#string art installation

[sheltiechicago]

Pillars, Installation with mapping, Artur Lis - Kraków, Klub Fabryka

String Installations As A Futuristic Form Of Sculpture Are A Part Of Our Project “Decode The Code” 

String Art Installations are tens of thousands of straight lines intersecting in space creating a three-dimensional object.

Artists: Przemek Podolski and Marta Basandowska

Kraków, Rotunda Club

Kraków, Tauron S.a

Pillars, Installation with mapping, Artur Lis - Kraków, Klub Fabryka

[rosielindy]

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I’d love to go see some of these in person. Check out more at his website.

[greenorangevioletgrass]

tuesday in the park (a.d.)

pairing: divorced!art x reader

synopsis: your alone time at the park takes an interesting turn when a little girl breaks the quiet, but maybe... her dad is a good company.

warnings: language, smoking, mention of divorce, lily is an adorable lil oblivious cupid, sooo much tension tho, maybe smut in future parts? idk

notes: i am back and pathetic bitch boy art has officially given me a brainrot. this is also very self-indulgent and heavily based on my irl experience (except the fact that it's art, sadly) soooo... enjoy!

✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

City parks are fucking depressing. Especially the industrial type that’s square, and covered in concrete and has, like, four trees. They’re all well-manicured and hung with string lights, but there’s still barely enough greens to call it a park. And to add insult to injury, a Tiffany’s installation art currently sits at the head of the park—a giant diamond ring in a lush velvet box the size of a Range Rover. It’s gaudy as shit, and the massive Aston Martin billboard overhead is an assault to the eyes. You honestly have no idea why you’re sitting here.

Oh, right. It’s like 2PM on a Tuesday afternoon in some downtown office area, so there’s nobody else there. You can just sit and smoke and watch the water spout from the ground in pretty patterns. The steady rhythm of the fountain jets quiets the chaos in your mind.

Inhale. Exhale. As the fountain hisses and ceases, hisses and ceases…

And then suddenly… another pattern.

A pitter-patter. Like little footsteps. Quick moving, and then it stops. Right to your left.

You turn your head and see a little girl sitting right next to you. Her white sneakers look so small next to yours. She pushes a lock of dark ringlets off of her face as she watches the floor fountain in quiet curiosity and awe.

It takes you a moment to realize you still had a cigarette in your hand. You quickly stub it out as far from her as you can. “Uh… hello.” You frown at your own words, but how the fuck do you talk to kids in this situation?!

But the kid looks up and smiles at you politely. “Hello.” she nods and then returns her gaze to the water bursting in canon.

You’re even more confused. She doesn’t even seem deterred by sitting next to a stranger—willingly, at that. “Well, are you… are you alone?” 

“No. With my dad,” she answers, light as a feather.

“Oh, good. Good.” You sigh in relief and look around for any sign of a parent, adult, anyone looking for a missing child. “Where’s your—”

“Lily! There you are!” A man’s voice cuts through the dull noise of the city. You turn around to see him rushing over to the little girl, grimacing apologetically at you. “Sorry. I’m not a negligent father, I swear. I just… turned around and this little monkey’s run off.”

The little girl—Lily, apparently— giggles as her dad throws her a look, gentle but firm. “You said we could watch the water fountains, Daddy!”

“Yeah, but don’t run off like that…” He rolls his eyes, though you notice his sharp jaw twitching with a hidden smile.  And then, leaning into Lily’s ear but still loud enough within your earshot, “And you certainly weren’t supposed to invade this nice lady’s personal space—”

“It’s no trouble. I was just sitting here,” you quickly wave him off.

“Daddy, can I play over there?” Lily points at the streaming water at the center of the park.

The man pulls a face. “I don’t know, Lil—”

“Come on, Daddy…” 

“No way.”

“Just for five minutes. Please?” She bats her eyelashes, and you can immediately tell it’s her father’s Achilles heel. Because as much as you try to stay out of the conversation, you can hear the audible sigh coming from him, followed by,

“Fine. Five minutes, okay?”

The little girl bolts off to the fountains, tiny hands reaching out to the jet streams, testing out how strong it is. Figuring out the fountain pattern and stepping on each jet right as it shuts off, one foot after the other. It makes you wish it was socially acceptable for adults to do that, too. 

“You’re free to sit and watch her from here, if you want.”

He looks at you, like really looks at you for the first time. At your rolled-up button-down, the chain around your neck with a pendant he can’t see under your collar. But mostly at your kind eyes—weathered, witnessed, but somehow not judging.

He pushes his short blond hair out of his face the same way the little girl does, and the similarity almost makes you laugh… if you weren’t so worried about making a fool of yourself in front of this handsome man. “You sure? I… didn’t want to intrude.”

You shake your head softly and scoot over on the steps, allowing him just enough space to sit down.

He notices the stubbed cigarette between your forefinger and middle finger. “You got another one on you?”

It takes you a beat to realize what he’s talking about. “Oh!” You reach for your pack of Camel, and offer it to him, one cigarette stick already pushed out for easier access.

He takes it with a polite smile, but then pauses upon realizing he has no lighter either. “Um, do you mind if I borrow—”

You lean in as he puts it between his lips, one hand cupping the light from the breeze, and his heart stops at how close you are. Close enough to notice the gloss on your lips. Close enough to get a faint whiff of your floral perfume.

(And unbeknownst to him, your heart stutters a little, too, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you fumble lighting your own cigarette.)

“Thanks, um…” he trails off. 

You tell him your name, and he repeats it almost thoughtfully. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of your name as it leaves his mouth.

He nods. “I’m Art.”

He does look like it. The navy blue sweater hangs just right on his broad shoulders, understated but high-quality. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing a sleek black Piguet around his wrist. A simplicity to complement his refined features. His bone structure is cut like the gods, but the permanent frown etched between his brows, casting a shadow over his deep-set eyes, tells you that he is facing the troubles of man. And the awkward way he’s holding his cigarette makes him look like a boy. Of course, you can’t say any of that to him, so you settle with,

“Nice to meet you, Art.”

He can’t remember the last time somebody said that to him and meant it. And right now, sitting in this concrete park alone, he can see no pretense coming from you. No ass-kissing, no sizing-up, just a genuine kind gesture of a stranger. And it makes him so fucking relieved. 

“So what brings you out here?”

“Work, actually. A meeting,” Art replies somewhat vaguely. He’s not really keen on divulging the details of sponsorship and endorsement deals. Not when you don’t seem to know who he is. “Lily saw the park from the window and insisted we check it out when we’re done.”

“Ah, does she normally tag along with you to work meetings?” You ask with a playful glint, although the unspoken question of his whole situation is well heard. “She should. She looks like a great negotiator. Just saying.”

He chuckles. “Maybe she should. My, uh…” Art stops himself before he could say ‘wife’ because Tashi isn’t that anymore. Not his wife because they aren’t married anymore; not his coach either, because he doesn’t play tennis anymore. “Lily’s mom and I take turns every other week.”

And there it is. Your lips pull up into a soft line, not quite a smile but a gesture of understanding. “Must be tough.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a lot of changes. But she’s doing okay, I think…” Art pauses, “I hope.”

You follow his gaze and look at Lily, who must be playing some kind of Indiana Jones fantasy scenario with the water fountains. Not an ounce of care in the world. “She looks like a tough kid.”

“She is.” Art smiles bittersweetly. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to my sob story. What brings you to this park?”

The air that pulls both of you in releases, and you lean back on your elbows against the concrete. “Oh, I just finished work and I… needed some air.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an interpreter.”

His eyebrows shoot up in interest. “Like the Nicole Kidman movie?”

“Exactly.” You point your half-cigarette at him, and share a tentative smile with him.

“Do you do, like… high-profile, UN-related assassination investigations, too?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not nearly as cool in real life. Most of it’s pretty boring, like contract negotiations and focus group discussions…”

“But the stories you must’ve heard, right? Or do you just… zone out at some point?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes you end up shutting off your brain and go on autopilot.”

“But not today?”

You smile ruefully at him, and he knows the answer. You take a thoughtful puff of your cigarette. “It’s… a bit hard when they’re talking about… how they had to jump off of the ship and swim across the channel in the dead of night, because they would rather die in the open water—a couple of them did— than die working in the fishing vessel…”

“Fuck.”

“And I know it’s not really meant for me—they’re talking to my client sitting next to me. But when they look you in the eyes and speak to you…” you trail off, taking a long drag of your cigarette.

Art takes it as a cue for his cigarette, too, although he notices you tapping the ashes off one, two, three times. “Must be tough.”

You roll your eyes playfully at him for quoting your own words back to you. “Ah well, it pays the bills. Besides, I get to clock out at 2PM on a Tuesday and enjoy this…” you inhale through your teeth disdainfully, “beautiful, brutalist… Soviet-core park.”

He laughs, the real kind of laughter that throws his head back, and it warms your heart enough to laugh, too. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

“It’s bullshit! And what the fuck is that horrendous giant ring doing here?” The two of you cackle over the installation art across the park. “And that billboard… it’s ridiculous.”

Art’s laughter dies down on his lips as he looks up at the billboard in question. The Aston Martin “Game Changers” campaign from last year. Fuck. Even when he’s completely separated from Tashi, her presence still looms over like a panopticon.

You turn to him with a smile still etched on your face, completely oblivious to the storm in his head. “What?”

But he looks ahead, too caught up in the hurricane to hear you. He just… looks up at the billboard, his face darkens.

Oh.

You feel silly for not putting two and two together—you’ve been staring at the billboard mindlessly for a good fifteen minutes, goddammit— so you tread very carefully. “That, uh… Lily’s mom?”

Art looks down on his lap, as if not daring to look at Tashi’s picture. Or at Lily, or at you. “Yeah.”

There’s no right word for it. There’s no coming back from this, nothing he can say can make this better, and he can’t help but kick himself for fucking up. What he is fucking up, he’s not entirely sure. But he’s not ready to end this conversation with you, not on such a weird note.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like…” because you can’t. Losing a spouse is hard enough, but to have it out there in the open…

“It’s tough,” he nods in confirmation, and you smile feebly at his attempt at a callback to your little inside joke. To the moment where things are fine, all things considered. 

If the air ebbed and flowed earlier, it must’ve just… froze now. You don’t even remember the cigarette in your hand until the ash falls onto your hand and you gasp at the sudden heat, putting it out on the ground.

“I’m sorry. I should get out of your hair—”

“Do you wanna get a drink some time?”

The question catches both of you off-guard, eyes blinking at each other in shock. He didn’t think he heard you right, and your mouth seems to work faster than the filter in your brain.

Your face runs hot, and you chuckle sheepishly. “Sorry. You probably don’t wanna hear that—”

“I do.” He’s not sure which question he’s answering. Maybe both? Definitely both.

“Oh! Um…”

And right in that moment, Lily comes padding over with squelching steps in her shoes, completely drenched but over the moon. “Daddy, Daddy, that was so much fun! Can we come back here? I see lights on the floor, and I think the fountain lights up at night!”

Art puts out his cigarette under his shoe, chuckling at his daughter,  “Baby, you’re soaked! Did you try to take a shower there or something?” immediately wringing water out of her hair.

“I’ll take a real shower when we get home.”

“Well, duh. But I don’t want you to catch a cold… come here.” He crosses his arm to grab the hem of his sweater and tug it over his head to put it on his daughter.

The girl looks thoroughly unamused as the clothing item falls halfway down her calves and the sleeves nearly touch the ground. “Daddy, this is ridiculous.”

You grin, and you can’t help but wonder how much of that sass came from Art. “Looks pretty chic to me.”

He nods at you, glad that you’re backing him up. “Thank you.” He then turns to Lily pointedly.

Lily half-smiles at you. “Thank you,” although she still isn’t quite convinced.

“I’m sorry, we really gotta go. But how do I, um…” he trails off. Gosh, he was hoping to do this out of Lily’s sight. Lily’s sight means Tashi’s sight, and he’s not ready for that talk just yet.

“Take my card.” You whip out a neat stainless steel case, and slides out a white-and-blue business card. Your name is printed in a sleek black font, right above ‘Interpreter’ in a smaller case. Your email and phone number follows.

His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, and he prays to God or whoever is up there that he doesn’t give anything away to you or Lily. Not a quirk, not a peep. Just two strangers connecting by chance.

“Thank you.” He nods evenly as he pockets the card, trying to contain the butterflies in his stomach—he’s always thought he was too old for that by now, but maybe… just maybe… “You have a nice day.”

“You, too.” You squint up at him under the sun, and then smile and wave at the little girl. “Bye, Lily.”

She waves at you as Art sweeps her up into his arms, and you don’t let yourself turn all the way around to watch them leave. Instead, with one final look at Art’s “Game Changers” billboard ad in the distance, you grab your pack of Camel and light another cigarette between your lips.

[felassan]

Jason Schreier: "NEW: After the release of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, dozens of BioWare employees were told they were temporarily assigned to other projects within EA. This week, a twist: those temp assignments are now *permanent* transfers. And BioWare has shrunk. Story: [link] Dragon Age: The Veilguard was undeniably divisive, but to many who worked on it, it was a miraculous accomplishment to even ship a complete game after EA forced live-service into it, then reversed course. Now, their reward for the long hours and hard work is layoffs and transfers." [source]

Bloomberg article:

"Electronic Arts Slashes BioWare After ‘Dragon Age’ Sales Miss The studio has shrunk to less than 100 people following the release of Dragon Age: The Veilguard Dragon Age: The Veilguard missed EA’s sales expectations by 50%, leading to cuts at the studio"

"Hi everyone. Today we’re diving into the cuts at Electronic Arts Inc.’s BioWare. BioWare magic Late last year, after the release of the new role-playing game Dragon Age: The Veilguard, dozens of employees at developer BioWare were given some staffing news. Moving forward, they were going to be loaned out to other teams within their parent company, Electronic Arts, where they would work on various upcoming games like Iron Man and Skate. The logic made sense. BioWare’s next game, a new installment in the popular sci-fi Mass Effect series, was in pre-production and did not need the entire studio. There were no other internal projects for everyone to work on. Instead of getting laid off, they would stay employed, working on other projects until Mass Effect was ready for them. But this week, the group was informed that the loans had morphed into permanent relocations, according to people familiar with what happened. They were no longer BioWare employees who were temporarily on assignment elsewhere; now, they worked for whichever EA subsidiary had borrowed them. If they want to work at BioWare again in the future, they would have to look for job openings and re-apply. This was an unwelcome development for some of the employees, who now find themselves on brand-new teams at studios they’d never planned to join. Some had come to BioWare to work on storied role-playing game franchises and found the idea of working on action or sports games less appealing. But at least they got to keep their jobs. During the same reorganization this week, around two dozen other people at BioWare were laid off, according to the people familiar, who asked not to be identified discussing nonpublic information. Writer Trick Weekes and producer Jen Cheverie said on Bluesky that they were among the veteran workers who’d been cut."

"BioWare is now down from more than 200 people two years ago to less than 100 today, according to the people familiar. A small team will remain to work on the next Mass Effect game — led by company veterans who oversaw the development on the original trilogy as well as on 2019’s Anthem — in hopes of expanding as the game gets further into production. The company announced the reorganization on Wednesday, saying it planned to “become a more agile, focused studio,” without mentioning the job cuts and the relocation of staff permanently to other studios. A spokesperson for EA declined to comment on specific numbers. It’s been a rough month for EA. Last week, the company’s shares plunged 18% after reporting preliminary holiday-season results that missed estimates and lowering its forecast for the fiscal year. The poor results were largely due to the underperformance of EA’s latest soccer game but the company also said that Dragon Age: The Veilguard reached 1.5 million players, missing sales expectations by 50%. What may be most surprising is that EA, which has a long history of shuttering studios after a failure, is keeping BioWare around. The once-revered RPG studio, founded in 1995 by a trio of doctors, released a string of beloved titles throughout the 1990s and 2000s, including the first two Baldur’s Gate games, Dragon Age: Origins and the Mass Effect trilogy. But the studio has failed to release a hit since 2014’s Dragon Age: Inquisition. Mass Effect: Andromeda, released in 2017, received mediocre reviews and was widely criticized for its bugs and uncanny animations. BioWare then pivoted to a live-service shooter with 2019’s Anthem, which was roundly panned and killed after less than two years. Both games were plagued by management issues, brutal deadline crunches and a belief — called “BioWare magic” — that everything would work out in the end."

"With the single-player Dragon Age: The Veilguard, which had its own turbulent development cycle and was rebooted multiple times, the studio hoped to win back lapsed fans. Despite generally positive reviews, the game proved to be divisive among players, with some criticizing the writing, art style and linear level design. But many observers and staff blame EA for the situation they put BioWare in — canceling an early version of Dragon Age in favor of one that would be required to have a “live-service” multiplayer component with recurring revenue, only to then reverse course, reverting once again back to the single-player format. It would be difficult for most game-makers to release something great under those conditions. Now, BioWare studio head Gary McKay and Mass Effect executive producer Mike Gamble are essentially looking to reboot the company as they plunge forward on their next game. It will be a long road ahead, and what emerges will be a very different BioWare. But at least for now, the studio will continue.""

[source]

[ef-1]

View Suspended II by Dutch artist Paul Veroude

View Suspended is an art installation by Paul Veroude in which a Mercedes F1 car was 'exploded' into 3,200 parts, each part suspended by string tethered to the ceiling of Mercedes-Benz World's F1 exhibition in Surrey, UK.

[soapyghostie]

Cipher from fogposting here, I have been thinking about the reader living in the slasher / dbd killer house idea!

And what I would be interested in is how chores would be distributed 😂 who does what? Do they let Bubba cook?

(not sure if this counts as request, but feel free to ignore it if you don't want to write anything about this!)

Horror House

Since there is a big group of them that live together, the slashers have a humongous house so it’s right that everyone has to pitch in (at Norman’s demand).

Jason handles the house’s exterior maintenance, ensuring the walls and gates are secure, and also takes care of the yard work. He’s actually really good at gardening if you mean by growing a never-ending supply of deadly traps and pitfalls.

Michael is in charge of plumbing, but his fixes often lead to eerie, dripping sounds, and he also handles the house’s lighting, but only installs dim, flickering bulbs that cast ominous shadows (he purposely does that to scare the shit out of Danny, Billy, and Stu). His cooking skills are limited to boiling water, but he insists on making everyone eat his infamous Michael’s Mac ‘n Cheese of Doom. 

Freddy manages the house’s electrical system, but loves to play tricks with the lighting to try and scare the others (it doesn’t work). He also helps with running the house’s music and entertainment with his razor-sharp glove-uitar (Freddy named it that). It’s just him running his glove blades over the strings of an actual guitar and it doesn’t sound that great.

Bubba cooks meals for everyone alongside Hannibal and it’s some of the most fine homemade cooking you will ever taste. He also helps Norman with the house’s cleaning. He is actually very good at doing laundry. He makes sure each piece of clothing is neatly folded and put in the right person’s pile.

Nubbins assists Bubba in the kitchen, but mostly makes ruckus and gets in the way. He does actual gardening, but is not very good at it. The plants usually die within 3-4 days and maybe a week if he’s lucky.  

ChopTop does a lot of carpentry and woodworking, but his creations end up looking sinister and unuseful. He ends up antagonizing Bubba With his creations by chasing him and waving them around in his face. He also helps Drayton with finances, but only embezzles funds to make more of those twisted projects of his.

Drayton oversees the house’s finances and handles the house’s decorating using human skulls and bones (Norman and Hannibal had to take them down because it was making some of the other residents sick to their stomachs and relieved Drayton from decorating duty). He tries to help out with gardening, but it always ends with him chasing Nubbins around with a broom, leaving the garden unattended for hours (maybe that’s why the plants die so fast). 

Thomas takes care of the house’s leatherwork and upholstery, but uses human skin, and also handles the house’s security, but only installs traps and alarms that have led to endangering some of the residents. He’s actually a pretty good cook, but prefers to let Bubba and Hannibal do the cooking so he can keep his eye out for danger. 

Bo manages any machine or car maintenance. Since the slashers have to use reusable stuff, Bo is there to make sure that everything is intact and working. He tends to be out in the huge garage-like barn in the back of the house for hours, with Amanda, always fixing something.

Vincent oversees the house’s art and decor with the help of Brahms. He’ll spend hours down in the basement (his art studio) creating pieces to hang up around the house. He also handles the music being played around the house with his radio. He finds Freddy’s attempt at making music annoying. He’ll help out with the laundry sometimes too. He treats laundry like he treats his artwork.

Lester doesn’t stick around the house; he’s out of the house early to attend his roadkill pile. However, whenever he is home, Lester will assist Norman with taxidermy and chores. He’s only tried helping cook dinner once and almost burnt the whole house down. Let’s just say he was never let back into the kitchen again.

Norman takes care of a lot of the house’s cleaning and keeps the house pretty tidy for an extremely worn down house. In his free time, he does a lot of taxidermy to put up for display around the house to give it more personality. He can cook, but no one likes house cleaning so that takes up a lot of his time. 

Hannibal is the main chief of the house. He prepares exquisite, gourmet meals. He’ll prepare separate meals for anyone who is no in favor for his special ingredient, *cough* human *cough*. He also runs therapy sessions for anyone who needs it. He’s a great listener and gives great advice. He also helps with gardening every once and awhile if he’s not busy with other things. Nubbins is trying to find Hannibal’s secret to growing a successful garden because his plants last for years. 

Amanda spends her time designing and building traps for pests and rodents that are crawling around in the house. She’ll help Bo out with his projects if he gets stuck on something because she gets tired of hearing him groan and complain. Listen, the girl needs her concentration okay? 

Billy Loomis refuses to do almost anything that requires him to be responsible: Norman was lucky enough to even get him to clean his room. However, he does like to pull pranks on the other slashers and make mischief. He may or may not have gotten his throat slit open by Michael once for it though…

Stu works with the technology and gadgets of the house. However, he only uses them to play pranks on the other residents of the house and nothing really useful. Hannibal and Norman had to provoke his technology privileges quite a few times because the others were complaining. 

Chucky only exists to insult and annoy the hell out of everyone. What is he gonna do? He’s literally a doll. Actually, he does help with organizing stuff. If he sees something misplaced or moved, he’ll put it back into its original spot. He also helps his wife Tiffany out with her fashion work. 

Tiffany handles a lot of the house’s fashion and style. She designs and creates outfits for everyone so no one has to go clothes shopping. She is also another one who is a really good cook and helps out sometimes. Her specialty is baked goods and always makes the best desserts for after dinner.

Brahms helps with decorating. He’s very picky with how the house is decorated and wants the house to be decorated with only the finest things. Most of the stuff he hangs up is Vincent’s art pieces that range from canvas art to sculptures.

Billy Lenz looks after the ‘household’ cat (it’s actually his cat) Claude. He feeds,waters, grooms, and plays with the cat. He makes sure that no one has to think twice about taking care of Claude. He likes to keep Claude with him at all times because Michael tried to kill and eat him a few times.

Pyramid Head is the guard dog of the house. He makes sure the younger slashers aren’t getting too out of hand and staying out of trouble. The slashers are really trying not to draw too much attention to themselves.

Carrie helps out with chores and does most of the laundry. She uses her powers to make the clothes spontaneously combust and move things around to dust the spaces underneath objects. 

Jennifer takes care of the house’s beauty and makeup. She critiques the other slashers on their work ethic and tightness around the house (It’s much appreciated by Norman). She’ll make sure that everything is put in its proper place and looks presentable. She does Bubba and Carrie’s makeup a lot and is your go to girl for when prom rolls around. 

Danny surprisingly is a very efficient cleaner and will get random bursts of energy that has him deep cleaning the entire house. He will disinfect the entire house in an hour and a half, insisting that Norman takes a break for the day since that’s literally all he does everyday 24/7 3/65. He also cares for the firearms and weaponry.

[sheltiechicago]

Form Composition: String art in UV light installation - Kraków, Tauron Arena

String Installations As A Futuristic Form Of Sculpture Are A Part Of Our Project “Decode The Code” 

String Art Installations are tens of thousands of straight lines intersecting in space creating a three-dimensional object.

Artists: Przemek Podolski and Marta Basandowska

Kraków, The Christmas Tree Concept

EgoDrop event, FENIX - Kraków, Klub Studio

Compositional elements for a large installation

Amsterdam, Tobacco Theater

[xxx-wounded-angel-xxx]

Tear you appart - Felix Volturi x reader

Felix Volturi x fem! reader - contains smut

3456 words

content warning : swearing, darker and wilder than my usual Felix, possessive Felix, size difference (both him and reader like it) - Smut ahead ! please no judgment, this is the first time I'm writing some I tried my best I feel so embarrassed 😅 Stop at the divider if you don't want the smutty part that contains : dirty talk, voice kink, size kink, penetration, virgin reader (she's an adult in her 20's !), praise kink

Taglist : @agirllovespancakes <3

At first, you weren’t sure what to make of your mate. First, Felix was big. Like…two meters tall and really muscular. Like wow. And second, he… was busy. Like very busy, which you could comprehend since he was one of the highest ranked guards of the Volturi Coven. And the executioner… that's it you had said it. His job was to brutally kill people, and you did not fully know what to make of him because of that.

He was kind to you of course. But you could barely see him. He had a very important place in the coven after all, it would be mean to hold it against him, he couldn’t help it after all. But it was making it harder for you to understand him, how could you get to know him better if he wasn’t there with you?

Ever since you were staying with the Volturi after finding out that you were Felix’s soulmate, your existence had gotten kind of lonely. The current secretary would go shopping with you if you needed something but you were mostly staying in your quarters that were adjacent to Felix’s. So, you decided to spend the time by decorating as much as you could your quarters to your own taste.

As a goth, you took advantage of the Halloween season to buy home decor. Artificial black roses, deep red and purple ones, black lace curtains, gothic prints you paired with vintage looking frames Heidi found for you in an abandoned room… You kept the walls white but painted the furniture black. Lots of bookshelves were acquired to hold your book collection, CDs and DVDs, Felix had made sure you had a good TV and even better stereo when you said you basically lived with music. Anne Stokes and Victoria Frances’ art hung all over your walls, nemesis now dark fairy figures and cult cuties shelved neatly above your desk, nightmare before Christmas plushies and figures scattered all around your quarters with the occasional Hello Kitty and Kuromi: it was starting to look like home.

When December came by you bought red velvet curtains, and red crystal beads. A lot of them. Surprisingly, you were now finding every week rose bouquet, that you would put to dry and keep in elegant vases. You were sure they were from Felix, even if he never mentioned it the few times the two of you had met in November.

You were working on the canopy of the bed, after installing the black lace curtains and strings of white pearls that were easy to find as Christmas tree ornament, you were making garlands of red crystal beads that would reflect the light all around your bed canopy. Attaching bead after bead, you were disrupted by Felix. You looked at him, surprised as you saw him sit beside you on the black silk sheets of your bed.

“Good evening my darling mate”

This evening, you finally got to spend time with your mate. He apologized for his lack of presence beside you, the coven had been exceptionally busy and he had not been able to give you the time you deserved. But now, he was here, and could finally take care of you, his mate, properly.

You talked for hours that night, She Wants Revenge playing low in the background as you finally got to know each other.

But no matter how interesting this all was, you were getting tired. Felix noticed your yawn, and with a smile put you to bed, tucking you in and gently kissed your forehead goodnight.

Your Felix held his promise. Week after week you got to know the other better. Going from strangers to friends… to more. After a few months you realized that Felix wasn’t a friend anymore. No, he was more. You wanted him to be more. But it wasn’t easy. He was your soulmate! It was supposed to be easy! But it wasn’t. At all.

Spring came and left, and so did summer. It was the middle of autumn, and you still did not know how to tell your soulmate you liked him. How could you? How could a simple human compare to a vampire? He had not turned you yet, it seemed that he quite enjoyed your human habits for now. Maybe he liked your softness, the warmth of your skin or the color of your eyes? But that did not resolve your problem. How could you tell him when you had never done this before? You were in your twenties and not had your fist kiss yet!

You had started a diary to keep your memories, express your feelings and your thoughts. And the most recent entries were all about him. About Felix, the gleam in his eyes, the way his skin shone brightly under the sunlight, how hot you had found the glimpses of his toned and muscular body you had been able to see, the way his thunderous laugh made your heart smile… How… You love him. That’s it, you had admitted it fully: you loved him. It was written black on white in your diary. Your heart was in his hands. You did not need a prayer when you had his name.

That was the last line you wrote, leaving your diary on your bed as you left your bedroom to take a relaxing bath before going to bed in your favorite attire.

You came out of the bathroom, all clean and fresh, humming some She Wants Revenge song, when you froze. Felix. Felix was sitting on your bed. Felix was sitting on your bed holding your diary. Felix was reading your diary where you very explicitly wrote how much you loved him. Fuck.

 When Felix looked at you, you felt like you could die from embarrassment. You tried to leave, but in the blink of an eye you found yourself your back against a wall, Felix’s body pressed against yours preventing you from running away. Anyway, where would you have gone? This was your room, for fuck’s sake! You shivered as he used his big hand to raise your head so he could look you in the eyes.

“You meant it?”

“What”

“What you wrote in your diary about me. You mean it?”

You had never seen Felix that serious before, his husky voice had lost all humor.

“It… It is… Yes, it is true. I … I really mean it.”

You blurted out the last words, anxious. What if it wasn’t what he wanted to hear? What if he hated you now? What if… Wait, why was he smiling?

“You have no idea how long I’ve longed for this. May I?”

You nodded, not sure what he was asking for. He cupped your cheek, and to your surprise he kissed you. You closed your eyes.

It was better than what you had read in your books, much better. His lips were soft against yours, his kiss tender but quite possessive at the same time. You returned it, quite clumsily due to your inexperience, but still with enthusiasm. He was the one to break it so you could breathe again. You were only human after all. Your body needed it.

“Damn, that was…”

He laughed at your reaction.

“Can you do it again?”

Smirking, he eagerly accepted your request.

Later, when you were too tired to stay awake, Felix accepted to stay under the covers and hold you. The feeling of his strong and much bigger body wrapped around your much smaller frame brought unholy thoughts to your mind, that you quickly shook away, but it still let you the time to show slight embarrassment. You thought for a moment that Felix would take advantage of it, but he didn’t, only kissing the top of your head and bringing you closer to his body.

“Does that mean that we are together now?” “You could say that dolcezza.” “So you’re my boyfriend?” “Absolutely not. I’m your mate. If you want a more human term, just say that I’m your husband.”

You looked at him, shocked, and that little shit that was your mate had the biggest grin you’d ever seen.

“I… I think mate is an appropriate term.” “As you wish.”

Your heart was beating so fast he couldn’t not hear it, and his bright smile was the confirmation. Luckily for you, Felix had decided to go easy on you for tonight. But you feared what his teasing would be like…

You fell asleep with these thoughts in mind, Felix’s arms holding you tight against him. “Buonanotte tesoro mio, ti amo…”

When you woke up the next day, Felix was still here, holding you.

“Hi” “Hi. Slept well?” “Yes” “Good”

Bringing you closer to him, Felix buried his face in your neck. You froze as it felt like he was smelling you, and he left a kiss where he could feel your pulse. Being this close to him felt nice, really nice. He smelled good, too. Something musky, homey.

“Are you sniffing me?” “You did a few moments ago” “Touché.” A pause. “So?” “You smell nice. Like home.” “Ah, that’s a mate thing, you know? I smell good like that to you only.” “And me? What do I smell like?” “The tastiest thing I’ve ever met.” “Felix!” “What?! You should take this as a compliment! You smell delicious!”

He had that cocky look that looked so good on him. You couldn't wait to spend forever with him.

It was near Christmas now. More than one year since you met Felix, a few months since you realized you loved him, and a few weeks since the two of you were fully mated. Well fully… There was something the two of you had not done yet. It was… sex. For fuck’s sake, you were an adult, you could say the word sex! But… that did not erase the fact that you had basically no experience in dating. Felix was your first kiss… and would be your first lover. The thing was that he was not aware of it. How could you tell him! This man was cocky enough, if you told him, it would sign you way to a never-ending teasing! Fuck. Wait, that was the point! This man – or vampire – was going to be the death of you.

Your thoughts were a complete mess. You were sure than even Aro couldn’t understand a single shit if he were to read your mind. Which was why it was a good thing that he hadn’t asked for a while. But maybe it could actually help? Wait no! You couldn’t let him know you were desperately trying to get in the pants of his executioner. All of it was driving you crazy.

You tried to keep up with appearances with Felix, behaving as normal as you could with him, but you couldn’t help but let some touches linger more than necessary, brush against him every time you were close with him, dragging the kisses as long as you could without accidentally killing yourself from the lack of oxygen… All of it you thought Felix didn’t notice. But that was forgetting something: your mate was very much a predator. And as a human, you were very much prey for him, even as his mate.

Your heartbeat running faster when he was close, the way his low voice would send shivers down your spine, or how some kisses and touches could get you clenching your thighs… Felix noticed everything, and your asshole of a mate was reveling in it, your love like the thrill of the hunt. He took great pleasure in it, day after day, trying to drive you crazy until you would be your back against a wall, forced to tell him exactly what you wanted. And he would make sure you beg for it, dragging the thrill of the hunt as long as he could. But lucky for you, he loved you more than it. He would try to not make you beg, not too much at least.

Your Felix had become great at reading you, your expressions, your desires. And being as old as he was, it had not been hard for him to put two and two together: the way you returned his affection, always eager but also quite clumsily, always holding back afraid of going too far or doing wrong… That darker, possessive side off him was extremely satisfied of it, no one had touched you like that before, no one but him, you were forever his.

After a few weeks, your struggles were not funny anymore, he wanted you to feel desired, to not see your inexperience as a bad thing. You were so damn beautiful and desirable; he would show you how much he wanted you.

He would be off duty for the next few days, it was perfect. The next time he would get in your bed, you would not be sleeping for a good while.

For the past few days, it seemed like Felix was toying with you, always managing to get you where and how he wanted. He was slowly taking you out of your comfort zone, it was like he had something in mind as he would hold you close, soft breath in the crook of your neck sending shivers down your spine. He would let you back up if you were too uncomfortable, of course, but the bastard knew what he was doing, always taking you further and further of your comfort zone without crossing your boundaries, teaching you a few things about you in the meantime. Damn, did you always have that size and voice kink or was it of his doing? Fuck, you had no idea but did not care much, it was too good for the reasons why to matter anymore.

All of this led you to that very moment, your Felix towering over you, your back against the wall of your room. Voice low, whispering in your ear, driving you crazy.

“Aren’t you pretty like that, all flustered? Your blood smell so good I might just eat you…”

Of course, this led you to grow even more flustered, your blood rushing and tempting him even more. He took another step, and lowered his head even more, leaving cold kisses on your neck, his cool breath driving you crazy. You move your head to give him a better access, and let out a soft moan as his teeth scrap your neck.

“You like that don’t you? To be all helpless as soon as I touch you. My beautiful darling…”

He lifts you, claiming your lips and you can’t help but wrap your legs around his waist. He bites your lower lip, and you let out a soft gasp, your Felix taking advantage of it, his tongue meeting yours to explore your mouth. After a while the two of you part, soft panting can be heard from you. At this moment, you realize you left your stereo on, and as your notice what song is playing you send to hell every hesitation and kiss him passionately.

“I want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight

Lie still, close your eyes, girl, so lovely, it feels so right

I want to hold you close, soft breast, beating heart

As I whisper in your ear, "I wanna fucking tear you apart"

It drives the both of you crazy, leaving you only wanting more, more than everything you had already done. So when Felix carries you to the bed, you continue to kiss him. When he lays you on the bed, climbing on top of you, you drag him close and deepen the kiss. When he takes off your shirt, you unbutton his, hands roaming everywhere on the other’s body in a frenzy haze, kisses left everywhere.

“I want you” you pause. “No, I need you.” You let out a moan as he rips your bra and leave kisses on your breast, a smile oh so smug brightening his face as he finds your sensitive spot. You writhe underneath him, clenching your thighs together, left wanting more, needing more of him.  

“Felix…” His name leaves your mouth as a soft moan, and he can’t help but chuckle at your neediness, he’s finally got you where he wants you to be, he’s going to drag on this teasing as much as he can.

“That’s my name darling, say it again…”

He’s so smug but you can’t help but do as he say, especially when his pants and yours disappear, and his hand slip in your silky panties. As he brushes against your clit, you can’t help but buckle your hips, trying to get more friction where you need him the most.

“Eager, aren’t we?”  Always that smug expression, he knows he is driving you crazy and he revels in it: you’re his and he is the only one able to get these reactions from you. He leans over you, pressing his body against yours, claiming your lips once again. You whimper as you can feel his hard bulge against you, increasing your arousal to an extent you didn’t know was possible. But you weren’t the only one left craving for more.

“Please Felix…” “I need you to use your words tesorina. Tell me, what you want?” “You. I want you I need you!” “So greedy my darling… Is that what you want?”

You can’t answer him as he rips your panties, throwing away what’s left of them before making his own underwear meet the same fate. He’s bigger than you anticipated, yet the only thing you can focus on is how much you want him inside of you.

Not breaking eye contact with you, he strokes his penis a few times, making sure it’s slick with his precum and your arousal, and get on top of you, teasing your wet folds with his hard length.

“Are you sure you want this?” He looks at you with such seriousness, trying to read your face and be sure this is what you want, that he’s not going further than you’re comfortable with. “Yes Felix please” “You only have one word to say and I’ll stop if it’s too much for you”

You nod, and satisfied with your approval Felix thrust into you. You moan at the feeling; you feel so full of him. You expected it to hurt, being your first time, but it doesn’t, your love prepared you enough.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it my darling? My cock filling you up, bringing you more pleasure than you’ve ever had.”

You can only whine and moan, too lost in the pleasure you’re experiencing for the first time. Felix eats up every of your reactions, satisfied that only him get to make you feel this good.

“You’re so responsive to my touch” Felix praises you, and his words do something to you you weren’t aware of it being possible. Something good. Really good. Felix, attentive to all of your reactions, notice and whispers sweet praises in your ear, driving you wild. He thrusts faster, eliciting more moans from you. It feels so good, you can only focus on him and the pleasure he gives you, moaning his name.

“I love hearing you cry out my name, tesoro. It’s music to my ears.”

He finally finds an especially sensitive spot of yours, hitting it relentlessly, eliciting moan after moan from you. He growls in pleasure, getting you closer and closer. You feel something ready to snap inside of you.

“Please Felix I’m close so close!” “That’s it darling, come for me.” He kisses your shoulder. “Come for me, let me feel how much you love me. I’ll be right behind you, filling you with everything I have.”

The pad of this finger brushes against your clit, and with his dirty words it’s enough to make you snap, riding the first climax of your life. Your Felix follows quickly, his cool cum filling your cunt as he moans your name, “you’re mine all mine my [Y/N] forever mine never letting you go my sweet and beautiful [Y/N]”

You fall back on the bed, trembling with pleasure and exhaustion. Sliding out of you, Felix admires for a moment your mixed release dripping down your inner thighs, before laying down beside you and holding you close, whispering sweet praises in your ear. He kisses your forehead tenderly, and you snuggle closer to him.

“I love you” “I love you too tesorina”

Exhausted, you fall asleep, safe and spent in your mate’s arms, Felix never letting you go for a second, holding you tight against him the whole time. This is what eternity should feel like, and he will make sure it always is that way for you.  

[artdcnaldson]

match point aka changeover part 3

rating: M warnings: language, sexual references, no explicit smut in this word count: 4.7k

disclaimer: this is an UNFINISHED draft of the third installment of the changeover series. just wanted to share so it doesn't die in my google drives but again... it's not complete and is unedited

—————

AUGUST  2019

Tashi Donaldson always managed to look effortless— chic and powerful. Even in the dim, golden light of the hotel lobby, she looked radiant. 

Your heels clicked against the floor, like a warning bell, and she looked up. A smile played at her lips, and she gestured to the seat across from her. 

It was quiet— how do you even start a conversation with one of the most iconic women in the sports industry? Especially a woman whose husband you had fucked (and who had fucked your husband) the last time you formally spoke. 

You’d seen her around plenty, especially when you got a cushy job at a reputable newspaper, when you started going to galas and dinners and the sorts of events Art and Tashi lived and breathed. But speaking? Never.

So it was up to Tashi to break that silence. “Your ring is gorgeous,” She said, holding your hand up towards the light. The diamond there sparkled, blinding. Heat flooded your face immediately. You moved your left hand into your lap like it had been burned. She raised a brow. “What? Is that a touchy subject? If you didn’t like the ring, you could’ve told him— what was it?— four years ago?”

You sighed and shook your head. “It’s not the ring we’re just… taking a break, I think.” The words came out in a wave of hot shame and embarrassment, before you could consider the fact that Tashi was married to Patrick’s competitor. Tashi’s gaze was so intense, felt so scrutinizing that you were like an ant burning under a magnifying glass.

“Really? That doesn’t sound like Patrick.” 

And of course it didn’t. Patrick didn’t do things in half measures. He never did, it was why it had been you that insisted on a break in the first place. It was fucking mortifying— a death rattle in a relationship. He said as much when you proposed it after more than a week of silently avoiding each other  around the house. I think I just need a break, Patrick.

He thought you should work it out, stick together, ride the wave. He didn’t understand that was exactly what you were trying to do. You had to let the hurt cool off, so it didn’t sting just to be near him.

But you didn’t want to think about that. “Can we talk about the article?” You interrupted. “I’m here because I’m writing about Art’s recent string of losses. About the decision for him to compete at what is effectively an insignificant tournament for him.”

“Sure, we can talk about the article,” Tashi said plainly. “Let’s start with the fact that I emailed your editor the second you reached out to me.”

Fuck. Of course she did. You swallowed hard, chewing on your lip as she slid her phone into the middle of the table to show you an email from your boss. Your eyes caught the beaded bracelet on her wrist— Lily. It made an uncomfortable pit form in your stomach. 

“We can talk about how you were told not to write it, for starters. That there is no world in which you would be allowed to cover a challenger that your husband is competing in. Actually, they sent Robert Jacobs. He covered Art’s injury last year. But you already know all of this.”

It was hard to hear her over the sound of your pulse thrumming in your veins, as she read the response from your editor. You twisted your wedding ring nervously, feeling it dig into your fingers— every point and divot. 

“If I write this, it’s going to get published. If not with my paper, somewhere else. It will be… a good fucking article,” you insisted after she’d finished.

She furrowed her brows. “Really? What could possibly be interesting about Art wiping the floor with every person he finds himself across the net from?”

You raised a brow, looking at her intently. She knew exactly why you were itching to write the fucking article, and she knew exactly how ridiculous that was. And she laughed. 

“He is not playing against Patrick,” she said easily, like it was as good as a fact. “You know your husband; you know how he fucks himself over right at the finish line. And if Art does play Patrick, Art is going to win. And you won’t write about that, because it would crush Patrick, and you love him.”

Annoyance ticked in your jaw. You felt like you’d been scolded in class, with your hands in your lap and a sullen expression. How mortifying that eight years later you felt just like you had in that hotel hallway. Small.

“I like your work. I really do,” Tashi said. “Your features are beautiful and poignant, and maybe you can write about Art in a decade when he retires, but you’re not writing about him now.” She stood and gathered her things, officially signaling that your ‘meeting’ was over. She spared one final glance in your direction. “In fact, it would probably be best if you went back home. Art needs to be at his best. You and Patrick are just going to be distracting.”

You stood from the table, eyes set on the hotel bar across the room. You could use a strong drink, or five. 

“I’m not leaving,” you said firmly. “They’re on opposite sides of the draw, and they’ve both been winning, that means they could—”

Tashi sighed, like the conversation had exhausted her. “Can you just go fucking talk to your husband? That’s why you’re here. Not some fucking puff piece about Art and Patrick meeting on the court thirteen years after their match at the Junior US Open. We can save that can of worms for Art’s autobiography.” 

She hesitated a moment before she stepped forward and grabbed your hands in hers. It could’ve been tender. Maybe it was. Your thoughts went back to Atlanta, and the gentle way she’d tidied you up before you went back to Patrick. “You may be surprised by this, but I like you. I respect you and what you’ve built for yourself. That’s why I’m telling you to do what you’re actually here to do, and leave me and my husband out of it.”

She gave your hands one last squeeze before she dropped them, offered a passive goodbye, and headed for the elevator bank.

You pulled out your phone and pulled up your recent messages. It opened, as it always did, to Patrick. He had texted you after he saw you in the stands, watching his game with hands clasped in your lap. 

Can I see you?

That had been over a day ago, but you hadn’t answered it yet. Tashi was right, though. You needed to. He was the entire reason you were there and not back at home on the couch with your overweight lapdog. The article was just a pretense, an excuse to be near him. 

And you really didn’t even need one— he would've taken you back any time, any place. It's why it was so confusing that you wouldn’t just let him. 

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, canine digging into your bottom lip as you typed back a response. After your match tomorrow? My hotel.

His response was near immediate— a red heart emoji and a thumbs up. Your lips twitched into something close to a smile. 

——

The problem was that you had wanted it so badly it felt like an ache. With Patrick, it was always, “yeah, but later, when we’re older,” or, “someday.”

But ‘someday’ kept feeling further away. Getting older was happening, it was a daily experience. So when?

He didn’t react when you first told him. I’m late. The easiest words you could use. Much easier than I might be pregnant. He had just nodded, asked if you wanted to take a test.

You took four. Patrick paced in the bedroom while you stared at the wall and tried not to count the seconds in your head. The timer went off, you finally looked.

Patrick didn’t seem to understand why you were crying when you told him they were negative. He must’ve thought it was the stress of it all, or relief. But he knew you better, he should have known.

“Shit… I mean— thank god,” he said with a laugh. Like it would’ve been catastrophic— no— world-ending if the test would’ve been positive. 

“Try not to act so fucking excited, asshole,” you snapped, shoving him out of the way with two firm hands to his chest. His back hit one of your dressers, rattling it. 

You sat on top of your bed, knees hugged to your chest. Patrick stayed against the dresser, jaw set like he wanted to say something, but he knew it would just make things worse. And you knew he was going to fucking say it, he was going to dig his feet in and refuse to budge. Because you did know him, just like he knew you, and he knew where to press and make things hurt.

“I’m being an asshole?” He scoffed, ran a hand through his hair. “I’m allowed to have fucking feelings about this. And you know we aren’t ready to be parents.”

“Who’s we?” You asked, hurt burning hot in your chest. “Because I have been ready. I bought us a bigger place with extra bedrooms so we could start expanding our family two years ago.” He said nothing, so you just laughed wryly. “You don’t fucking get it, Patrick. I’m the one who has to sit here and watch all of my friends pop out babies, and have first birthday parties, and stupid fucking gender reveals. It sucks to constantly answer everyone asking when we’re going to have kids with ‘someday.’”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking transparent.”

“I’m sorry?” Your brows knit in annoyance. “I’m trying to explain to you how I’m feeling, and you’re just—“

“It’s not about how you’re feeling, this is about Art, because it’s fucking always about Art.” He rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath. 

Hot tears were beading on your lashes, the ugly ache of hurt sat heavy in your chest. Patrick didn’t bring up Art, not unless you were fucking. He got off on things like that— like Art was your third, or fourth, because you relished in dropping Tashi’s name too.

You swallowed around a lump in your throat, the corners of your mouth twisted downward. “That’s what you think?”

Patrick closed the distance, crawling onto the bed, meeting you at your level. “It’s what I know,” he said. “You stalk Art and Tashi online like a fucking creep, and you want exactly what they have.”

You rolled your eyes. “You are a fucking idiot,” you sneered. Because of course Patrick deflected with Art and Tashi when something was actually serious, when you actually wants to address the real problem. But you could dig in and play dirty, just like him. “You know that your mom warned me about this? She told me you’d never grow up, and I should save myself the disappointment and find someone better suited.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, and where would you be if you’d listened to her, huh? Still waiting for Art Donaldson to pick you. It’s fucking pathetic.” He stood, paced around the room, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for a cigarette. 

“Maybe I should’ve listened to her. You haven’t fucking grown up, Patrick. You’re 31 and you’ve never had a job. I’m the one consistently making sacrifices, and saving money, and providing for us so you can fuck off and lose your tennis matches.”

Your chest was heaving as you looked at him, knowing that your words had been meant to sting. His had too. He always knew he could pull the Art card, you could always bring in his parents, his losses. 

“You know what? You should be glad you’re not pregnant. Now you can find Art at another fucking hotel and have him knock you up. That’s what you really want, huh? To play mommy and daddy with your little boyfriend?” He paused, staring at you as your bottom lip wobbled, as fresh tears welled in your eyes. And he fucking doubled down. “If I’m not what you want, why don’t you go fucking beg for him, huh? Go see if he thinks you’re anything more than a tight pussy. Because that’s worked so fucking well for you before.” 

It was the first time that you ever hit him. Your hand stung, you pulled it back against your chest, eyes wide. “Get out. I don’t want to fucking look at you.”

And he did, happily. For the next week, the two of you brushed past each other wordlessly, avoiding each other like the fucking plague. Resentment burned hot in your chest for the first few days, but it settled into a low, aching hurt.

But there was another tournament. There was always another tournament. Patrick tried to apologize before he left, to flagellate himself before you, beg for forgiveness, but you got to him first. I need a break, you said through tears. I can’t be around you right now, Patrick. I just need a few weeks to clear my head.

It felt like a smart idea at the moment— distance so you could stop being hurt about him bringing up Art, distance so you could stop resenting him for not wanting a kid. And it wasn’t like you were innocent, you’d hurt him too, you knew you had. That was the worst part— that you’d both bared claws and teeth and wanted to maim the other the worst way you could think of. 

The first few nights had felt okay— the house to yourself, a warm lapdog curled up beside you. You watched shitty reality TV and found yourself glancing over at the spot on the other side of the couch where Patrick would’ve been sitting. You wanted to hear his stupid commentary, hear him complain about how scripted it was like he didn’t absolutely eat it up.

You texted him, even though you were supposed to be apart from him, supposed to be taking time. Missing him felt like an open wound, aching and messy.

Will you text me when you get there? Just want to know you’re safe.

And he did. Shared his location, texted you when he made it to his hotel, just before he crashed. Patrick choked at the tournament. Badly, embarrassingly. And you knew it was your fault.

Everything in you longed to just call him and beg him to come home, come home, come home. 

He texted first. Staying with my sister until the challenger in New Rochelle. Just want to give you space.

You felt longing like a festering rot. Okay. I love you.

His response was quick. Love you.

That was something, at least.

——

It was early, but you forced yourself to sit in the hotel lobby and write. You’d gotten four thousand words down for your intro— long, but able to be cut down to size. It was always better to shoot over and whittle down than to scramble for more where there was none. 

You yawned, sipped at complimentary black coffee, and persevered. There was something off in the first subsection, more to tweak. Always something you felt you had to fix. 

“Excuse me,” your head snapped up to the sight of a little girl, with dark curly hair and a Disney princess T-shirt. “I can’t find my dad.”

You knew that she was Art’s daughter the second that you saw her— Patrick hadn’t been entirely wrong about you stalking Tashi and Art’s instagram pages. 

“Do you… want my help?” You asked, hesitantly. 

She nodded. “He was talking to the hotel people, so I went to look at the big painting on the wall and now I can’t find him.”

You shut your laptop, tucked it into your bag. It was a fancy enough hotel that you didn’t have to worry about someone knabbing your shitty work laptop. “Okay, let’s look for him.”

The little girl— Lily, you remembered. You had stared at the birth announcement they posted for long enough that it was seared in your brain— held onto your fingers as you walked around the lobby. 

“There’s the big painting,” she said, pointing up at a large canvas that seemed to be violent streaks of color on a pale blue base. Inspired by famous art movements in the boring way that hotel paintings seemed to be. 

“It’s pretty,” you replied absently. You were still scanning the lobby, searching for the bright flash of blonde hair. “Do you like the colors?”

She shrugged. “I like the paintings mommy picks for our house better.” You glanced at it, narrowed your eyes. You’d seen Art and Tashi’s Architectural Digest home tour, you didn’t really blame her for preferring her mother’s taste. Or the taste Tashi had hired someone to have. 

Lily’s hand squeezed yours once as her eyes caught onto her dad’s, almost in suprise, and suddenly she was running across marble floors and jumping into a man’s arms. 

Because that’s what he was now— a man. He outgrew the boyishness, the ease of youth. His brows furrowed with concern as he kissed his daughter’s forehead, once, twice, smiled softly. He asked something you couldn’t make out from the distance, then looked up, meeting your gaze.

Recognition lit up his expression, and he lifted a hand in a greeting. You mimicked it, unsure of what else to do. He laughed, shook his head, and ushered Lily back to the elevator bank. 

You stood there a few more seconds, waiting for… something that didn’t come. When you realized that you looked like an idiot standing there in the middle of the lobby, you returned to your laptop.

Long drink of coffee, a couple of edits to your document. You found a rhythm of adjusting what you’d written so far— all of the context that you needed to create before you could get to that final match. 

The previous night you had been watching interviews they’d given back at the Junior US Open. You were three quarters of the way through a bottle of wine, crying for reasons you couldn’t put your finger on. You saw Patrick, so fucking young, doing so well at something he loved, and you burst into tears that just wouldn’t stop. 

The footage from the doubles final didn’t help— the sheer, unadulterated joy when Patrick and Art won, holding each other and kissing foreheads and laughing and so, so happy. 

You couldn’t help but feel like it had been you that spoiled it all. That you’d unintentionally destroyed your husband’s career, his friendship, his happiness. 

Thinking about it, even twelve hours and a mild hangover later, made your lips twitch downward, made an ache tug in your chest.

“Tashi told me that she saw you.” Art. You looked up, eyes wide in surprise. “She also told me I should stay far away from you, that I have a shitty track record when it comes to you and hotels.”

Patrick’s words from weeks ago flashed in your mind, and you had to force a casual smile to hide the ache it caused. 

“Well, if you’re worried, I didn’t kidnap your daughter so I’d get to see you,” you said, offering a weak laugh. 

“I know, she told me.” He hesitated for only a moment, then sat across from you. Just like in Atlanta. The direct parallel made your head spin. “So… are you here for some grand plan? To throw me off my game?

He was smiling, friendly, open. You registered a little too late that it was a joke, and you sheepishly laughed. “Well, now that you mention it…”

He shook his head, glanced around the lobby. “Patrick has a match this morning, right?” He asked.

It wasn’t lost on you that Tashi might have told Art about the seperation— that she probably did tell him. You wondered if they’d been waiting for that moment— the implosion of your marriage. But the longer you thought, you realized they likely didn’t care enough to feel any particular way. 

You nodded. “Yeah. I think it started an hour ago. Um… against Grey, I think?”

“You’re not there,” Art noted. 

You twisted your wedding ring, around and around. “I don't want to distract him,” was all you said. “I know how important this is to him.”

You thought about Art and Patrick on the court, starry-eyed, fresh faced. Maybe he could feel that again, you could let him have that again. Art, and Tashi, and Patrick. The way things had been before you found yourself tangled in, before you made a mess of things. 

You felt annoying, persistent tears hot and stinging by in your lashline. It was mortifying, trying to blink them away, pinned in Art’s presence. 

“Do you want to take a walk?” He offered. “You look like you could use a break.”

You could have scoffed at the irony of it all. A break was why you were feeling so shitty. A break that was, partly, brought up because his name had been dropped in an argument.

Instead you wiped at your eyes, sniffled pathetically, and nodded. 

You followed him out onto the street, keeping stride beside him. It was a comfortable silence, and the weather was nice, for the time being. Art stole glances at you, a smile playing at his lips. 

“I caught your first match,” you said as you walked. 

“Yeah, I saw you,” His lips twitched slightly, an expression you didn’t recognize. It had been so long since you’d see him , since you talked to him, that most of the things you remembered, you couldn’t trust were still true, or even real.

You nodded, paused at a crosswalk while cars passed, and met his gaze. “I’ve never claimed to be an expert on tennis, but I thought you looked great. Effortless, I guess. It was nice to see, after your injury.”

He nodded, laughed. “I wish it were that easy. Effortless sounds nice, but it's all effort. Days and months and years of constantly just… trying.” The crosswalk sign switched, and the two of you walked across the street. 

“You make it look easy,” you replied. “All of the trying, I guess. I don’t know how to do it.”

It wasn’t about tennis anymore, you both knew it. You were thinking of their picture perfect life— the home tours, the instagram posts, the magazine articles. It was so tidy, so clean and neat and polished. You and Patrick were a total fucking shitshow compared to that. 

“Making it look easy is my job,” he said. “What good is it, rolling over and showing your belly to your opponent?”

Is that what you were doing? Rolling over, exposing your vulnerabilities? It certainly felt like it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. Spilling out secret fears that you’d never shared to anyone. 

“Your daughter looks just like Tashi,” you said, trying your best to be friendly, to make small talk. To change the subject. “It’s like your genetics didn’t even try.”

He laughed, nodding almost proudly. “I think she’s looking more like me as she gets older. Or maybe it’s just that she acts like me sometimes, it makes it all blur together. Just last week, she—“

He seemed happy, talking about her. Lighter. Going on and on about Lily’s penchant for back talking him, and Tashi, and grandparents, and staff. It might’ve been a cute story a month ago, before everything. But instead it just made you sad, made your body ache with longing. 

“Have you and Patrick talked about it?” He asked, snapping you from your thoughts. “Kids, I mean.”

You swallowed, tried to look casual, unaffected. “We’ve talked. Just, uh… you know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I don’t.. I don’t know right now. It’s confusing.”

He nodded, stayed quiet for a bit. “I can’t imagine Patrick as a dad,” he finally said. He stopped in front of an empty storefront and leaned against the brick wall there. There was something earnest in his expression— a longing, a softness. A siren call beckoning you closer. 

 “I can.” Your voice wavered slightly, fingers twitched against your thigh. “I think he’d be really happy, that he’d be a really good dad. Or maybe I just want him to be happy and amazing at it so badly that I’m creating an entire version of him in my head that doesn’t exist. I dunno.”

He sighed and let your words linger in the air between the two of you. “I never understood what you saw in him,” he said. “You, Tashi… it doesn’t make sense to me.”

“He’s always loved you both so much,” was all you could say back. You couldn’t answer why it was Patrick without explaining why it wasn’t Art, and why it was both your choice and completely out of your hands. 

Art swallowed and nodded. A strange twinge of a smile played at his lips for just a moment before it disappeared once more. “Maybe so.” He paused, met your gaze. “And you?”

You furrowed your brows, eyes narrowing slightly as you considered his words. It felt like an accusation. “Do I love my husband? Of course.”

Art shook his head, pulled you closer by your wrist. “Do you still love me?”

You laughed, rolled your eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

———

I didn’t finish this scene sorry </3 felt ooc of Art tbh teehee

ok and this is later when reader and Patrick meet up for the first time since they’ve like “Separated”. Takes place in the ritz carlton lobby

———

Patrick sat on one of the couches, picking at his cuticles and the calluses on his hands. He stood up when he saw you, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. “Hey.”

You offered a tiny smile, leaned over to kiss his cheek. His facial hair had grown longer in a month apart— you’d forgotten how reddish it could get, how handsome he looked when he grew it out.

“Did you want a drink?” He asked, gesturing over to the bar. “I can go grab us something if—“ You shook your head, gestured for him to sit beside you. 

Patrick had never had a good sense of personal space— his knees were pressed against yours, his arm slung over the back of the couch. So close that you could smell the cheap scent of hotel soap and shampoo. 

“Where are you staying?” You asked, as casually as you could muster.

He shrugged, bringing an easy smile to his lips, like everything was normal. “Oh, it’s a shitty motel on the outskirts of town,” he said with a shrug. He could read the guilt on your face like you’d said the words it’s my fault aloud. It was an act of selflessness that he added quick; “It’s getting the job done.”

You frowned. It felt so weird, imagining the past month of him slumming it in cheap motels between tournaments. He should’ve been with you, sharing a nice hotel like this. That was the way things were supposed to be, wasn’t it?

“And you’ve been…” you trailed off, meeting his gaze. “You’ve been doing alright?” You sighed, shaking your head. Stupid question.

He glanced down, picked at a worn spot on his jeans. “I’ve really fucking missed you. I’ve felt crazy without you, is that what you want to hear?”

You missed him like a part of your soul had been cleaved out and the nerves were left stinging and exposed. “I don’t want to hear anything—“ you sighed. Nothing seemed to be coming out right. Talking to Patrick was so easy before. “Not like— I just mean I don’t want to hear that you’ve been hurting, Pat. I wish I’d never made you leave.”

His hand moved over yours, swallowing it, warm and rough and familiar. You sighed as he tangled his fingers with yours. It made you want to cry, just a little bit. Like your entire body just wanted to weep with relief that he was there, and so close, and so warm. 

———

And that’s all I have idk it also felt weird for them to get back so quick like maybe they are just fucked and should stay apart idk idk idk!

Anyways here it is. The draft <3 thanks for reading lmk your thoughts and stuff

[se-sissy-lina04]

Sissy’s masterlist

Life in the CT-Cassa

1. The rooms of Fives, Jesse, Hardcase & Tup is a danger zone.

They have a meme wall shrine, a coffee table made of empty noodle boxes, and a string of lights that Hardcase put up by just shooting it into the ceiling.

Tup is the only one with any sense of taste. His room? Peaceful Zen. The rest? Chaos, pizza, and blaster parts.

2. The 212th has a balcony garden.

Cody, Boil, and Waxer built raised beds together.

Boil talks to the plants. Waxer has given them names.

Obi-Wan sometimes stops by, waters them with the Force, and pretends he has nothing to do with it.

3. The Coruscant Guard lives in a very strict, very fashionable penthouse.

They are basically the complex police.

Fox has a caff machine that can only be activated with a code.

Stone wears slippers with real fur. Thorn has golden napkin rings.

They have real art on the walls. When you visit them for dinner, you get a printed menu. (And they have the best wine.)

4. Echo and Kix have a sofa with charging function, massage, and cup holders.

Kix needs it for relaxing. Echo ordered it "by mistake" because he apperently was tired and didn't to read while ordering online. (Again)

They sit on it like old people, while Fives zooms by and asks, "Hey, have you seen my glowing socks?"

5. Clone Corridors = Mini-Cultural Centers.

The 501st floor has graffiti (Ahsoka approved).

The 212th floor has wall newspapers with "Plant of the Week."

The Guard has a carpet ban (Fox: "Too dangerous. Danger of slipping“)

He won‘t admit that it‘s because of that one time the 501st had a contest of who can slip the furthest with the rug and almost killed the caff machine.

Wolffe just installed a gym on the ground floor. No one approved it. No one removed it.

The ground floor is reserved for meetings, parties und BBQ.

6. Holidays are epic.

Life Day? Huge food orgy with international dishes.

Birthday of a general? Theme party.

Anniversary of the Civil Rights Award? "Freedom Fest" with speeches, cake, and fireworks in a cloak made from the Republic's flag.

7. They have an internal messaging system.

It's called: "CloneComm"

Jesse spams memes.

Cody posts "noise logs."

Fox deletes threads with "inappropriate content" three times a week. (It‘s mostly Fives and Jesse)

Tup posts sad poems. Fives comments with heart emojis.

8. New neighbors are like new recruits.

You're moving in? Within an hour:

Boil brings a plant.

Fives brings beer.

Cody brings rules.

Fox brings forms.

Rex doesn't say anything, but helps you set up the bed.

9. There is an internal competition: "Clone of the Month."

You get a photo on the wall and a week's worth of free coffee in the cafeteria downstairs.

Thorn has won three times. Fives? Never. Because he tries to hack the voting machine every time.

(Tup was once "Clone of the Month" – and gave a thank-you speech that made everyone cry.)

10. No one lives alone.

No matter how loud it is, no matter how full the laundry room is, or how strange your neighbor smells –

there's always someone who asks how you're doing.

Who brings you dinner. Or leaves the door open.

Because after everything they've been through, they know:

Home is where your squad is.

[foldingfittedsheets]

The never ending struggle of getting a new set up to be just as good as the one you’re currently using…

I finally got Photoshop working! Went to start commissions. Need to set my tablet shortcut buttons. Do that. Go to start commissions. Realize I don’t have my smooth string tool. I install Lazy Nezumi for my toolset. Got some calibration errors. Worked through them. Went to start commissions. Realized I didn’t have all my brushes. Comb my email for brushes. Find some of the ones I wanted. Actually start commission. Realize my action to fill isn’t programmed. Look up how to reprogram an action. Do it. Go back to commission.

I am now about ten hours deep into just Making Shit Work. I am tired and have barely any art to show for it.

[bettelaboure]

⊹When Shadow Breaks⊹ | Christopher Chahn Bahng

⊹Pairing: Christopher Chagn Bahng x The Reader

⊹Summary: two haunted souls—Christopher, a runaway‑turned‑musician, and Y/N, a fire‑survivor photographer—collide in an abandoned warehouse installation where their art and shared secrets ignite a slow‑burn redemption

⊹Warnings: childhood trauma, fire and injury, survivor’s guilt, emotional distress, and brief strong language

⊹Author's note: this is in 3rd person, so i'm sorry. and that's pure imagination on characters. lots of love

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

The Remington Warehouse loomed like a sleeping giant on the edge of the city's industrial district. Its exterior walls, once painted a vibrant red, were now flaking in great chunks, revealing layers of past lives: pale blue primer, yellow undercoats, streaks of graffiti both crude and beautiful. A single bulb above the entrance sputtered on and off, illuminating the warped metal doors and casting long, jittery shadows across the cracked concrete.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of rust, sawdust, and something faintly sweet—like old paper left too long in the rain. Rows of folding chairs draped in white sheets formed an audience of ghosts, facing the makeshift stage where Christopher stood alone. His guitar—a battered acoustic with a missing headstock inlay—hung from a strap across his broad shoulder. He tuned each string with practiced care, the metallic twang echoing in the cavernous space.

He wore a charcoal-gray T‑shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing tattooed script along his biceps: lines of poetry in Korean and English, each a fragment of his inner narrative. His dark hair, streaked with a bright blue tip, hung into his eyes as he bent over the tuning pegs. Storm-gray eyes flicked to the photographs suspended by nearly invisible wires: Y/N’s work, a haunting montage of abandoned factories, broken windows, and rusted machinery.

He inhaled, summoning the calm he needed. But beneath that calm was a tempest: the memory of nights spent on the street, the phantom ache for a friend lost to flames, the guilt that echoed in every note he wrote. This installation—his collective’s first public collaboration—was meant to be his redemption. But the moment he’d met Y/N among those photographs, something in him shifted: her images didn’t just reflect decay; they beckoned to soul-navels buried beneath years of neglect.

A soft click clicked from the back row. Y/N—her leather jacket zipped high, the collar turned up—moved among the chairs. Each photograph she captured on her camera pulsed in the dim light, framing his music before the first note even sounded. The hum of her shutter was a metronome in his chest.

He stood, fingers hovering over the strings. The warehouse fell eerily silent, as though the building itself were holding its breath. He strummed once, twice—slow notes that hung in the air like question marks.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said, voice deeper and calmer than he felt. He let those two words roll through the rafters. Then he began:

“Brick and steel on hollow ground, Whispers trace each jagged pound, In these halls where ghosts have found Their voices stilled, their secrets drowned…”

His first verse was tentative—fragile as a newborn breath. Then, as the melody unfurled, he found purpose. Each chord was his confession, each lyric a tremor in the earth. Y/N lifted her camera again, capturing his backlit silhouette against the broken windows, light filtering like shattered halos.

When the final chord died, the warehouse thrummed with silence for a heartbeat. Then applause—soft at first, then building in a crescendo that rattled the metal beams. He lowered his head in gratitude, looking up to find Y/N watching him. Her eyes bore into his: half curiosity, half inquiry, wholly intimate.

Two nights later, Christopher wandered the empty alley behind Dunbar Street, hood pulled low against a fine drizzle that blurred the neon glow of storefront signs. The rain tapped against metal dumpsters and danced across puddles, turning the alley into a corridor of liquid color. He was restless, unsettled—haunted by the knowledge that Y/N had broadcast his unreleased lyrics across town, scrawling his pain on cracked brick.

He stopped beneath the flickering sign of the Moonlight Café: a curved crescent moon painted in chipped neon. There, crouched at the base of a rusted lamppost, was Y/N—camera in hand, snapping her own reflection in the puddle. The black leather jacket made her look fierce; the braid down her back gave her a softness he couldn’t place.

“You stole my lyrics,” he said, stepping into the yellow circle of light.

She half-turned, shoulders tense. “I didn’t steal them—I shared them.”

“By spray‑painting them on an alley wall?” He pulled the hood from his head, letting rain slick his dark hair. “The shorthand you posted: ‘I carry the weight of fires I cannot quell’—that was private.”

Her camera clicked shut with a practiced motion. “Art feeds on truth. I thought you wanted to share it.”

He paced a few steps, boots splashing in water. “Art built on my pain isn’t art—it’s exploitation.”

She rose slowly, leveling her gaze with his. “Exploitation?” Her voice was quiet but fierce. “My entire project is about survivors. About reclamation. You’re a survivor, right? Or did you forget?”

He stiffened. “I didn’t forget.” His chest tightened. “I just… I didn’t ask to have my scars broadcast.”

Y/N wiped rain from her lens, hands steady. “My installation is about ghost spaces—places abandoned, remembered only by the people they hurt. If you want to redefine those spaces with me, you have to let go of some of that shame.”

He looked at her, saw something unspoken in her posture: the way she lingered by that lamppost, as though even worn metal offered sanctuary. “And if it scars me more?”

She lifted a single eyebrow. “Then maybe you need a new kind of scar—one that proves you survived it.” She clicked her camera one last time and turned to go.

Christopher stood between neon and drizzle, heart torn between fury and fascination. He watched her disappear around the corner, the echo of her footsteps drowned by rain.

The collective’s studio was a loft above a shuttered warehouse: high ceilings, exposed brick, and a scattering of instruments. It smelled of vinyl cables and hot solder. Lamps cast pools of amber light, illuminating mixing boards and stacks of half‑finished tapes. Christopher found Y/N seated on a battered sofa, her camera at her feet. She looked up, a silent invitation.

He placed his guitar on a stand and took the stool beside her. “I want to show you something,” he said, voice lower than the buzz of the city outside.

She nodded, folding her hands. “I’m listening.”

He opened a weathered notebook—the one he’d kept since he was thirteen. Pages were filled with scrawled lyrics, doodles of wings, fragments of memory. He flipped to a page stained with coffee and ash: “Night came swift with hungry flame…” He pointed to the margin, where a date was written in spidery script: June 12, 2017.

“That was the night,” he whispered. “Jaemin and I—we thought we found an empty factory to sleep in. But the workmen’s torch had ignited dry grease. I woke to flames. I grabbed his hand and tried to pull him out, but…” His jaw clenched. He closed the notebook.

Y/N leaned forward, elbows on knees. “But what?”

“He slipped.” His voice cracked. “I heard him scream my name. I tried to go back for him, but I was terrified. I ran.” He looked at her, eyes red-rimmed. “I ran and left him.”

Silence swelled between them, broken only by the hum of a refrigerator-sized amplifier. Y/N reached out and placed a hand over his. “You were a child,” she said softly. “You did what you could.”

Christopher’s shoulders shook. “I couldn’t live with what I’d done. Music was all I had to repay him.” He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. “But this guilt… it won’t let me write anything else.”

Y/N lifted his hand and brought it to her lips. “Your music saved you. And now it can save others.”

He swallowed. “How can I believe that?”

She pressed her palm to his chest. “Feel it.” Her eyes glistened. “Let me document it, and let the world hear your truth.”

He hesitated, then closed his eyes, took a breath—and allowed her to guide him. Tonight, at least, he didn’t run.

The catalog lay on a steel table in the heart of the warehouse gallery: thick matte pages bound in charcoal linen. The frontispiece was Y/N’s photograph of a shattered window, overlaid with translucent lyrics:

“I carry the weight of fires I cannot quell— Ashen echoes trapped inside my shell.”

Y/N stood beside Christopher, both of them examining the layout under the harsh glow of overhead fluorescents. He traced the letters with a fingertip, as though daring them to burn.

“I’m afraid of what this will do,” he said quietly. “People will know.”

She closed the catalog gently. “They deserve to know. Your art and my images—they’re stronger together. Because this isn’t just about an installation. It’s about healing.”

He paced the table’s length. “Some will call it exploitative. Others will clap me on the back and say, ‘Bravo.’”

Y/N stepped forward and placed a hand on the open page. “We need controversy to make change. Silence never saved anyone.”

He looked at the photograph beneath the lyrics: the ghostly silhouette of a young boy, blurred by motion, framed by charred beams. It was the same factory from his flashback.

“Promise me,” he said, voice taut. “If it hurts too much, you’ll pull it.”

She met his gaze, unwavering. “I promise.”

He exhaled, shouldering the weight of that promise. The catalog felt heavier in his hands, but for the first time, he didn’t feel alone in carrying it.

The crowd that gathered for opening night was a mix of art patrons, underground music fans, and curious onlookers. The warehouse’s great doors were propped open, floodlights aimed at Y/N’s largest print: a panoramic shot of Remington’s main hall, taken from the balcony. Beside it, a plaque displayed Christopher’s lyrics, etched in bold white type on black.

As guests murmured in admiration, Christopher tuned his guitar on the small stage in the corner. He wore a sleek black vest over a dark shirt; tattoos peeked from under his sleeves. Y/N, in a flowing dark-red dress, lingered at the back—camera holstered, eyes shining.

He stepped up to the mic and nodded to Y/N. She returned a smile and wink, as though she, too, was a part of the performance.

He began:

“Walls bleed stories of the ones who came before, Lost in embers, longing for a door… I found my beat in hollowed veins, And rose again from secret flames…”

His voice was richer, steadier than it had ever been. The audience fell silent, hanging on every word. Y/N watched from the wings, heart pounding. She felt each lyric resonate in her chest—her story entwined with his.

As he reached the line “I failed you once, but let me try again,” he paused and looked directly at her. The hush was almost sacred. Then he bent, plucking a single note, and beckoned her forward. She stepped onto the stage, their eyes locking.

He offered her the guitar’s neck; she placed a hand on it, guiding his fingers into a gentle chord. The gallery’s lights softened as the instrument chimed—a duet of music and photography made manifest.

When the final note faded, the room erupted. Applause thundered through the beams, cameras flashed, patrons wept. Christopher and Y/N stood side by side, breathless. He bowed his head, she pressed her hand to his back, and together they faced the crowd.

Months later, the Remington installation traveled to galleries across the country—Atlanta, Berlin, Tokyo—each time leaving audiences in tears and awe. Christopher’s melodies, once choked by guilt, now soared with hope. Y/N’s photographs, once silent witnesses, now spoke loudly of resilience.

Back in their renovated hometown warehouse—now a thriving arts center—they often returned after hours. Beneath those broken skylights, they’d sit on the stage’s edge, fingers intertwined.

Christopher hummed a new tune, soft and unhurried. Y/N traced her camera strap with a smile.

“Shadows still linger,” he said, eyes on the empty seats.

She leaned into him. “But they’re part of the light now.”

He kissed her temple. “Together, we outshine them.”

And in the quiet aftermath, two survivors found home in each other—where shadows broke, and new stories began.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath

[separatist-apologist]

Do you have any recs for Feysand-like characters romance but healthier? I love them but I love the wholesome parts of them so so much more and it would be nice to enjoy them in a sweeter setting. I will take books/shows, even movie works but not my favourite option.

It's fine if you don't have any. Thanks anyways.

I consulted my feysand experts (@thesistersarcheron, @rosanna-writer, @octobers-veryown, @kataravimes-of-the-shire, @velidewrites, and @reverie-tales - this is what everyone came up with) (under cut due to length):

One Dark Window by Rachel Gillig (duology, complete):

Elspeth needs a monster. The monster might be her.

Elspeth Spindle needs more than luck to stay safe in the eerie, mist-locked kingdom of Blunder—she needs a monster. She calls him the Nightmare, an ancient, mercurial spirit trapped in her head. He protects her. He keeps her secrets.

But nothing comes for free, especially magic.

When Elspeth meets a mysterious highwayman on the forest road, her life takes a drastic turn. Thrust into a world of shadow and deception, she joins a dangerous quest to cure Blunder from the dark magic infecting it. And the highwayman? He just so happens to be the King’s nephew, Captain of the most dangerous men in Blunder…and guilty of high treason.

Together they must gather twelve Providence Cards—the keys to the cure. But as the stakes heighten and their undeniable attraction intensifies, Elspeth is forced to face her darkest secret yet: the Nightmare is slowly taking over her mind. And she might not be able to stop him.

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by Victoria E. Schwab:

France, 1714: in a moment of desperation, a young woman makes a Faustian bargain to live forever and is cursed to be forgotten by everyone she meets.

Thus begins the extraordinary life of Addie LaRue, and a dazzling adventure that will play out across centuries and continents, across history and art, as a young woman learns how far she will go to leave her mark on the world.

But everything changes when, after nearly 300 years, Addie stumbles across a young man in a hidden bookstore and he remembers her name.

Unsteady by Peyton Corinne:

Rhys Koteskiy is back — at least, he's supposed to be.

During last year’s Frozen Four, the Waterfell University hockey captain, and NHL legacy, took a brutal hit that left him with a concussion and a new discomfort on the ice. Plagued by nightmares and panic attacks every time he attempt to skate, Rhys wonders if he’ll ever play again — if he’ll ever want to.

Sadie Brown is staying focused this semester — no matter what.

Currently drowning in debt, custody hearings for her younger brothers and skating practices, she's just trying to make it to the next day. A spitfire figure skater known for her bad attitude and frequent disappearing acts, she has a reputation on campus. And it’s not a pretty one.

When she accidentally witnesses one of the golden boy hockey captain’s panic attacks and attempts to help him, a strange sort of understanding strikes up between them.

No questions asked. Just comfort.

But Rhys finds himself drawn to Sadie. Where he feels empty, a shell of the man and player he was before, Sadie is so full of everything it bursts from her; every emotion she feels seems like it’s blasted at max. Rhys is desperate to feel anything, Sadie wants to stop feeling so much.

But healing doesn’t mix with secrets, and they’re both skating a thin line, unsteady .

Red String Theory by Lauren Kung Jessen:

 When it comes to love and art, Rooney Gao believes in signs. Most of all, she believes in the Chinese legend that everyone is tied to their one true love by the red string of fate. And that belief has inspired her career as an artist, as well as the large art installations she makes with ( obviously ) red string. That is until artist’s block strikes and Rooney begins to question everything. But then fate leads her to the perfect guy . . . Jack Liu is perfect. He’s absurdly smart, successful, handsome, and after one enchanting New York night—under icy February skies and fueled by fried dumplings—all signs point to destiny. Only Jack doesn’t believe. And after their magical date, it looks like they might be lost to each other forever . . . until they’re given one more chance to reconnect. But can Rooney convince a reluctant skeptic to take a leap of fate?

Neon Gods by Katee Robert:

He was supposed to be a myth. But from the moment I crossed the River Styx and fell under his dark spell... he was, quite simply, mine.

Society darling Persephone Dimitriou plans to flee the ultra-modern city of Olympus and start over far from the backstabbing politics of the Thirteen Houses. But all that’s ripped away when her mother ambushes her with an engagement to Zeus, the dangerous power behind their glittering city’s dark facade.

With no options left, Persephone flees to the forbidden undercity and makes a devil’s bargain with a man she once believed a myth... a man who awakens her to a world she never knew existed.

Hades has spent his life in the shadows, and he has no intention of stepping into the light. But when he finds that Persephone can offer a little slice of the revenge he’s spent years craving, it’s all the excuse he needs to help her—for a price. Yet every breathless night spent tangled together has given Hades a taste for Persephone, and he’ll go to war with Olympus itself to keep her close…

A modern retelling of Hades and Persephone that’s as sinful as it is sweet.

The Magician's Guild (Black Magician's Trilogy) by Trudi Canavan:

"We should expect this young woman to be more powerful than our average novice, possibly even more powerful than the average magician."

This year, like every other, the magicians of Imardin gather to purge the city of undesirables. Cloaked in the protection of their sorcery, they move with no fear of the vagrants and miscreants who despise them and their work-—until one enraged girl, barely more than a child, hurls a stone at the hated invaders...and effortlessly penetrates their magical shield.

What the Magicians' Guild has long dreaded has finally come to pass. There is someone outside their ranks who possesses a raw power beyond imagining, an untrained mage who must be found and schooled before she destroys herself and her city with a force she cannot yet control.

Hoarded by the Dragon by Lillian Lark:

A thief doing a final job and the dragon caught in a precarious situation that changes both of their lives.

He’s powerful and wealthy and he hates me.

But I have something he wants.

It wasn’t a part of the plan.

I’m the thief stupid enough to break into a dragon’s hoard… and walk away pregnant with his baby.

An Enchantment of Ravens by Margaret Rogerson:

With a flick of her paintbrush, Isobel creates stunning portraits for a dangerous set of clients: the fair folk. These immortal creatures cannot bake bread or put a pen to paper without crumbling to dust. They crave human Craft with a terrible thirst, and they trade valuable enchantments for Isobel’s paintings. But when she receives her first royal patron—Rook, the autumn prince—Isobel makes a deadly mistake. She paints mortal sorrow in his eyes, a weakness that could cost him his throne, and even his life.

Furious, Rook spirits Isobel away to his kingdom to stand trial for her crime. But something is seriously amiss in his world, and they are attacked from every side. With Isobel and Rook depending upon each other for survival, their alliance blossoms into trust, perhaps even love . . . a forbidden emotion that would violate the fair folks’ ruthless laws, rendering both their lives forfeit. What force could Isobel's paintings conjure that is powerful enough to defy the ancient malice of the fairy courts?

Isobel and Rook journey along a knife-edge in a lush world where beauty masks corruption and the cost of survival might be more frightening than death itself.

Desire In His Blood by Zoey Draven:

Gemma Hara is drowning under the weight of her father’s debts. Working herself to the bone, she knows that if she doesn’t pay them off in time, the sadistic creditors will take everything: their home, their respected name, and, worst of all, her two beautiful sisters.

To save her family, Gemma agrees to do something reckless: marry a wealthy and mysterious stranger, who offers her a wicked bargain she can’t afford to refuse.

However, his bargain comes with one terrifying catch. Because her husband-to-be is a Kylorr.

One of the most fearsome alien races in the Four Quadrants, the Kylorr are beastly monsters, all muscle and menace, with powerful wings, depraved cravings, and berserker-like rages. The worst part?

They survive on blood.

Cold and cruel, Azur of House Kaalium, the High Lord of Laras, demands Gemma as his blood bride. To feed from her. To use her body in whatever way he wishes. For paying off her family’s debts, he expects her complete submission.

What neither of them predicts is how his bite doesn’t bring pain—it fills Gemma with more exquisite pleasure than she’s ever known. And as she finds her footing on a strange new planet, the one thing Gemma thought she’d never surrender might be at risk after all.

Her heart.

Too bad her new husband can’t seem to decide if he wants to break it…or keep it forever.

Master of Crows by Grace Draven:

This is the question that sets bondwoman, Martise of Asher, on a dangerous path. In exchange for her freedom, she bargains with her masters, the mage-priests of Conclave, to spy on the renegade sorcerer, Silhara of Neith. The priests want Martise to expose the sorcerer's treachery and turn him over to Conclave justice. A risky endeavor, but one she accepts without hesitation--until she falls in love with her intended target.

Silhara of Neith, Master of Crows, is a desperate man. The god called Corruption invades his mind, seducing him with promises of limitless power if he will help it gain dominion over the world. Silhara struggles against Corruption's influence and searches for ways to destroy the god. When Conclave sends Martise as an apprentice to help him, he knows she's a spy. Now he fights a war on two fronts -against the god who would possess him and the apprentice who would betray him.

Mage and spy search together for a ritual that will annihilate Corruption, but in doing so, they discover secrets about each other that may damn them both. Silhara must decide if his fate, and the fate of nations, is worth the soul of the woman he has come to love, and Martise must choose continued enslavement or freedom at the cost of a man's life. And love.

[quizicalgin]

Since I was recently tagged on making CC in milkshape, I figured I'd copy and paste what I know from my other blog, rather than just forwarding the page here for ease of viewing. It’s the FAQ page for creating CC under the read more.

What do you use to make mods?

S3PE is used to export snippets of the code to edit to make tuning mods. If you wanna make some yourself, HERE is the tutorial to learn how.

What do you use to make objects/clothing/hair?

This one has a few answers depending on what you mean specifically.

TSRW mainly for cloning and editing objects. It also lets me export the files in simpack and package formats.

If you want the version of TSRW BEFORE the sims 4 versions, you can get that HERE. This is important to note because some other programs used for CC creation aren’t fully compatible with the newer version of the TSRW’s WSO files.

If it’s an object that needs a fourth channel added, but it isn’t supported, Texture tweaker by Ignes Jones is what gives the object that channel to work with.

For meshing I use milkshape, and I’m currently working on learning how to use blender instead, since it’s freeware and has a lot more that can be done with it. However, it seems like the plugins from TSRW no longer work with blender, but there are plugins to have blender import geoms HERE that are best used with blender version 2.8-2.9.

There are some additional plugins for Milkshape that makes working in it much easier. There is an align normals plugin set by Demon 432 HERE, and the Unimesh plugins by Wes Howe found HERE. Lastly, to make UV editing easier in Milkshape there’s the CatofEvilGenius UV plugin HERE. They also have a UV flipper too.

For editing textures I personally use Photoshop and here’s how to add DDS usage to it with a link already there in it to download the necessary files. If you use Gimp instead, you can get the DDS files for it HERE. Installation should be similar to PS’s, just look for the file formats.

HERE is a link to the faces and scalps for when I need to model hair or jewelry, since doing it right on the head is much easier. Teens and elders aren’t in here because they aren’t that much different from the adult head.

Is that everything you use?

No there’s also:

Delphy’s Dashboard – Used to make sure my package files aren’t corrupt and won’t make sims implode. It’s also good for checking if anything you already have may be corrupted (a lot of it out there sadly is through no fault of the creator. It just happens during creation sometimes)

S3OC – Another program that lets you clone files, save unlike TSRW it can clone interaction objects, like toothbrushes, game controllers, bowls, plates, and other things that only appear for certain situations. The downside is everything mostly appears in strings with few images, but most of the names make sense for the items. Just sort by name and get to scrollin.

Compressorizer – This compresses simpack and package files in order to help keep the game running smooth. Due to some of its functions, remember to back up your CC and games before using the program.

MeshToolKit – This one is indispensable for creating custom content if you’re adjusting meshes just a bit, or using it to give completely new weight assignments (what makes it move and work like a sim body part) and morphs (the thin to thick range, pregnancies included). Thornowl also made an updated version that can be downloaded HERE.

Normal/Bump map plugins – They’re necessary for any CC you make, as most art programs don’t natively have the ability to make them. Now there are a couple different sets you can download and use depending on your art program of choice.

You can get the ones for GIMP HERE, with the link to the downloads on that page.

The ones for Photoshop can be gotten HERE, and this is a mediafire link because I personally had difficulty using NVIDIA’s newer exporter

And I THINK that’s everything, if I think of or get asked anything else I’ll edit this as needed.

[ravenclawwitchc]

Photo

translation from weibo@烟光薄

Shinichi knew Ran had a habit of taking photos. Not just any photos, though—she loved snapping pictures of the two of them together. Most of the time, they weren’t even full-on portraits. Maybe their sneakers, side by side, or her fingers curling around his arm. Occasionally, she'd record a quick video. The sound would come out all scratchy on the tiny screen, and yet it felt cozy—like something you'd watch all afternoon with a hot cocoa in hand. Ran always took a bunch in one go, worried the first few wouldn’t turn out right, pressing the shutter two or three times for the same angle. And she never deleted any of them. If memory cards could explode, hers would’ve gone up in flames ages ago.

He’d long accepted his role in this hobby of hers. Back when they were kids, it meant slipping her a spare battery at just the right time—casually, like it had been sitting in his pocket all along. She was still using that clunky CCD camera Agasa-hakase had given her for her birthday, and she’d be thrilled, her shy smile lighting up the room. The same night, Agasa got treated to an adorable dinner: an omurice with Chibi Maruko-chan’s face drawn in ketchup. Shinichi cracked the eggs; Ran did everything else. And, of course, Shinichi had to steady the little stool for her, making sure she didn’t topple over while cooking.

When she got older, she upgraded to a Polaroid. The film was expensive, but that didn’t stop her from taking photos with Sonoko. She’d scrimp and save, skipping butter cookies (which she’d been feeding him just a day ago, by the way) and canceling weekend outings. The reason? “Out of funds,” she’d shrug In the end. It was always up to him to dip into his own allowance, treating this little princess to a downstairs café trip just to snag a chance to see her. By the second canceled date, Shinichi had had enough. That’s the beauty of online shopping: the next day, a giant package landed at the Mouri Detective Agency. Inside? Stacks and stacks of film—white-bordered, blue-bordered, floral-patterned...

Timing it just right, Shinichi appeared outside the café downstairs, striking what he thought was a dashing pose. He waited for her to come out, expecting a compliment at the very least. Instead, she stared at the box of film like it was some bizarre art installation. "Shinichi," she said finally, “Why’d you buy so much film? You didn’t even buy the camera to go with it. This is so wasteful!”

His heart sank. So much for playing the knight in shining armor. It’s for you, he wanted to say. So you can take as many pictures as you want without scrimping on cookies or canceling plans. But saying that would only make her insist on paying him back—or worse, buying him something equally expensive in return. And that would ruin the whole point. He just wanted her to be happy, not stuck in some endless cycle of "you bought me this, so I’ll buy you that."

He didn’t need fancy gifts from her. A fridge magnet from a trip, a postcard from a workshop, a detective game from Shibuya, even an old edition of Sherlock Holmes she happened to spot—anything she genuinely wanted him to have, anything that made her think, This is perfect for Shinichi, was more than enough. Sure, he knew she didn’t see it that way. For her, it was about fairness, about not owing anyone. But that habit of hers, always evening the scales, felt too… formal. When would she finally just take what he offered, no strings attached?

So there he stood, outside Poirot, trying to salvage the moment.

"Hey... We've known each other for so long, the three of us, and yet you only take pictures with Sonoko? That’s just not fair, Ran! Listen up, these Polaroid films aren’t a gift, okay? They’re for a special rule: if I ever feel like taking a picture with you, you have to say yes, right away. Even if Sonoko’s waiting for her turn, I get priority—no arguments! Of course, I know that’s a little selfish, so on regular days, you can use the films however you like… just make sure I still get first dibs, alright?"

He paused for dramatic effect, then added, "And another thing! You’re not allowed to say you’re out of film anymore, or use saving up for film as an excuse to cancel on me. Got it? Ran—Hey, stop laughing! Are you even listening to me?"

[xxnashiraxx]

With Stars to Fill My Dream (15) - I Cast My Spell of Love on You

📣EVERYONE!!!!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!! TAKE A LOOK TOO AT THIS AMAZING ART BY @bby-bel-art OF ALFIRA AND OFELIA📣

It's finally time! I am going ultra mega sap rn- THIS is the chapter. This is the one I sat in my car listening to Crazy on You by Heart thinking hmm, how cute would it be if a bard sang this and serenaded Astarion at the tiefling party? 8 months later and here we finally are ❤

I'm so very proud of this chapter- sure, it's not Shakespeare, but regardless 💕I'm finally here, and I'm so so proud of myself! Thank you all for the journey so far! On we go!!!

Chapter 16 may not come out until the last Sunday of the month, FYI, but I will keep the masterlist pinned to my profile updated under the chapter list with ETAs if there are any delays. 💕 Stay tuned!

Summary: In this celebratory installment, the tadpole gang retires from their successful conquering of the goblin camp back to the Grove, where the grateful tieflings decide to throw them a party. Ofelia and Alfira perform songs for the weary gathering under the light of the stars as the meaning of the lyrics rings truer for the group's unlikely leader than she'd realized. Feelings of longing and jealousy possess the night as song after song floods Ofelia's mind with nothing but thoughts of that one pale, crimson-eyed thorn in her side.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Durge

Warnings: 18+. Mentions of past abuse and trauma. Canon-typical violence and gore.

Word Count: 6,667

AO3

Bonus screenshots and a snippet under the cut!!! 💕

✧˖Tag List: @khywren @allymcfee @pinkberrytea @beewilko

Her fingers begin to pluck the strings with practiced ease, a provoking melody between her and Alfira blooming into a light show as the wizards cast glowing orbs behind them. Ofelia feels the music surge through her like a tidal wave, the tune picking up the closer it gets to its crescendo. Volo awaits his turn on the edge of the rock, fingers silently drumming over his instrument, as Alfira’s lute peters out into silence.

With the vigor of bottled-up emotions- fear, hopelessness, and staggering longing, Ofelia strums in a quick downward motion, the music possessing her. It never felt this vibrant and electric on Earth, and as she continues, fingers sliding over the frets in quick succession, she opens her mouth. She suffuses every word with yearning and passion, her heart pounding in time to the acoustic rhythm that twists through the air.

“If we still have time, we might still get by,

Every time I think about it, I wanna cry.

With bombs and the Devil, and the kids keep comin’

No way to breathe easy, no time to be young…”