside world, frozen in time like the film you loved to develop here. Your grandpa took you there when you were a little girl. You formed a relationship with the shop owner and since then you never liked to buy your film anywhere else. Small business and that. He even let you use the dark room in the store for when you wanted to develop your own film manually. It was cathartic. Sometimes you didn’t even need film or anything in particular you just wanted to feel something.  It was the closest you ever got to feeling like a child again. Safe. Whole. 

And then, out of the corner of your eye, movement—someone crouching by the lower shelves, broad shoulders hunched, curls slightly damp from the rain outside. When you turned the sight of him made your breath catch, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips before his name slipped out, soft, surprised.

“T?” His head snapped up. His jaw slacked completely caught out.

“Oh—shit, hey…” He stumbled, rocking too far back on his heels, nearly losing his balance. You bit your lip, giggling as he caught himself, a sheepish smile spreading across his face.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, stepping toward him, your voice tinged with something playful, something warm. Trent glanced around the dim shop, exhaling through his teeth as he searched for an excuse, or maybe the truth. He landed somewhere in between.

“Uhhh…. Erm..” He ran his hand over his hair trying to look for some semblance of composure here. He exhaled when he finally found it. “I heard there’s a photographer’s birthday coming up… someone told me this place was her favorite, so I was sussing it out.” His eyes lingered on you, something soft behind them, something hesitant.

“Is it?” You hummed, pretending to think, though the warmth in your chest betrayed you. “Wow. Lucky her.”

“Yeah… gotta get her something good, so I’m brainstorming.” He shrugged, casual, like the word he said next wouldn’t crack something inside you. “Good friend of mine.” A friend. The word should’ve felt safe. You were the one who put it there in the first place, built it like a wall between you, sturdy and unwavering. But now, hearing it from his mouth, it felt like a dull knife to the ribs, twisting slow, emptying the breath from your lungs.

“A friend,” you echoed under your breath, tasting the word, hating it. Trent hesitated, eyes flickering over your face as if trying to decipher the shift, to determine whether he’d just hurt you or himself more. But instead of pressing, instead of lingering in the discomfort, he smirked, leaning into something easier.

“You know anything about cameras?” His voice was teasing, a playful dig at the walls you were both attempting to put back up. You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head, momentarily letting the tension slip away.

“Mmm, little bit,” you teased back, brushing past him, the briefest squeeze of his bicep beneath your palm before your fingers trailed down, catching his wrist, tugging him gently forward.

“Come,” you murmured, voice low, coaxing. “Let me show you something.” And just like that, he followed—because he always would.

—

The shop was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the rain against the windows and the faint rustling of the old man you knew far too much about flipping through a newspaper behind the counter. The air smelled of aged leather, dust, and something metallic—time itself, almost, preserved in the old brass and film canisters that lined the walls. Trent stood beside you, eyes flicking curiously over the shelves lined with cameras of every kind—polaroids with yellowing plastic, sleek silver 35mm beauties, boxy old Kodaks with peeling paint. His fingers brushed over the cool glass of the display case, lingering over a Leica that had seen better days. You smiled, knowing it wasn’t about the camera—it was about you. About the way he wanted to step into your world, understand it, understand you.

“Here,” you murmured, reaching past him, lifting a camera gently from the case. It was a classic—a Canon AE-1, the camera you learned photography on. You passed it to him, watching as his large hands cradled it carefully, like it was something fragile, something precious. And it was to you so you appreciated that he held it that way.

“Show me again,” he asked simply, his voice softer now, more patient. You guided him through the weight of it, gently laying your hands over his. Guiding him through the feel of the lens beneath his fingertips, the way the focus ring turned with the smoothest resistance. 

“Remember?” You whispered, removing your hands from his. 

“Mmhmm.” He hummed. He lifted the camera to his eye, squinting through the viewfinder, adjusting the focus until the grainy image sharpened. And then he stilled. Because there you were, framed through the lens, caught in a moment of stillness, of quiet. He felt like it was the perfect embodiment of how he saw you. And that was just it, he only saw you in focus, the rest blurred and then blacked out at the edges. But as he watched, he caught it—a subtle shift in your expression, the way your lips pursed, the way your breath wavered for just a second. “Hey,” he murmured, lowering the camera. “You alright?” You blinked, shaking yourself free of whatever held you in place. Your lips curled up in a small, reassuring smile, and you exhaled.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.” But your fingers moved before your words could catch up, lifting just slightly, pointing toward a frame nestled on the wall behind the case. It was old, the wood chipped at the edges, filled with a collage of black-and-white and sepia-toned photographs. Faces of customers, of memories frozen in time. And there, tucked into the middle, was one you knew by heart. “Hadn’t seen one of the photos in a while, that’s all.” You whispered. Your grandfather. And you, just a little girl, sitting beside him, grinning, with your very first camera clutched between your tiny hands.

“That’s you?” Trent followed your gaze, then looked back at you. You nodded, but no words came. There was too much in your throat, caught somewhere between nostalgia and grief, between warmth and ache. And maybe he felt it, because the next thing you knew, his arms were around you, wrapping you up from behind, his chest pressing firm and steady against your back. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and he didn’t say anything—just held you, just let you have this moment. His lips found your shoulder in a kiss so soft it could have been mistaken for a whisper, and your eyes fluttered shut.

Why did you ever ask him to be your friend?

-

[Wait (Slow Reverb) - M83]

The door closed behind you with a hush, sealing you both into the dim sanctuary of the darkroom. The world outside ceased to exist in the way that only this space could allow—the thick, heady scent of developer and fixer curling around you, the weight of silence held in the hush of still air, the slow, rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the background. Trent stood just behind you, close enough that his warmth radiated against your back but not quite touching. He didn’t intrude, didn’t force himself into your space, just existed in it—watching, waiting, learning the way he always did.

“So… this is a darkroom?” His voice was lower now, reverent, as if something in him knew that this was sacred. 

“This is it,” you murmured, tracing your fingers along the edge of the developing trays, their cool surfaces grounding you. “Here, we can develop one of these, they have to get done anyways.” You said softly as you grabbed a roll of film from the queue of moments waiting to develop on the shelf. You reached for the canister, but Trent beat you to it, the backs of his fingers grazing yours. It was fleeting but electric, a whisper of touch that made your pulse quicken. Your hands lingered for a breath longer than necessary before you pulled away. “You have to do this part in complete darkness,” you explained, voice softer now, motioning toward the light-tight bag used to extract the film. “No light at all, or it’s ruined.” He nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. He was listening. Not just hearing, but truly listening. You liked that he was a good listener, his patience unwavering. When the film was finally submerged in the developer, the room filled with the quiet hum of waiting. The air between you thickened, charged, like the moment before a storm.

-

The hush of the darkroom settled around you both like a secret. Only the faint red glow of the safelight illuminated Trent’s face, casting soft, warm shadows over his features as he leaned against the counter, watching you work. His arms were crossed, but not in a closed-off way—just comfortable, patient. He always had been with you. 

You’d have to wait on the roll of film you just developed, the images still tucked away in the chemical bath, its final form unknown. But for now, you had another roll—one that had already gone through the process, dried and ready to be seen. And you wanted him to see it. Because for all the moments you kept locked away, this was the one thing you wanted to share. Your favorite thing in the whole world. In the quiet darkroom, where the world outside felt distant, muffled by layers of brick and memory, you moved instinctively. The room had always been a place of comfort, of solitude—somewhere you could disappear into when the noise of everything else became too much. But now, you weren’t alone in it. Now, you trusted Trent enough to let him in. Carefully, you pulled the roll from the drying rack, the filmstrip glistening faintly under the dim red glow of the safelight. You held it between your fingers like something sacred, and in a way, it was. It was pieces of time, frozen in silver halide, moments that would never exist again except in the way you captured them. Trent stood close, watching you with a quiet reverence, as if sensing this meant more than just showing him some photos. 

“Ready?” you asked softly, glancing at him over your shoulder. He nodded, and you could see the way his throat bobbed, like he knew—really knew—that whatever you were about to show him, it mattered. So you placed the strip in the enlarger, set the paper beneath it, and let the light shine through. And as the image began to take shape, as the moment you had captured so long ago bloomed into existence beneath your hands, you realized—this wasn’t just about showing him something you loved. It was about letting him see you.

-

His hands found your waist again, light but present, keeping you anchored in the space between the past and the now. You swirled the developing tray gently, watching as the ghostly image on the paper slowly bloomed into life. A moment, captured forever.

“I love this part,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the quiet magic of it all. 

“Yeah?” Trent tilted his head, intrigued. You nodded, your fingers trailing absentmindedly along the edge of the tray. 

“It’s like… the world comes to life in here. But in reverse. Outside, everything is so loud and fast, constantly moving forward. But in here, moments unfold slowly. You get to see them for what they really are—watch them emerge, let them settle.” You exhaled, shaking your head with a small smile. “I don’t know. Probably thinking and saying too much. But it just makes me realize how beautiful these moments are. Even the ones that seemed insignificant at the time.” Trent didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, his gaze tracing over your face like he was seeing you develop in real-time too. Slowly coming into focus.

“That’s kind of mad, you know?” he finally murmured, stepping closer. “Most people take pictures to capture stuff, so they don’t forget it. But you…” He studied you for a second, something soft flickering behind his eyes. “You take them to understand it. To actually see it.” You swallowed. He got it. He always did. Trent reached out, fingers brushing against yours, a quiet tether between you. “You ever think maybe that’s why you like it in here?” His voice was low, thoughtful. “'Cause in the dark, you get to take your time. You get to let things be, without rushing to name ‘em.” Your breath caught. Because you weren’t sure if he was still talking about photographs anymore. Slowly, you let yourself lean into him, just a little. His warmth, steady and familiar. 

“Maybe,” you admitted, voice barely audible. A beat passed. 

“Might have to start calling you a poet instead of a photographer, baby.” Then, almost teasingly, he added. You let out a breath of laughter, nudging him with your shoulder. 

“Shut up, T.” But your smile lingered. And so did his touch.

-

The darkroom still smelled like chemicals and nostalgia, the scent of developer and fixer mixing with something softer—something that felt like you. Trent didn’t know how long he’d been standing behind you, arms loosely wrapped around your waist, fingers resting lightly against the fabric of your jumper. He wasn’t even sure when he had reached for you, only that it felt right. The photo in the tray was still fading into existence, a moment neither of you knew yet, but it didn’t matter. Trent wasn’t really watching the image develop. He was watching you. The way your brows knitted together in quiet concentration. The way your lips parted just slightly, like you were exhaling a thought too small to speak aloud. The way your hands moved, steady and gentle, not just with the photograph but with everything. You weren’t just developing film; you were caring for a memory, coaxing it to life like it was something fragile. Trent swallowed thickly, his chin just barely brushing the side of your head as he leaned in, his hold on you tightening ever so slightly. His whole life had been lived in the brightness. Floodlights beaming down on the pitch, stadiums roaring, paparazzi flashes bursting in his periphery. Attention. Eyes on him. Always. But you—your world—was hidden in the dark. And somehow, it was more alive than any of it. In here, it was quiet. It was still. And he never knew just how bad he’d been longing for stillness. For this. For you. You shifted slightly in his arms, as if feeling the weight of his thoughts, and he could’ve sworn you melted back into him, just a little.

“Something on your mind?” you murmured, still watching the photo bloom in the liquid, but he heard the smile in your voice. Trent let out a slow breath, his fingers tracing soft circles against your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of you. 

“Just thinkin’…” he said, voice lower than before.

“About?” You asked. His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Think I’d rather be here in the dark with you than out there.” You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to graze his. He felt you sigh, felt the way you softened completely into him, and it was then he realized—he wasn’t the only one who needed this. The quiet. The stillness. Each other.

•

Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 13 - Stillness & Sun

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

[thestoryteller-thedreamer]

The Lack of Lore in Dragons Rising

Warning:

This is a really long essay rant about Dragons Rising. You probably won't agree with all, or even most of what I have to say, and that is totally alright. This is just my take on Dragons Rising so far.

Also, I have not seen any of the new leaks for Season 3 Part 2. All of my issues could be resolved in those episodes for all I know. I do talk about things that happened in Part 1, so if you haven't watched Episodes 1-10 of season 3 and don't want them to be spoiled, maybe don't read this post.

Anyway, I've warned you. What you do next is your own decision.

Dragons Rising has introduced us to all of these interesting concepts in the past fifty episodes. The Forbidden Five, the Source Dragons, the wolf masks, the prismatic blades, shatter spin, rising dragon technique, the missing characters, and the freaking merge itself. All of them feel like they connect in very nuanced and intricate ways with the already established ninjago lore, but we are given none of their history, only the action scenes that utilize them. Which is starting to feel less like a mystery and more like an oversight. 

Let’s go back to Season 1 of the entire show. Right off the bat, we are introduced to the Serpentine. The main characters give us a bit of exposition in the form of bickering in the first episode, describing the Serpentine, their role in Ninjago history, and the mystery/ legends surrounding them. We continue to get a glimpse into the various Serpentine tribes, including their abilities, their power structure, their intertribal relations, and their desires within the first few episodes. By the midpoint of the season, Wu has revealed the backstory of the Great Devourer as well. And it doesn’t feel like too much exposition is going on. The season, for all of its other flaws, flows fairly smoothly and is full of action.

In Season 2, we meet the Overlord, and are immediately given his history with the First Spinjitzu Master. In Season 3, though not a lot of new lore is added, returning characters and the new technology of the Digiverse are both explained to some extent. Both seasons 4 and 5 handle the lore excellently, at least in my opinion. We are shown the histories of Garmadon and Wu, respectively, continuing to see glimpses of their troubled pasts as the season goes on, without feeling left in the dark for too long. Similar things can be said of most, if not all, of the other seasons. 

However, in Dragons Rising, we are given none of that. 

The characters claim to have a backstory (Egalt and Rontu say the Forbidden Five are an evil “unlike anything you’ve ever seen”) but what we are given is so lackluster that it feels forgettable. Part of what made the Forbidden Five so boring in Season 3 is how little we know about them. Most of our information comes from posts by the writers, not the actual show itself. Their powers are barely explained, the relationships between all of them other than Nokt and Rox (the two siblings) aren’t even present, and I have no idea why they want Thunderfang or what they plan to do to the merged lands. Conquer them? Destroy them? Declare the doughnuts must be eaten every third Tuesday of the month? I don’t know! Older villains, like Garmadon, Harumi, Morro, Chen, Aspheera, Kalmar, Unagami, and Nadakhan all had very clear, if also very misguided, goals. I don’t know what these new villains want! Gosh, I can’t even keep their names straight. They have really cool designs, but I get Zarkt and Drix confused all the time. 

Not to mention, the Forbidden Five were built up as the greatest evil in all the merged lands, only to be immediately defeated by Thunderfang. Creating an even more powerful villain for our heroes to face would work if the writers actually raised the stakes. As it is, these latest villains don’t feel anywhere near as threatening as those that actually came with a cost- Lloyd having to fight his dad, Zane dying to the Overlord, Nya merging with the sea to defeat Wojira, even all of the cubing that happened while in Prime Empire. Like the entirely evil Oni, they work really well as a background threat, but as soon as they appear in action, they are pretty underwhelming (and both the Oni and Thunderfang were defeated by a fancy Spinjitzu move). I think it would be more beneficial if the villains stopped threatening the entire world, and instead honed in on something more personal, such as hunting down one of the main ninja for revenge or something, or trying to steal their powers so everyone is “equal” (aka, Legends of Korra). 

Or the villain isn’t even a real villain, but they are trying to keep the ninja from something they want, like figuring out the secrets of the Merge, finding the truth about Wu, or recovering Jay’s memories. Lowering the world stakes and raising the personal stakes could actually be far more gripping than constantly raising the bar for who is the ultimate evil. 

Okay, so what about the Source Dragons? It feels like the writers go back and drastically change everything we already know about the First Spinjitzu Master and Firstborn. It gives me the same whiplash sensation I had finding out that Lloyd was part Oni and part Dragon. In hindsight, Lloyd’s heritage is an interesting concept. And so are the Source Dragons! But right now, it feels like my entire understanding of Ninjago history is falling apart at the seams. Not to mention, we don’t get a dramatic Mystake storytelling moment for the Source Dragons. We are told they exist and are super powerful and supposedly give everyone their elemental powers… but not much else. Where do they live? What makes them so powerful? Why did they decide to give powers to people like Cinder and Zeatrix? Why do the Source Dragons give evil people their elemental powers? How could they refuse to interfere with mortal affairs unless they are being threatened, especially since doling out powers that way could be the cause of some of Ninjago’s problems? 

Oh, and will the show ever care to discuss the Wolf Masks? How did Ras get his hands on them while he was busy in Imperium? At this point, it seems like he has a backup plan for a backup plan for a backup plan for a backup plan (Dragon Icons with Arin to make up for Nokt betraying him and using the elemental powers for himself to make up for the blood moon ritual not going as planned to make up for Beatrix not doing what he wanted to make up for his tribe kicking him out.) What is this guy’s deal? And how did he get an entire army of faceless, nameless soldiers to wear his masks and help him take down the world? In Season 4, at least Chen offered his followers the appeal of a snake cult on a tropical island. I’m seeing none of those benefits for Ras’s minions. 

And don’t get me started on the Prismatic Blades. What the heck are these things? They are made from “soul energy?” Has someone been harvesting souls to turn them into swords? Why does looking through them allow someone to see invisible demogorgon soul sucking spirits? How did Rapton, not to mention Dorama’s puppet, get his paint spattered pinchers on one of those things? What is up with the sword that shattered during the tournament? If these are the only things that can bust Thunderfang free, why weren’t they hidden better? Or if they were, how were they found? At least in S1, when the ninja were searching for the Fangblades, we were given a bit more explanation. We had a fancy map with their locations, a Clutch Powers bit where he “found” one and turned it into a trophy, a dramatic battle in an erupting volcano… Yes, they fight over the prismatic blades. But the fight locations don’t feel important the way they do in S1 of the original show. 

Ooh, and what about the missing characters? Crystallized ended with an absurd number of side characters all teaming up to help the ninja rebuild their monastery. At the start of Dragons Rising, they are not only gone, but forgotten. We’ve had a few beloved side characters make guest appearances- Dareth, Fugidove, some of the elemental masters at the Tournament of Sources… but the others haven’t even been mentioned. I think it would be ridiculous to try to fit everyone into the plot. This ensemble show has a cast swollen way past anything reasonable. But maybe give us a cameo of Harumi living her life, or Skylor running her noodle shop or Benthomar and Vania being the best king and queen one could hope for. Give us Garmadon and Vinny walking through the crossroads, and an angsty teen Unagami addicted to his phone, and Nelson jealously watching Arin fulfill his life dreams. It can take place in a quick fly by, where their relationship to the ninja isn’t explained, but older fans have a moment to freak out and scream at the top of their lungs when they see their babies for a few seconds. 

Now for the Merged Lands. Yes, this is a kid’s show. But I feel like after several years (which, btw, why are they so vague about the time span? They are always like, the merge happened “several years ago,” but never give us an exact date, and it drives me crazy!) the different combined realms would have formed some sort of political understanding. We are given no glimpse into how Ninjago decides to interact with Imperium, or the Cloud Kingdom, or the Wyldness. At the very least, I would have expected some reaction to Imperium declaring the ninja as enemies of the state from Ninjago. How dare the foreigners try to capture their beloved heroes?! Only the Ninjago City police and the *new ninja* are allowed to put them in jail! We have no interactions between them, or even reminders that old businesses and characters still exist. (NGTV news, the mayor, that police commissioner with the twitchy eye…) It feels like Ninjago’s culture has been erased, and none of the other merged lands have become prominent enough to replace it. The beautiful city that gets destroyed every other season and feels a little bit like home when I see it on screen isn’t relevant any more. 

The show really wants to have new lore. It hints that it is there, it tries to dump it on us in repeated blasts of the same boring exposition. But I honestly can’t see it. Or maybe I just can’t get excited about it because it doesn’t feel personal enough. Unlike the earlier seasons, where villains targeted the ninja specifically because of Wu and Garamdon’s past, or trying to steal their powers, the heroes are so detached from this current wave of baddies that it doesn’t seem to matter. Saving the world for the sake of saving the world is good and all. But you know what is great? Saving the world for the sake of saving your friend. Stopping the villain merely because they kidnapped someone you love or tried to steal your teammates powers or broke your brother’s heart or made your already elderly teacher even more old. 

The lore is connected to the world, not the characters. And if it doesn’t matter to the characters, then it really doesn’t matter to the audience. 

[qedavathegrey]

Writing Will into Water

While most of us are familiar with burning and burial as means by which to make physical then manifest our wills, there is another method that I employ with some frequency: writing will into water.

It's a simple process (and made more complicated, if so desired). All you need is: a basin, water, and a writing implement (a finger works perfectly fine). With the water in your chosen basin, take your instrument and write on the water's surface just as you would on paper. Employ word, symbol, or what have you, imparting your desire into the water.

To the water, you might add any number of herbs, curios or other liquids. Wine or spirits make a good medium if you would like to impart your will into the very offering itself. For something more nefarious, you could add herb and/or scrap, cover and let the admixture ferment/rot, then leave it for the sun or otherwise release it. If your mixture poses no threat to the local environment, pouring your water into a lake, stream or river is a good option. Especially if your water came from that same source. Also, being mindful of modern water treatment and waste management systems: the water we pour down the drain is collected, treated and returned to us. This method might be used to affect persons who share the same treatment facilities as we do in nigh a direct way. But then, as we know, all water is connected at the end of the day, so perhaps that layer adds very little...

Even still, imparted water can be used much more directly on both self or others: as consumable, either as drinking water or as ingredient in food/beverage. Tea is, of course, a great option what with the endless possible inclusion. But then, that's all Kitchen Witching 101, isn't it?

Personally, I like the evaporation method the most. I enjoy the symbol of it: my will being reduced to its most potent form, then taking to the air to join with the clouds and the heavens, finally returning as precipitation. I think it suits my nature. But I think returning water to its source is also a powerful image. Joining it back with the current or body now carrying your will with it.

Just as with water, you can match the instrument and basin with your desire or the specifics of your practice. Perhaps you'd like to carve a stylus out of a certain wood, or use a rusted nail, or a feather, or bone. All perfectly fine options. Perhaps you'd like to use a cauldron or a ceramic bowl or your 1990s glass, promotional Batman Forever mug featuring nipple-suit George Clooney from McDonald's. Do whatever, do you.

None of this is likely new to most of you, but just something I wanted to speak on as I leave my cup on the table out back for the sun to drink.

[arylleth]

The books taught me that when we live through traumatic experiences, our brains take in the things around us that are causing the greatest threat, and they encode these things deep into our subconscious as sources of danger. Let’s say, for example, that you are hit by a car. Your brain registers the noise of the car screeching to a halt, the grille speeding toward you. It shoots out an onslaught of stress chemicals like adrenaline and cortisol that elevate your heart rate and blood pressure, narrowing your focus to the thump of the impact and the pain and the sound of an ambulance. But at the same time, your brain is subconsciously taking in thousands of other pieces of stimuli: the foggy weather, the Krispy Kreme at the intersection, the color and make and model of the car, the Midwestern accent of the guy who hit you, his blue Wolverines T-shirt. And your brain imprints deep inside itself the powerful connections between these stimuli and this pain. These associations are stored in your brain along with the corresponding emotions from that day. And they often do not come with full stories. Therefore, your brain might not encode the logical connection between the Krispy Kreme and the car crash. It might simply encode: KRISPY KREME. DANGER. The result is that when you see a glazed doughnut or a blue Wolverines T-shirt, you might become uneasy without understanding why. Your brain is recognizing a pattern that it has flagged with life-or-death importance, and reflexively shoots out what it believes to be the appropria emotional response. This reflex might manifest in a big wa like a panic attack. Or it might manifest in a smaller way, like suddenly feeling very grumpy. You might decide that you’re irritated at your girlfriend for a mildly stupid thing she said that morning and text her to say so. None of this, of course, is reasonable or rational. But your brain is not trying to be reasonable. It’s trying to save your life. If someone pulls out a gun near us, we shouldn’t need to ponder for a few minutes about the make and model of the gun and how guns work and what caliber the bullets might be and the amount of damage they might do. If we see a gun, we need to know one thing, and we need to know it fast: GET DOWN. MOVE. RUN. What we might think of as emotional outbursts—anxiety, depression, lashing out in anger—aren’t always just petty, emotional failings. They may be reflexes designed protect us from things our brain has encoded as threats. And these threatening inputs are what many people call triggers. No, having triggers doesn’t make you a fragile little snowflake. It makes you human. Everyone has them, or wi have them eventually, because everyone will experience some form of trauma. That annoying blank stare your ex used to give you. The sound of the ventilator your grandmother was hooked up to in the weeks before she died. Having an emotional response to a trigger is perfectly healthy. Those triggers are only considered PTSD when an event is so traumatic that its triggers cause symptoms like panic attacks, nightmares, blackouts, and flashback when the emotional response becomes debilitating. And here’s what makes complex PTSD uniquely miserable in the world of trauma diagnoses: It occurs when someone is exposed to a traumatic event over and over and over again—hundreds, even thousands of times—over the course of years. When you are traumatized that many times, the number of conscious and subconscious triggers bloats, becomes infinite and inexplicable. If you are beat for hundreds of mistakes, then every mistake becomes dangerous. If dozens of people let you down, all people become untrustworthy. The world itself becomes a threat. PT 2