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planckstorytime · 6 days ago

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Dragon Age: The Veilguard: Strangled by Gentle Hands

*The following contains spoilers*

“You would risk everything you have in the hope that the future is better? What if it isn’t? What if you wake up to find the future you shaped is worse than what was?”

– Solas, Dragon Age: Inquisition (2014)

I. Whatever It Takes

My premium tickets for a local film festival crumpled and dissolved in my pants pocket, unredeemed as they swirled in the washing machine. Throughout that October weekend in 2015, I neglected my celebratory privileges, my social visits to friends, and even my brutal honors literary theory class. All because a golden opportunity stretched before me: a job opening for a writing position at the once-legendary BioWare, with an impending deadline.

The application process wasn’t like anything I’d seen before. Rather than copy+paste a cover letter and quickly swap out a couple of nouns here and there, this opening required me to demonstrate my proficiency in both words and characters – namely, BioWare’s characters. Fanfiction wasn’t normally in my wheelhouse – at the time, I had taken mainly to spinning love sonnets (with a miserable success rate). But I wouldn’t balk at this chance to work on one of my dream franchises – especially since the job prospects for fresh English BAs weren’t exactly promising. So, I got to work crafting a branching narrative based on the company’s most recent title: Dragon Age: Inquisition. Barely two months prior, I saw the conclusion of that cast’s story when the Inquisitor stabbed a knife into a map and swore to hunt her former ally, Solas, to the ends of the earth. Now it was my turn to puppeteer them, to replicate the distinct voice of each party member and account for how they’d react to the scenario I crafted. And if it went well, then maybe I’d be at the tip of the spear on that hunt for Solas. Finishing the writing sprint left me exhausted, but also proud of my work.

The folks at BioWare obviously felt differently, because I received a rejection letter less than a week later. Maybe they found my story trite and my characterization inaccurate, or maybe they just didn’t want to hire a student with no professional experience to his name. Regardless, I was devastated. It wouldn’t be until years later that I learned that, had my application been accepted, I likely would’ve been drafted into working on the studio’s ill-fated looter shooter, Anthem (2019), noteworthy for its crunch and mismanagement. My serendipitous rejection revealed that sometimes the future you strive to build was never meant to match your dreams. What seemed like an opportunity to strike oil actually turned out to be a catastrophic spill.

Still, my passion for the Dragon Age series (as well as Mass Effect) persisted in the face of BioWare’s apparent decline. I maintain that Inquisition is actually one of the studio’s best games, and my favorite in the series, to the point where I even dressed up as Cole for a convention one time. The game came to me at a very sensitive time in my life, and its themes of faith vs falsehood, the co-opting of movements in history, and the instability of power all spoke to me. But I will elaborate more on that at a later date. My point is, I held on to that hope that, in spite of everything, BioWare could eventually deliver a satisfactory resolution to the cliffhanger from their last title. Or perhaps it was less hope and more of a sunk cost fallacy, as an entire decade passed with nary a peep from Dragon Age.

As years wore on, news gradually surfaced about the troubled development of the fourth game. Beginning under the codename “Joplin” in 2015 with much of the same creative staff as its predecessors, this promising version of the game would be scrapped two years later for not being in line with Electronic Arts’s business model (i.e. not being a live-service scam). Thus, it was restarted as “Morrison”. The project cantered along in this borderline unrecognizable state for a few years until they decided to reorient it back into a single-player RPG, piling even more years of development time onto its shaky Jenga tower of production. Indeed, critical pieces were constantly being pulled out from the foundations during this ten year development cycle. Series regulars like producer Mark Darrah and director Mike Laidlaw made their departures, and the project would go on to have several more directors and producers come and go: Matthew Goldman, Christian Dailey, and Mac Walters, to name a few key figures. They eventually landed on John Epler as creative director, Corinne Busche as game director, and Benoit Houle as director of product development. Then came the massive layoffs of dozens of employees, including series-long writer Mary Kirby, whose work still made it into the final version of DA4. Finally, the game received a rebranding just four months before release, going from Dreadwolf (which it had been known as since 2022) to The Veilguard (2024) – a strange title with an even stranger article.

Needless to say, these production snags did not inspire confidence, especially considering BioWare’s been low on goodwill between a string of flops like Anthem and Mass Effect: Andromeda (2017) and, before that, controversial releases like Dragon Age II (2011) and Mass Effect 3 (2012). The tumult impacted The Veilguard’s shape, which scarcely resembles an RPG anymore, let alone a Dragon Age game. The party size is reduced from four to three, companions can no longer be directly controlled, the game has shifted to a focus on action over tactics a la God of War (2018), the number of available abilities has shrunk, and there’s been a noticeable aesthetic shift towards a more cartoonish style. While I was open to the idea of changing up the combat (the series was never incredible on that front), I can’t get over the sensation that these weren’t changes conceived out of genuine inspiration, but rather vestigial traces from the live-service multiplayer iteration. The digital fossil record implies a lot. Aspects like the tier-based gear system, the instanced and segmented missions, the vapid party approval system, the deficit of World State import options, and the fact that rarely does more than the single mandatory companion have anything unique to say on a quest – it all points to an initial design with a very different structure from your typical single-player RPG. The Veilguard resembles a Sonic Drive-In with a mysterious interior dining area – you can tell it was originally conceived as something else.1

That said, the product itself is functional. It contains fewer bugs than any previous game in the franchise, and maybe BioWare’s entire catalog for that matter. I wouldn’t say the combat soars, but it does glide. There’s a momentum and responsiveness to the battle system that makes it satisfying to pull off combos and takedowns against enemies, especially if you’re juggling multiple foes at once. Monotony sets in after about thirty or forty hours, largely due to the fact that you’re restricted to a single class’s moveset on account of the uncontrollable companions. Still, this design choice can encourage replay value, as it does in Mass Effect, and free respec options and generous skill point allocations offset the tedium somewhat.

While the character and creature designs elicit controversy – both for the exaggerated art direction and, in the case of demons and darkspawn, total redesign – the environmental art is nothing short of breathtaking. I worried that this title would look dated because of how long it had been in development and the age of the technology it was built upon. Those fears were swiftly banished when I saw the cityscapes of Minrathous, the cyclopean architecture of the Nevarran Grand Necropolis, or the overgrown ruins of Arlathan. But like everything in The Veilguard, it’s a double-edged sword. The neon-illuminated streets of Docktown, the floating citadel of the Archon’s Palace, and the whirring mechanisms of the elven ruins evoke a more fantastically futuristic setting that feels at odds with all three previous titles (even though all three exhibited a stylistic shift to some extent). It aggravates the feeling of discordance between this rendition of Thedas and the one returning players know.

All of these elements make The Veilguard a fine fantasy action-adventure game – even a good one, I’d say. But as both the culmination of fifteen years of storytelling and as a narrative-based roleplaying game – the two most important facets of its identity – it consistently falls short. Dragon Age began as a series with outdated visuals and often obtuse gameplay, but was borne aloft by its worldbuilding, characterization, and dialogue. Now, that paradigm is completely inverted. The more you compare it to the older entries, the more alien it appears. After all these years of anticipation, how did it end up this way? Was this the only path forward?

Throughout The Veilguard’s final act, characters utter the phrase “Whatever it takes,” multiple times. Some might say too many. I feel like this mantra applied to the development cycle. As more struggles mounted, the team made compromise after compromise to allow the game to exist at all, to give the overarching story some conclusion in the face of pressure from corporate shareholders, AAA market expectations, and impatient fans. Whatever it takes to get this product out the door and into people’s homes.

This resulted in a game that was frankensteined together, assembled out of spare parts and broken dreams. It doesn’t live up to either the comedic heights or dramatic gravity of Inquisition’s “Trespasser” DLC from 2015, despite boasting the same lead writer in Trick Weekes. Amid the disappointment, we’re left with an unfortunate ultimatum: It’s either this or nothing.

I don’t mean that as a way to shield The Veilguard from criticism, or to dismiss legitimate complaints as ungrateful gripes. Rather, I’m weighing the value of a disappointing reality vs an idealized fantasy. The “nothing”, in this sense, was the dream I had for the past decade of what a perfect Dragon Age 4 looked like. With the game finally released, every longtime fan has lost their individualized, imaginary perfection in the face of an authentic, imperfect text. Was the destruction of those fantasies a worthy trade? It doesn’t help that the official artbook showcases a separate reality that could’ve been, with a significant portion dedicated to the original concepts for Joplin that are, personally, a lot closer to my ideal vision. I think it would’ve done wonders to ground the game as more Dragon Age-y had they stuck with bringing back legacy characters, such as Cole, Calpernia, Imshael, and the qunari-formerly-known as Sten.

I don’t necessarily hate The Veilguard (I might actually prefer it to Dragon Age II), but I can’t help but notice a pattern in its many problems – a pattern that stems from a lack of faith in the audience and a smothering commitment to safety over boldness. As I examine its narrative and roleplaying nuances, I wish to avoid comparing it to groundbreaking RPGs such as Baldur’s Gate 3 (2023) or even Dragon Age: Origins (2009), as the series has long been diverging from that type of old-school CRPG. Rather, except when absolutely necessary, I will only qualitatively compare it to Inquisition, its closest relative.

And nowhere does it come up shorter to Inquisition than in the agency (or lack thereof) bestowed to the player to influence their character and World State.

II. Damnatio Memoriae

No, that’s not the name of an Antivan Crow (though I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so, since we have a character named “Lucanis Dellamorte”). It’s a Latin phrase meaning “condemnation of memory”, applied to a reviled person by destroying records of their existence and defacing objects of their legacy. In this case, it refers to the player. When it comes to their influence over the world and their in-game avatar, The Veilguard deigns to limit or outright eliminate it.

Save transfers that allow for the transmission of World States (the carrying over of choices from the previous games) have been a staple of the Dragon Age and Mass Effect franchises. Even when their consequences are slight, the psychological effect that this personalization has on players is profound, and one of many reasons why fans grow so attached to the characters and world. At its core, it’s an illusion, but one that’s of similar importance to the illusion that an arbitrary collection of 1s and 0s can create an entire digital world. Player co-authorship guarantees a level of emotional investment that eclipses pre-built backgrounds.

However, The Veilguard limits the scope to just three choices, a dramatic decrease from the former standard. All import options come from Inquisition, with two just from the “Trespasser” expansion. One variable potentially impacts the ending, while the other two, in most cases, add one or two lines of dialogue and a single codex entry. Inquisition, by contrast, imported a bevy of choices from both previous games. Some of them had major consequences to quests such as “Here Lies the Abyss” and “The Final Piece”, both of which incorporated data from two games prior. The Veilguard is decidedly less ambitious. Conspicuously absent options include: whether Morrigan has a child or not, the fate of Hawke, the status of the Hero of Fereldan, the current monarchs of Fereldan and Orlais, the current Divine of the southern Chantry, and the individual outcomes of more than two dozen beloved party members across the series. Consequently, the fourth installment awkwardly writes around these subjects – Varric avoids mentioning his best friend, Hawke, as does Isabela ignore her potential lover. Fereldan, Orlais, and the Chantry are headed by Nobody in Particular. Morrigan, a prominent figure in the latest game, makes no mention of her potential son or even her former traveling companions. And the absence of many previous heroes, even ones with personal stakes in the story, feels palpably unnatural. I suspect this flattening of World States into a uniform mold served, in addition to cutting costs, to create parity between multiple cooperative players during the initial live-service version of Morrison. Again, the compromises of the troubled production become apparent, except this time, they’re taking a bite out of the core narrative.

Moreover, the game’s unwillingness to acknowledge quantum character states means that it’s obliged to omit several important cast members. At this point, I would’ve rather had them establish an official canon for the series rather than leaving everything as nebulous and undefined as possible. That way at least the world would’ve felt more alive, and we could’ve gotten more action out of relevant figures like Cassandra, Alistair, Fenris, Merrill, Cole, and Iron Bull. Not to mention that The Veilguard’s half-measure of respectful non-intereference in past World States ultimately fails. Certain conversations unintentionally canonize specific events, including references to Thom Rainier and Sera, both of whom could go unrecruited in Inquisition, as well as Morrigan’s transformation into a dragon in the battle with Corypheus in that game’s finale. But whatever personal history the player had with them doesn’t matter. The entire Dragon Age setting now drifts in a sea of ambiguity, its history obfuscated. It feels as gray and purgatorial as Solas’s prison for the gods.

Beyond obscuring the past, The Veilguard restrains the player’s agency over the present. When publications first announced that the game would allow audiences to roleplay transgender identities and have that acknowledged by the party, I grew very excited – both at the encouraging representation, and at the depth of roleplaying mechanics that such an inclusion suggested. Unfortunately, The Veilguard offers little in roleplaying beyond this. The player character, Rook, always manifests as an altruistic, determined, friendly hero, no matter what the player chooses (if they’re offered choices at all). The selections of gender identity and romantic partner constitute the totality of how Rook defines themselves, post-character creation – exceptions that prove the rule of vacancy. Everything else is set in stone. The options presented are good, and should remain as standard, but in the absence of other substantive roleplaying experiences, their inclusion starts to feel frustratingly disingenuous and hollow, as if they were the only aspects the developers were willing to implement, and only out of obligation to meet the bare minimum for player agency. In my opinion, it sours the feature and exudes a miasma of cynicism.

Actual decisions that impact the plot are few and far between, but at least we have plenty of dialogue trees. In this type of game, dialogue options might usually lead to diverging paths that eventually converge to progress the plot. You might be choosing between three different flavors of saying “yes”, but as with the World States, that illusion of agency is imperative for the roleplaying experience. The Veilguard doesn’t even give you the three flavors – the encouraging, humorous, and stern dialogue options are frequently interchangeable, and rarely does it ever feel like the player is allowed to influence Rook’s reactions. Relationships with companions feel predetermined, as the approval system has no bearing on your interactions anymore. There are so few moments for you to ask your companions questions and dig in deep compared to Inquisition. Combined together, these issues make me question why we even have dialogue with our party at all. Rook adopts the same parental affect with each grown adult under their command, and it feels like every conversation ends the same way irrespective of the player’s input. With the exception of the flirting opportunities, they might as well be non-interactive cutscenes.

Rook’s weak characterization drags the game down significantly. With such limited authorship afforded to the player, it’s difficult to regard them as anything more than their eponymous chess piece – a straightfoward tool, locked on a grid, and moving flatly along the surface as directed.

III. Dull in Docktown

On paper, a plot summary of The Veilguard sounds somewhere between serviceable and phenomenal: Rook and Varric track down Solas to stop him from tearing down the Veil and destroying the world. In the process, they accidentally unleash Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, two of the wicked Evanuris who once ruled over the elven people millenia ago. With Solas advising them from an astral prison, Rook gathers a party together to defeat the risen gods, along with their servants and sycophants. Over the course of the adventure, they uncover dark truths about the origins of the elves, the mysterious Titans, and the malevolent Blight that’s served as an overarching antagonistic force. Eventually, Rook and friends join forces with Morrigan and the Inquisitor, rally armies to face off with their foes, and slay both the gods and their Archdemon thralls before they can conjure the full terror of the Blight. As Solas once again betrays the group, Rook and company have to put a decisive stop to his plans, which could potentially involve finally showing him the error of his ways.

The bones of The Veilguard’s story are sturdier than a calcium golem. Problems arise when you look at the actual writing, dialogue, and characterization – the flesh, blood, and organs of the work.

I’ve seen others chide the writing as overly quippy, but that better describes previous titles. Rather, I think The Veilguard’s dialogue is excessively utilitarian and preliminary, like a first draft awaiting refinement. Characters describe precisely what’s happening on screen as it’s happening, dryly exposit upon present circumstances, and repeat the same information ad nauseum. This infuriating repetition does little to reveal hidden components of their personalities, or their unique responses to situations. You won’t hear anything like Cole’s cerebral magnetic poetry or Vivienne’s dismissive arrogance. Many exchanges could’ve been uttered by Nobody in Particular, as it’s just dry recitation after recitation. It almost feels like watching an English second language instructional video, or a demonstration on workplace safety precautions. Clarity and coherence come at the cost of characterization and charisma.

Words alone fail to make them interesting. Most companions lack the subtlety and depth I had come to expect from the franchise, with many conversations amounting to them just plainly stating how they’re feeling. Most rap sessions sound like they’re happening in a therapist’s office with how gentle, open, and uncomplicated they feel. Compare this to Inquisition, where every character has a distinct voice (I should know, I had to try to copy them for that stupid application), as well as their own personal demons that it betrays: Sera’s internalized racism, hints of Blackwall’s stolen valor, Iron Bull’s espionage masked by bluster, or Solas’s lingering guilt and yearning for a bygone age. These aspects of their characters aren’t front and center, but things the audience can delve into that gives every moment with them more texture. The Veilguard’s companions lay out all their baggage carefullly and respectfully upfront, whether it’s Taash’s multiculturalism and gender identity issues or Neve’s brooding cynicism towards Tevinter’s underbelly. You’ve plumbed the depths of their personas within the first few minutes of meeting most of them.

Small exceptions exist. Professor Emmerich Volkarin stands out from the rest of the cast as a particularly inspired character: a charming, Vincent Price-like necromancer. His attachment to tombs and necromancy as a way to cope with his crippling fear of death makes for curiously compelling melodrama. The way in which he ultimately has to face his fear – either by foregoing his opportunity for immortality to save his beloved skeletal ward, Manfred, or by allowing his friend to pass on so that he can transcend into a new type existence – rises above the other binary choices in the game by being both narratively interesting and legitimately difficult to judge. Still, I feel Emmerich’s whole “lawful good gentleman necromancer” conceit, while a unique and clever subversion of tropes, would’ve worked better if it actually contrasted with anyone else in the party. Instead, the whole crew is full of unproblematic do-gooders who are forbidden by the game to nurture any meaningful interpersonal conflict. While I’d appreciate this lack of toxicity in my real-life relationships, fictional chemistry demands more reactive ingredients.

The Veilguard’s developers frequently positioned the game as “cozy” and about a “found family”, but I can guarantee you that there’s more tension at my Thanksgiving dinners than there is anywhere in this title. This family would get along swimmingly even during a presidential election. The thing about the “found family” trope is that it’s more satisfying when it’s earned. Here, it represents the default state, the starting point, and the status quo that they will always return to. Any minor squabbles (Harding wanting to sleep in the dirt, Emmerich taking too many books on a camping trip, Taash not liking necromancy) are introduced and squashed within the same scene. They all feel so extraneous. There’s so little friction among the companions here that you’d think it disproves Newton’s Third Law. The previous games never struggled in this regard, which makes the choices here all the more baffling.

Beyond the intra-party dynamics, characters lack grit or darkness to them – even when the narrative absolutely calls for it. Remember how I described the necromancer as lawful good (to use traditional Dungeons and Dragons alignments)? Yeah, that’s every character. Even the demonic assassin. Lucanis is a notorious hitman possessed by a demon of Spite, and possibly the weakest character of the game. This may or may not be due to the fact that his writer, Mary Kirby, was laid off mid-development. Regardless, he has noticeably less content than the other party members and generally feels unfinished. The demonic possession storyline goes nowhere; he doesn’t exorcise Spite, nor does he learn more about it or how to live with it. Instead, Spite is just an excuse to give Lucanis cool spectral wings (which he will use to fail several assassination attempts). The demon itself mostly just comes across as rude rather than threatening. The biggest issue, however, stems from the absence of any edge to Lucanis. When confronting his traitorous cousin, Ilario – the man who sold out Lucanis’s family to an enemy faction, kidnapped his grandmother, and made multiple attempts on his life – our grizzled, hardened assassin, pushed to the brink, demands… due process. Seriously, if your choices have led Lucanis to have a hardened heart, his method for dealing with the grievous traitor is sending him to jail. That’s The Veilguard’s idea of vindictive brutality among a clan of unforgiving murderers-for-hire. By contrast, Inquisition features Sera insubordinately murdering a stuck-up nobleman for talking too much. I believe that if modern BioWare had written The Godfather (1972), it would’ve ended with Michael Corleone recommending his brother-in-law to attend confession and seek a marriage counselor.

The writers seem intent on making the cast wholly unproblematic, with no way that the audience could ever question their morality or taste the delicious nuance of seeing someone you like do something bad. Measures were taken to child-proof every aspect of the good guys so that they couldn’t possibly be construed as anything else – even if it constricts them to the point of numbness and eventual atrophy.

To make things as palatable and accessible as possible, the language itself was dumbed down. Characters make frequent use of neologisms and bark phrases like “Suit up,” or “These guys go hard.” It emulates popular blockbuster superhero stuff rather than staying true to the diction the series traditionally employed. It’s all about the team, and the entire Dragon Age world has been stripped down into simplistic conflicts and recognizable stock characters.

This is why The Veilguard’s story largely fails. Despite being ostensibly being about the characters, they come off as an afterthought. Most of the time, only the sole requisite follower has anything to say on a given mission. Even in combat, their wholeness as fully-implemented party members falls short of expectations. Their damage output pales in comparison to the Rook’s, they have no health and cannot be downed in battle, and they mainly exist to give the player three extra ability slots. That’s the game’s true ethos for the companions, whether in combat or dialogue – utility, tools to make things happen rather than elegantly crafted identities. We end up with the largest amount of content per companion among any game in the franchise, only to have the weakest roster.

I know these writers can do better, because I’ve seen them do better. Trick Weekes wrote Iron Bull, Cole, and Solas in Inquisition, as well as Mordin Solus and Tali’Zorah in Mass Effect 2 (2010) and Mass Effect 3. Mary Kirby wrote Varric throughout the series, as well as Sten and Loghain in Origins. Plenty of other experienced writers, such as Sylvia Feketekuty and John Dombrow also contributed, so I can’t put any of the blame on a lack of skill. I don’t know if the mistake was trying to appeal to a wider audience, or if the constant reorientations of the DA4 project drained the crew’s passion and left them lacking in time to polish things.

I personally suspect that the writers had to rush out a script for all of the voiced dialogue. A video from August of 2020 showed off the voice actors for Davrin and Bellara, more than four years before the final game’s release. I think the codex entries, letters, and missives that you find throughout the game, which consist of only text, are much better written than the dialogue. My theory is that the writers had more time to revise and spruce up these tidbits, where edits were minimally invasive, as far as production is concerned. But my knowledge is limited; after all, BioWare rejected my application almost a decade ago.

Still, there are aspects of The Veilguard’s plot that I enjoy. The lore reveals were particularly satisfying2, and many felt rewarding after a decade of speculation. I called that elves were originally spirits, as well as the connection between the Archdemons and the Evanuris, but I wouldn’t have guessed that the Blight formed out of the smoldering rage of the Titans’ severed dreams. I’d concisely describe The Veilguard’s story as the opposite of Mass Effect 3: Whereas ME3 did excellent character work, the characterization in The Veilguard leaves much to be desired. Whereas ME3’s tone was overwhelmingly grim, The Veilguard feels inappropriately positive. Whereas ME3’s lore reveals ruined much about the series’s mystique, The Veilguard’s helped tie the setting’s history together. And whereas ME3 fumbled the ending about as much as it possibly could, The Veilguard actually coalesces into a spectacular third act.

While I think the twist with Varric’s death is weak (outright pitiful compared to the Dread Wolf twist of Inquisition), the actual events that make up the finale carry a momentum and urgency that the rest of the game severely lacked. Everything from the sacrifice and kidnapping of Rook’s companions to the slaying of Ghilan’nain to the awe-inspiring battle between the Dread Wolf and Archdemon Lusacan – the whole affair takes the best parts of Mass Effect 2’s Suicide Mission and elevates it to the scale of an apocalyptic series finale. Ultimately, Solas takes center stage as the final antagonist, and the drama crescendos to a height the rest of the game desperately needed. He remains the most interesting character in the game and perhaps the franchise, and thankfully, the resolution to his story did not disappoint me (though I would’ve preferred the option for a boss battle against his Dread Wolf form if the player’s negotiations broke down). So in that sense, I think the worst possible scenario was avoided.

But is that really worth celebrating? Averting complete disaster? Exceeding the lowest standards? In many regards, The Veilguard still could have been – should have been – more.

IV. A World of Tranquil

In my essay on Final Fantasy VII: Rebirth (2024), I briefly discussed a trend in media to sand off the edges so as not to upset the audience in any way. The encroachment of this media sanitization seems to be an over-correction to the brimming grimness of late 2000s and early 2010s fiction (to which the first two Dragon Age titles belong), which earned comparable levels of criticism. Like Solas, I occasionally feel trapped in a cycle of regret, where it feels like our previous yearning for less aggressive, mean-spirited content led to a media landscape that prioritized patronizingly positive art. Now it’s clear to me that, in order to have a point, you need to have an edge.

Dragon Age historically drew a very progressive audience, and many of them congregated around Tumblr in that website’s heyday. Tumblr has garnered something of a reputation for overzealous discourse and sensitivity among its userbase, and I think that the developers of The Veilguard, in an attempt to cater to one of their core audiences, may have misunderstood both that passion and the fundamental appeal of their products. They became so concerned about optics, about avoiding politically charged criticism, that they kneecapped their world-building, rendering it as inoffensive and sterile as possible. It’s not so much “PC culture” as it is “PG culture.”

To that end, the various governments, factions, and societies of Thedas lost their edge. Dragon Age previously presented itself as anti-authoritarian by showcasing the rampant abuses of power across all cultures. Whether it was the incarceration of mages under the Chantry, the slavery practiced by the Tevinter Imperium, the expansionist anti-individualism of the Qun, the restrictive dwarven caste system, or the rampant racism against elves, social strife abounded in this world. I think that’s one thing that drew so many marginalized fans to the series. But the correlation of fictional atrocities with those of real life frequently prompted volatile discourse, with many concerned about how allegedly allegorized groups were being represented. You began to see countless essays pop up by folks who use the phrase “blood quantum” more than any healthy person should for a setting about wizards. BioWare responded to this by making Thedosian society wholly pleasant and the people in power responsible and cool and the disparate cultures tolerant and cooperative. If nothing’s portrayed negatively (outside of the cartoonishly evil gods), nobody can take offense, right?

For starters, the Antivan Crows have gone from an amoral group of assassins to basically Batman. These figures, which previously purchased children off slave markets to train them into killers, are now the “true rulers” of Antiva, by which the official government derives its authority. The Crows in The Veilguard stand against the insurgent qunari army as heroes of the common folk. They’re not an unscrupulous faction that Rook is reluctantly forced to ally with for the greater good; no, the Crows are simply good guys now. When the pompous governor of Treviso rails against them, with such audacious claims as “assassins and thugs should not represent the citizenry,” we’re meant to laugh at the governor’s foolishness. The unintentional implication this sends is that lethal vigilantism and unchecked power are cool because the people who use it are cool and stylish. The slave trade goes unacknoweldged; Antivan children want to grow up to be assassins now. The Crows never do anything wrong in The Veilguard – the governor is later revealed to be cooperating with the invaders for their own power. BioWare avoids the unpleasantness inherent in the Crows’ concept by pretending it never existed.

Perhaps more ridiculous is the Lords of Fortune, a new faction of pirates and treasure hunters based out of Rivain. Except they don’t really do piracy or treasure hunting. The game goes to lengths to ensure that the audience knows that the Lords don’t steal important cultural artifacts from any of the tombs and ruins they raid. What do they steal, then? There is no such thing as an ethical treasure hunter – plundering indigenous sites for souvenirs is inherently problematic – but the writers wanted to reap the appeal of adventurous swashbucklers without any of the baggage, regardless of whether it makes sense or not3. It comes across as a child’s idea of a pirate: they’re not thinking about the murder and looting, just the funny men with eye-patches who say “ARRR!” The developers want us to like the Lords of Fortune, and to that end, they can’t do anything culturally insensitive – even fictional disrespect toward a made-up culture. This is doubly amusing because the Lords are represented by Isabela from Dragon Age II. The same Isabela that kicked off a war with the qunari by stealing their holy book, the Tome of Koslun. This irony goes unacknowledged by the game.4

When these rogue buccaneers aren’t busy giving land acknowledgments to displaced Dalish elves or whatever, they’re enjoying their nonviolent coliseum. Pirates revel in bloodsport, but only so long as no actual blood is spilled. The Lords refuse to fight prisoners or animals in their arena, as they find such acts too cruel. I guess they’re all big Peter Singer readers. Instead, they summon spirits to adopt the visages of common enemies so that the player can kill them with a clean conscience. It’s another example of wanting to have your cake and eat it too – they wanted to create a glory hunter/gladiator faction, but couldn’t stand the underlying implications of such. So they twisted and bent them to fit into their unproblematic paradigm, leaving the Lords flavorless and lame. They barely even contribute to the main story, and they’re practically the only look we get into Rivaini society (which remains criminally underdeveloped).

More tragic is the handling of the qunari, once one of the most unique and nuanced civilizations in the Dragon Age setting. The Qun, as portrayed in the first three installments, is a society that demands all of its composite parts work in harmony. Thus, they have predetermined vocations for their children, rigid gender roles, strict codes of conduct, and an ambition to “enlighten” the rest of the world. While the Qun has often been presented as antagonistic toward the heroes, the series has commonly balanced its portrayal by showing how seductive its absolutism can be for people without hope. In some cases, life under the Qun is preferable, as is the case with former Tevinter slaves. Conformity becomes comfort when the world is regularly threatening to split apart.

The Veilguard opts for a different approach. See, Rook’s not fighting members of the Qun in this game – they’re fighting the Antaam, the former qunari military. The Veilguard constantly reiterates that the Antaam, which makes up one of the three branches of the Qun, has broken off and decided to invade, pillage, and stoke chaos. BioWare didn’t want the questionable morality and complexity of fighting an invading people from a humanized, multi-faceted culture, so they removed their culture. Their efforts to turn the non-Western-coded qunari into something digestible for their mistaken conception of a modern audience instead results in two caricatures: one being a fetishized, perfect society where there are no perceivable social ills; and the other a bunch of rampaging brutes.

Contending with a realized conception of Plato’s Republic mixed with the Ottoman Empire makes for more compelling drama than a horde of murderous giants. Again, BioWare wanted to have it both ways, and they still needed nameless, faceless orcs to kill. So every bit about the qunari’s militancy, imperialism, and repression coexisting alongside some of their more progressive ideas and communal unity is stripped of its context and meaning. Blame is placed solely on the Antaam, who no longer represent (and retroactively, never represented) the Qun’s ideology. It’s a cowardly compromise, attempting to pin the blame of all the Qun’s failings on a renegade military and seeking to exonerate the political and social apparatuses of their culpability.

At one point, a minor character named Seer Rowan lectures to an ignorant human (a proxy for the audience absorbing these retcons) that qunari society has always been egalitarian in practice, with mages enjoying freedom there. Previous games showed that the qunari shackle their “saarebas” mages, stitch their mouths, cut out their tongues, and teach them to commit suicide if they ever stray from their masters. However, we’re now assured that this is only practiced under the Antaam, and No True Qunari would ever do such a thing. Ignore the fact that, in Inquisition, we witness the enslaved saarebas under the supervision of the Ben-Hasserath, a subdivision of the Ariqun (i.e. not part of the Antaam). In fact, the Antaam that Rook fights in The Veilguard never command saarebas at all. They’re completely absent from the game (likely because the image of the bound, mutilated minority was too much for The Veilguard’s sensibilities). Seer Rowan’s weak, conciliatory retcon can’t even justify itself in its own game. The scolding diatribe communicates an intrinsic misunderstanding of the Qun by the writers – namely, it continues the pattern established with the Antivan Crows that the mechanics of power in society are fundamentally good as long as aberrant forces aren’t in charge. While I understand the desire to be conscientious about the portrayal of fictional cultures that draw upon non-Western traditions and iconography (which have historically been demonized in media), glamorizing the Qun and stripping it of its realistic nuance does little to alleviate any problems with representation. If anything, it creates new ones.

But hey, now we have our faceless orcs to guiltlessly slaughter. That’s what the Antaam’s been reduced to, bereft of the ideology that made them people. We kill them because they’re strange and scary and foreign and seeking to destroy our cities for fun. They remain the most prominent representation of the qunari in-game, barring our party member Taash. BioWare’s attempts to reverse what they viewed as problematic components to the qunari instead devolved into the very tropes they wished to avoid.

Which leads us to the elves. Much of the series’s discourse has surrounded the portrayal of the long-suffering elven people, who endure slavery under Tevinter, expulsion from their homeland in the Dales, confinement in ghettos, and the general disdain from other races. The games’ stories use symbolic shorthand of real-life oppressed peoples to communicate these tragedies, and this has led to a variety of intense, emotional interpretations over the years. The unending misery of the systematically marginalized elves hasn’t gone unnoticed by the fanbase – and their criticisms haven’t gone unnoticed by the developers. To quote The Veilguard’s creative director, John Epler, in an interview with Polygon:

“Dragon Age has not always been the kindest to the Dalish [elves]. Somebody once made a joke to me, and it’s not untrue, that it’s possible to wipe out a Dalish clan in all three of the games in some way.”

He and others on the development team must’ve thought elves needed a break, because the omnipresent racism against them vanishes completely in The Veilguard. Tevinter, an empire built on the back of chattel slavery, doesn’t show any of that. Consequently, it feels like players in the know still haven’t seen the true face of Tevinter, despite spending half a game there. The notion that the capital of Minrathous gives now is one of a prosperous city that’s centuries ahead of the countries down south, rather than a cruel regime cracking the whip at every opportunity. Perhaps the writers weren’t comfortable portraying this, or felt that their audience might not be amenable to it after years of incendiary argumentation. Nevertheless, it castrates their established world-building and robs us of the opportunity to witness true elven liberation in the climax. With both the fall of Minrathous and the toppling of the tyrannical elven gods, we could have delivered a much needed catharsis after four games of oppression, but The Veilguard forgoes this storytelling opportunity to play it safe.

I worry that this hesitancy originated from anxieties about the sensitivity of depicting marginalized peoples in brutal, dehumanizing conditions, and how that might look to more fragile viewers. But I think it’s important for all players, watchers, and readers to know that, though there might be aspects shared between them, fictional minorities are distinct from real ones.

Dragon Age’s elves are aesthetically Celtic. Their residency in alienages evokes images of Disapora Jews in Europe. Their Long Walk after being driven from the Dales calls back to the Trail of Tears, sharing an experience with Native Americans. Their subsequent migratory nature is reminiscent of the Romani people. And their ancient empire of Arlathan, with its large columns and temples of worship, headed by ascended humanoid (for lack of a better term) deities that cast down an enemy called the Titans, and which has since had its religion and culture co-opted and renamed by Roman-inspired Tevinter invites comparisons to classical Greece.

My point is, the elves of Dragon Age don’t represent one group of people, because fictional cultures are constructs drawing from countless inspirations. If they represent anything beyond themselves, it’s the idea of a proud people that’s fallen under the yoke of conquering powers – a supervictim to embody all. The idea that one must be limited in their storytelling options based on how the portrayal might reflect upon or disrespect an existing culture is flawed, in my opinion. In the overwhelming majority of cases, coding cannot be read as a 1:1 allegory, especially in speculative fiction like science-fiction and fantasy. I believe the most mature way to evaluate a story isn’t to try to pigeonhole what it’s trying to say say about who, as if there’s some insidious encrypted message in the text. Rather, it’s to see the forest through the trees and interpret the work as a complete whole in itself.

On that basis, I ask: would it have been so bad to see some of those enslaved elves, praying for salvation, side with their manipulative, nefarious gods? To add some nuance to the conflict with Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, would the story of elven liberation not have been better if the game actually engaged with it? Could we actually have a moral quandary with those whom Rook ends up fighting, even if the content might be seemingly problematic?

Epler might respond in the negative, per the Polygon interview, claiming that the gods “simply don’t care” about the elves.

“Those blighted, decrepit gods, they’re not bothering with the soft pitch. Their pitch is, We’re going to make a horrible world. We’re going to give you a lot of power, and maybe you’ll be OK.”

Like a chess board, the core conflict of The Veilguard is black and white. BioWare abandoned the chance to make Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain more interesting villains because it was too risky.

Similarly risky was Solas’s role as an antagonist, since his motivations, as explained in “Trespasser”, are deeply sympathetic. Perhaps too much so for the developers’ comfort. Unlike the Evanuris and their disinterest in the elves, Solas wants to restore the elven people to their former glory. At least, that seemed to be his pitch in the last game. Frustratingly absent from The Veilguard are the Agents of Fen’Harel – elves who swore fealty to Solas’s cause. They infiltrated and compromised the Inquisition, effectively precipitating the final decision to end the organization in its current form. The idea that Solas had amassed an army of common folk who found the idea of a renewed elven empire appealing made him appear formidable and intimidating. “Trespasser” implies that a mass uprising of elves under Solas’s leadership was imminent, and anyone could be in on it.

None of this happens in The Veilguard. Not only does Solas lack an army, but their absence isn’t explained or even acknowledged. As a result, Solas remains a passive antagonist until near the end, since the player has no disciples of his to contend with (either physically or ideologically) along the way. It wastes a side of his character that had been foreshadowed in a decade-long cliffhanger – that of a charismatic leader, capable of coordinating a rebellion that could spell disaster for its own followers.

In a Reddit AMA after the latest game’s release, Epler answered where the Agents of Fen’Harel disappeared to:

“Solas’ experience leading the rebellion against the Evanuris turned him against the idea of being a leader. You see it in the memories – the entire experience of being in charge ate at him and, ultimately, convinced him he needed to do this on his own. And his own motivations were very different from the motivations of those who wanted to follow him – he had no real regard for their lives or their goals. So at some point between Trespasser and DATV, he severed that connection with his ‘followers’ and went back to being a lone wolf. There are Dalish clans who are sympathetic to his goals, but even there, there’s an understanding that he’s too dangerous to have a more formal connection with, and that he will, ultimately, sacrifice them to his own ends if necessary.”

I find this explanation unsatisfying, not the least bit because the narrative offers next to nothing to imply this. The disappearance of Solas’s agents represents my biggest bugbear with the game, depriving it of the full potential of its highly anticipated antagonist in favor of the more generically villainous Evanuris. Moreover, this omission fits into the aggravating blueprint for The Veilguard’s inoffensive direction. The motivations, emotions, and backgrounds of the Agents of Fen’Harel would be sympathetic, and therefore might problematize the otherwise cut-and-dry conflicts. Epler seemed concerned that audiences might think Solas was “a little too sympathetic in his goals,” according to an interview with GamesRadar+.

But that’s the thing: sympathy isn’t endorsement, and portrayal of sympathetic characters isn’t endorsement either. But neither does that invalidate the emotions and experiences that generate that sympathy, even if the character’s actions ultimately turn toward evil. I’ve noticed a trend (especially in symptomatic criticism, which I generally dislike5) to view art as propaganda, and to evaluate it from a moralizing, top-down perspective. Antagonists with complex or understandable motivations (in this case, revolutionary villains) are often judged by this framework as tools for stories wishing to champion the status quo. Common arguments that I’ve seen imply that the relatability that we often find in villains is not a strength of the writing, but a devilish trick of ideology by which writers can reinforce conservative doctrine, to scold us away from certain beliefs. Any decent writer knows this isn’t the case, and that people don’t write morally or emotionally complex antagonists for didactic purposes. Instead, characters such as these embody the anxieties of their creators – the fear of losing yourself to your passions, the fear of going about things the wrong way, the fear of sacrificing too much to achieve your desired ends. The concepts and feelings that compel these characters remain authentic to the writer’s heart and the connection they established with the audience.

Art isn’t propaganda. To read it as such reduces it and promotes intellectual dishonesty and foolhardy myopia. Stories are irreducible (otherwise, we would not waste our time with them), and so I believe interpretations should be formed from the bottom-up, rooted in the text as much as possible. The “message” cannot be imposed from the top-down, but symptomatic readings, in their focus on tropes and cultural context, frequently condemn without a trial. Hindering your story in order to future-proof it for the sake of optics is a safeguard against this, and one that leads to bad stories. Artists should have confidence that their text will hold its ground on its own. To quote Ursula K. Le Guin’s essay “A Message about Messages”:

“The complex meanings of a serious story or novel can be understood only by participation in the language of the story itself. To translate them into a message or reduce them to a sermon distorts, betrays, and destroys them… Any reduction of that language into intellectual messages is radically, destructively incomplete.” (67-68)

BioWare’s doctrine of passive writing violates this wisdom by surrendering to their fear of (bad) criticism. The Veilguard lacks punch, stakes, and empathy and becomes incongruous with its established lore because it’s not willing to take risks that might alienate or upset players. They’re more concerned with making sure their work is inoffensive than they are with conveying a moving story.

I believe all of this was inherited from an incestuous feedback loop between a vocal minority of critics, of which I might’ve once counted myself among the blameworthy, and the apprehensiveness of out-of-touch corporate board room decision-making. Dragon Age’s genome mutated, and it slowly lost its teeth.

Over the course of a decade, we bred the Dread Wolf into a Dread Pug.

V. What It Took

The Veilguard’s lack of confidence in itself and lack of faith in its audience contribute to its capitulatory nature. In many respects, it feels like the developers lost their passion for it over the course of the ten year hellish production and just wanted to be done with it. This resulted in a decent game that nonetheless feels divorced from what came before it. It tries to juggle being a soft reboot while also trying to close out the series’s biggest and longest running story arcs, but inevitably fumbles.

Nearly everything done by The Veilguard was handled better by Inquisition. And Inquisition was certainly the more ambitious title. Perhaps more returning characters would have established a sense of continuity between the two, or at least made it less awkward by having them present for the story’s grand finale. For as strong as the endgame is, it could’ve benefited from the presence of slave liberator Fenris, elven history aficionado Merrill, possible Evanuris soul vessel Sera, or Divine Victoria (any of them). The core pillar of Dragon Age is the characters, and The Veilguard’s under-performance (and in some cases, outright dismissal) in that regard sabotages its integrity. Without this to anchor it, the changes to gameplay, visuals, and roleplaying depth become more alienating.

Personally, what do I take away from this? The Veilguard is far from the game I dreamed about for ten years, and not the one that loyal fans deserved either. I’m no stranger to disappointment at this point in my life, and yet this still leaves me with a hollow feeling. Will I still be able to return to Inquisition, a game I truly adore, and see it the same way as before, knowing now where all this is leading? The true cost of The Veilguard, for me, has nothing to do with the price tag: it’s the loss of that perfectly tailored dream, now that the possibilities of the future have shut their gates.

Where do those dreams go? Are they doomed to fester in their lonely, incommunicable agony? Will they be twisted by their enmity, like the blighted dreams of the Titans, and spread their corruption into those important happy memories?

In 2014, I was depressed as fuck, and Dragon Age: Inquisition helped me to see the light and come out of it. In 2024, I was depressed as fuck, and Dragon Age: The Veilguard made me feel nothing. There’s no less favorable comparison in my eyes. It’s disheartening to behold something that once meant so much to me and be greeted with numbness. I have to wonder if that affection will ever return, or if I’ve just grown out of it.

But as I wandered the streets of Minrathous as Rook, I heard a familiar song. It was one of the tavern songs from Inquisition, its nostalgic chords filling me with wistful sentiment. I know, deep down, there’s still something there. Maybe I just need to dig it up. Maybe it’s time to look back…

To be continued…

– Hunter Galbraith

Further Reading

Le Guin, Ursula K. “A Message about Messages.” Wonderbook: The Illustrated Guide to Creating Imaginative Fiction, Abrams Image, 2018, pp. 67–68.

Incidentally, this was an anomaly my friends and I pondered over and eventually solved. It turned out to be a former Wienerschnitzel. ↩︎

You could argue that this credit goes more to Inquisition and the previous games for laying the groundwork for said reveals, which were obviously planned out ahead of time, as confirmed by the aforementioned official artbook. Regardless, the payoff satisfied me and gave me proper closure. ↩︎

I’ve been informed that there is a hidden conversation that explains that the Lords of Fortune do, in fact, sell cultural artifacts at times, but only to the rightful owners. This just makes me wonder what they do with the artifacts if the prospective clients can’t pay. Do they shove them back in the ruins and re-arm all the booby traps? ↩︎

I would argue that this does not represent character progression on Isabela’s part, as her (possible, depending on the player’s choices) return of the Tome of Koslun in Dragon Age II was a pragmatic sacrifice she made to save her friends and the city, rather than an acknowledgment of the qunari’s inviolable ownership. In fact, in many continuities, she never returns the Tome at all. ↩︎

I prefer more formalist criticism because it allows the text to lead the dance, not the critique. I think it’s only fair, given that the creators likely spent more effort crafting the piece than I spent consuming it. Symptomatic criticism mandates that the reader consider everything around the text, typically at the text’s expense. In the worst cases, symptomatic critics make their arguments about seemingly everything besides the text in question. ↩︎ Link to article: https://planckstorytime.wordpress.com/2025/01/01/dragon-age-the-veilguard-strangled-by-gentle-hands/

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solxamber · 3 months ago

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Stolen Kisses - Rollo Flamme x Reader

5 times you kiss him and the one time he kisses you

Rollo Week D7! and that's a wrap! and it's very very slightly suggestive at the end but nothing really nsfw.

The first time it happens, it's almost instinctual. You're sitting beside him on the edge of the fountain in the middle of town, the evening casting a golden glow over everything. He’s telling you about something—probably the new reforms he’s working on for the city—but his face looks so serious, so intent, that you can’t help but smile.

Without thinking, you lean in and gently press your lips to his forehead. It’s soft and fleeting, like the brush of a breeze. He freezes mid-sentence, eyes wide in surprise as his hand flutters to where your lips had just been.

“W-What are you doing?” Rollo stammers, his voice uncharacteristically shaky.

You grin, pulling back but staying close. “You were overthinking again.”

He tries to hide the pink that rises in his cheeks by turning his head slightly, muttering something about "distractions" under his breath. But you don’t miss the tiny, almost imperceptible smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.

It’s during one of the city’s festivals, and despite his usual disdain for such "frivolous" celebrations, Rollo finds himself walking with you through the lively streets. You’ve been excited all day, dragging him to stalls and making him try different foods, and while he pretends to be unamused, you can tell he’s having a good time.

At one point, as you’re watching a parade go by, you catch him looking at you with a soft, contemplative expression. He tries to school his features into his usual neutral mask, but it’s too late. You’ve seen it.

Without a word, you lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek. It's quick but deliberate, leaving a warm imprint on his skin.

He stiffens instantly, eyes darting to the people around you as if someone might have seen. “Must you always do these… these things in public?” His voice is low, but there’s no real bite to it.

You just laugh, taking his hand in yours. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

He huffs but doesn’t pull away, a soft blush spreading across his cheeks once again.

Rollo isn’t much of a morning person, and today is no different. He sits at the breakfast table, eyes half-closed, nursing a cup of tea like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His hair is slightly mussed from sleep, and there's something endearing about seeing him like this—so unguarded.

You’re sitting across from him, quietly enjoying your own drink when a mischievous idea strikes you. You get up from your seat and walk over to him, leaning down to kiss him on the nose.

The kiss is soft and playful, your lips barely brushing the tip of his nose before you pull back with a satisfied grin.

Rollo’s eyes snap open, fully awake now. His brow furrows, but there's no real anger in his expression—just mild bewilderment. “That was completely unnecessary.”

“Maybe, but it was cute,” you reply, sitting back down.

He mutters something under his breath, probably about you being insufferable, but the faint pink hue on his face betrays how flustered he really is.

Rollo has always had a certain grace about him, the way he carries himself—upright, composed, like someone who constantly bears the weight of responsibility. So, when you’re walking together through the quiet streets, his hand in yours, you can’t help but admire how steady and firm his grip is.

Out of nowhere, you stop walking, causing him to pause and turn towards you. Before he can ask what’s wrong, you lift his hand to your lips and place a delicate kiss on the back of it.

He looks at you in surprise, eyes wide, and for a moment, he’s completely speechless.

“I just… wanted to thank you,” you say softly, smiling up at him.

His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he simply nods, his face turning redder by the second. “There’s no need to… for such gestures…” he mumbles, but his fingers curl around yours a little tighter, holding onto that moment.

This one catches even you by surprise.

It’s late, and you’re both sitting in the library, working on something that requires more focus than usual. The room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages and the occasional scratch of a quill on parchment. You’re tired, and you can see Rollo is too, the way his posture has slumped slightly, and the tired look in his eyes.

Without thinking, you lean in and press a soft kiss to the side of his neck, just below his ear. It’s an intimate gesture, far more than any of the other kisses you’ve given him, and you can feel him tense beneath you.

He turns to look at you, wide-eyed, clearly at a loss for words. “That… was quite unexpected.”

You shrug, suddenly feeling a bit bashful but refusing to show it. “I thought you could use some encouragement.”

His face flushes, but there’s something different in the way he looks at you now. His usual calm demeanor falters, just for a moment, and in that instant, you can see the conflict behind his eyes—the way he fights to maintain his composure, even though he’s clearly affected.

It's late, and the soft glow of candlelight bathes the room in a warm, golden hue. The sound of the crackling fire fills the space as you sit beside Rollo on the edge of the bed, the evening having lulled both of you into a comfortable silence. It’s one of those nights where words seem unnecessary, the unspoken connection between you enough to fill the room.

Rollo, ever composed and controlled, sits next to you, his posture just as proper as always. But there’s something different in the air tonight—a tension that’s been building between you both, thick and palpable. His usual calm gaze lingers on you longer than usual, his eyes darkening with something unspoken.

You lean in, instinctively closing the distance, expecting to offer another soft, teasing kiss on his forehead or cheek, but this time, before you can act, Rollo moves first.

He grabs your wrist, gently but firmly, and pulls you toward him, his breath warm against your skin. His lips crash against yours, and the kiss is anything but hesitant. It’s deep, commanding, as if he’s been holding back for far too long and can’t any longer. His hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer still, the intensity of it making your heart race.

The kiss is slow but purposeful, full of heat and desire, and when he tilts his head to deepen it, you feel a shiver run down your spine. His lips part slightly, allowing him to tease you with the faintest brush of his tongue, testing, tempting. The taste of him is intoxicating, and you can't help but let out a quiet sigh against his mouth.

Rollo’s grip tightens, his usual restraint giving way to something more raw, more primal. His other hand slips around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, your bodies pressed together as the kiss becomes more fervent, more urgent. There's nothing of his usual formality now, only the need to feel you, to claim you in this moment.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, lips swollen and eyes locked. His gaze is darker than you’ve ever seen, filled with an unmistakable hunger. He leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, voice huskier than usual, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

You smile, breathless but exhilarated, your heart pounding in your chest as you tug him back in for more. "Then don’t stop now."

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #twst rollo x reader #rollo x you #rollo x reader #twst rollo #rollo flamme #rollo #rollo flamme x reader #rollo flamme x you

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milksnake-tea · 29 days ago

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✩ CHAPTER SUMMARY : The spar between you and Sunday goes in an unexpected direction - well, at least for Sunday. Life as a Hunter has taught you to almost always expect unexpected directions.

✩ SERIES SYNOPSIS : Following the catastrophe of the Charmony Festival, rather than in one of Penacony's hospitals or prisons, Sunday awakens right in the base of one of the most notorious criminals in the galaxies. With nowhere else to go, he's left to follow you, the Stellaron Hunters' medic, in his attempts to become accustomed to his new life.

✩ WORD COUNT : 6.5k

✩ TAGLIST : @felibrary, @vxnuslogy, @https-mika, @greyrain23, @red-ninja15, @arienic , @immahuman , @sund4ykisser , @mysteriaqueen , @kiopanxp , @isa-l0v3r , @hesper-houkai-kat , @gamekillera , @nayukiyukihira , @randomidk-123 , @universetrash , @forevernyeong , @thedepartedcryptid , @heyhazelnut101 , @1000-leaves , @lowkeyren , @zhayur , @jellofishuu , @kascar-chronicle , @azaleaflowerr , @neigee , @fallintothechasm , @veritusratio , @astolary , @xphantasmagoriax , @semi-orangeapple , @ezra1yn , @xynthevoid , @apinu , @crysangria , @shenwi , @louchive , @mave-in , @mutiachan , @meerpea , @fxngtasy , @emiken-070907 , @tragedy-of-commons , @boothills-usbport , @mikashisus , @lunaegrl , @cakechase , @keirenny , @romyoia , @bunnihunnii , @insomniac-hours ( TAGLIST IS CLOSED )

✩ ADDITIONAL NOTES : hey bitches. guess who's back. FUN FACT THIS BROKE THE IMG LIMIT FOR POSTS ON TUMBLR BYE I HAVE NO IDEA IF ITS GOING TO HOLD UP ON WATTPAD (probably not. sniffles) BUT OMLLLL I REALLY YAPPED TOO MUCH W THE CHATS.... ALSO !! CHAT MSG ICON FOR SUNDAY CREDIT GOES TO THE LOVELY BUNNYCARROT ON TWT. ALSO KNOWN AS MY REASON FOR LIVING. also howre we feeling abt sunday release. IK I WAS GONE THAT ENTIRE TIME HE WAS DRIP MARKETED AND EVERYTHING BUT IN MY DEFENSE. i had to rewrite the sparring scene like 5 different times and the chat msgs like 3 times. so. erm. yeah ALSO ILL GET TO THE ALT TEXTS TMRW I SWEAR ITS JUST MIDNIGHT RN AND IM SCARED (of my mom) AND TIRED

ADDITIONALLY, I'VE HIRED BETA READERS !!! SAY HELLO TO GWEN AKA @tragedy-of-commons , VICTORIA AKA @theother-victoria , VISARA AKA @rainswept , AND MHIE AKA @iceunhie. GO CHECK THEM OUT THEY WRITE TOO and more consistently too sneezes BUT YEAH THEY'RE GOING TO BE MY VICTIMS I MEAN TEAM TO WHICH I YAP AND HAVE THEM EDIT MY SHIT <333 LOVE YALL

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In and out.

Inhale through the nose.

Hold.

Exhale through the mouth.

Again.

Sunday closes his eyes and breathes. He adjusts his grip on his rapier, making sure that his grip is firm and that its tip points away from him. Alone in the training room, the silence is more than enough for him to think, and force away the voices the best he can.

He reaches, he calls, and he tunes into the very roots that govern the universe. The Imaginary Tree is life and reality itself. It illuminates, it breathes, and it grows. It curls around his fingers, and it gives. Life flows into his veins, strings of pure energy lying right beneath his fingertips, and he pulls.

Imaginary manifests in melodies and staffs, guided by his rapier and weaving into a somber song. He lifts his hand, drawing the sheets and forming the beginnings of a symphony.

His brow furrows.

Even now, with years of practice and honing his technique, there's something pulling at his chest, a strain on his halo that tells him that this is wrong. Even if the Tree accepts his call and responds in turn, he can never fully accept its embrace. It is suffocating, its hold, and it is oppressing.

It swallows him as though it were the Voracity, engulfing him in its jaws and consuming him, draining him of all that he is. It forces itself upon him - it eats away at him, and his breath is almost taken, almost snuffed, save for the small sliver of mercy that keeps him alive. It dominates the once carefully balanced conversation, and it commands him, trust me, accept me, join me, become me.

And Sunday has never been one to like being commanded.

A pleasant conversation morphs into a spiteful argument, a battle for the upper hand, venom dripping from each of their tongues as each tries to take control. As Sunday struggles against the roots, the orchestra becomes strained, the tempo becoming faster and faster, and all of the strings crescendo until it's loud, far too loud.

The strain in his mind transfers to the physical realm, and the staffs so carefully penned by his sword flicker and waver while his halo begins to glow in the effort to keep it all under control. His brow furrows and his movements become frenzied, frantic, until the Tree rebels yet again, and he's had enough.

Frustration flares and he brings down his hand and cuts off his connection with the Tree, tearing through the melody and ending the performance there. But then he realizes what he's done, and shame floods out his annoyance.

A sigh leaves him.

Losing his composure... how unbecoming of him. He forces himself to pay attention to his breath, and the hand that isn't holding the rapier curls into his palms, the familiar prick grounding him.

He should know better than to be so easily moved. He inhales deeply, raising his gaze to the ceiling, and exhales.

There we go.

If the orchestra won't obey, he will command them. They are forged from his very blood and tied to his veins. They are him, in a sense, and he will not stand for a civil war.

He raises his sword once more, and to the orchestra, he speaks - Again.

And this time, he leaves no room for argument.

His rapier is a guide and a scripture as Imaginary drips from it once again. With the orchestra in toe, he begins to move.

Combat to him is not unlike a dance, in which the participants are himself, his opponent, and his sword. He has learned the hard way that brute strength, as much as it would be useful, is not his forte (spending one's life asleep does wonders to their physical state), and so he must rely on precision and observation to gain the upper hand.

He steps, swiftly and with purpose, and the Tree is his partner. Wisps and streaks rise from where his feet had once touched the ground, and with every stab at a fictitious enemy, the Tree strikes with him in the form of diamond stars and sound waves. Sweat beads at the back of his neck and his hand trembles with the strain of keeping the Tree under control, but he stands firm nevertheless.

But then he hears a squeak - an awfully familiar squeak, belonging to a companion he hasn't seen since the fall - a companion that only appears on two conditions: if they are called upon, or if he is in danger.

And he didn't call upon anyone.

There's a tingle on the back of his neck, and he swerves and narrowly avoids a stab towards his eyes. His Echoes rush to his defense, swarming his assailant and driving them back in a storm of gold lights.

He hears his attacker splutter with surprised laughter as the Echoes bat at their face angrily, some even ramming into their sides with their heads or tugging at their clothes with what little strength they have. It takes him a second before he realizes just who his companions are attacking.

"Enough," he commands. The symphony dissolves as his rapier lowers and his other hand raises to placate the swarm. Immediately the Echoes retreat to his side, keeping their nonexistent eyes on the person before him, to which he lets out an exasperated sigh. "Was that really necessary?"

You bat away at one last belligerent Echo that was particularly keen on head-butting your cheek (it does absolutely no damage) before turning to him with that smile of yours.

"Just testing your reflexes, princess."

In your hand is the sword that nearly stole his sight. A thin taper of obsidian steel, it lies loosely in your grip. Veins of neon blood ran through its blade, its color far too bright for Sunday's liking.

But the hue seemed paler than from when you briefly fought with Blade; it isn't as acidic nor as blinding as back then, but it still unnerves him nevertheless.

You throw his Echoes a brief glance with a chuckle. "I've yet to see those before. Are they new?"

"No." Sunday shakes his head. He pets one with his finger to calm it down, as the majority were still baring their metaphorical teeth towards you. "For as long as I can remember, these little ones have been by my side. They're... rather protective."

"I can tell," you hum a laugh. Taking a step forward, you test your luck with the strange creatures. Many back away defensively as you approach, although one or two linger curiously. "Aw, aren't you the cutest?"

Sunday sighs as you pinch one of the Echoes. The doll unleashes a flurry of squeaks as you toy with it, stretching and squishing it like a stuffed animal while its siblings squeak furiously and swarm you again.

Reaching into the crowd, his arm parts the figurative sea and grabs you by the scruff of your neck. With a tug and a pointed look, he pulls you out of the mob's fury.

"Please refrain from teasing them, doctor," Sunday reprimands softly. "I'm afraid they can only take so much before they become overwhelmed with anger."

"How terrifying," you reply cheekily, shrugging off his grip. "But that's a tough request. Just look at them; can you really blame me?"

To further prove your point, you reach out and scratch a nearby Echo under where its chin should be, your smile widening as it struggles to decide between squeaking in indignation and purring in content. Eventually, however, it gives in and leans into your touch, vibrating happily as you scratch it.

After a few minutes of this, Sunday clears his throat. Last time he checked, you were here to spar, not play with his familiars, even if the sight was admittedly endearing.

You spare him a glance, he returns it with a pointed look and raised brows. Thankfully, you get the message and release the Echo without any objections.

Sunday glances to the Echo as it returns dazedly to his side. Raising his hand, he allows it to hover just above his palm.

A silent conversation unfolds between the two of them, with Sunday raising a brow and the Echo assuring him that it was fine - even if he can sense its content, it never hurts to make sure. His halo glows momentarily, before he lowers his hand and dismisses his familiars.

"Are you satisfied now?" he asks in mild amusement, turning back to you.

"Mhm," you hum with a smile, eyes still lingering on the spot where the Echo used to be. "How about you? Ready?"

Imaginary sparks on his rapier, but Sunday pays it little mind. "As ready as I can be, I suppose. But shouldn't you warm up?"

You shake your head. "It isn't necessary. You'll see when on your first mission: You have to be ready to fight at any time and place. Warming up is a luxury reserved for beginners and athletes."

And then, as if to prove your point, Sunday sees you move before a flash of black cuts through his vision, and only by instinct is Sunday able to dodge. Only this time, you don't stop with just one strike, no, it's one after the other and Sunday curses internally and meets you with his rapier.

If Blade is a raging torrent, then you are a lightning storm. You move with the speed and viciousness of a viper, never staying in one place for too long and focusing the majority of your power into swift, seemingly never-ending stabs. It's methodical and almost surgical, the way you jab and twist and cut away at him with terrifying precision, but it's a dance Sunday can get behind.

Strike, shift, dodge, parry, strike again.

It's a rhythm that Sunday eventually falls into once the initial shock ebbs away into an afterthought. He grits his teeth and pushes through, his feet never setting on the ground for more than a second before he's forced to jump aside once more.

And for a moment, his gaze locks with yours, and a brief smile slips onto his lips as he finally finds his figurative footing. Slowly, the dance turns into his favor, and he begins to push back, daring to strike back and attempt at hitting you - but you are too quick, too experienced, and like Blade, he is unsuccessful.

But he's keeping up, surprisingly, and that is enough for him. For now.

At least, that's what he thought.

Once you see that he's acclimated, you switch up the tempo. What was once a waltz morphs into a violent tango. You duck under his arm and jab and then-

He hears a pop. And for a second, there is nothing.

But then comes fire. It burns and stings and eats away at his flesh, and he feels it travel from his extremities all the way to his abdomen, circling, concentrating, enveloping that specific spot.

Sunday gasps and lurches back, hand already clutching his wound before he registers what has happened. He looks down, expecting the worst - he expects blood warming his hand, he expects flesh and ripped skin, he expects a gruesome scene.

But when he tentatively removes his hand, breath rattling his chest, there is almost nothing. There is blood, yes, but not much - only the slightest bit beading at the miniscule incision you've made in his stomach.

He furrows his brows, his mind running at impossible speeds to comprehend what had just happened. First is shock, then there is bewilderment, and then betrayal and then anger and then bewilderment again.

There is not a single hint of remorse on your face. No, your face is an undisturbed lake, already poised to strike again - and you do. This time you scrape his shoulder - but Sunday doesn't let you hit a third time.

The gold of his eyes gleams, and the next time he swings, Imaginary coats his blade and a slash of sound fires. With the shock from being stabbed still lingering, the attacks aren't as strong as he'd like, but they are enough to fend you off until he's recovered.

At least, that was the plan.

Just when he thinks the fire is over, lightning strikes. His body seizes up and he doubles over, coughing hideously into his already sullied hand. His rapier dematerializes. The glow snaps away from his halo and his eyes and his powers are deemed null. Every nerve is set alight, frenzied and panicked, as the rest of his body locks into stone.

"Wha-" Sunday clamps his mouth shut, appalled by his own voice. It slurs and sounds as if it'd been passed through a filter, nothing like what he is meant to sound like.

If you have an answer, he doesn't hear it. But he sees you, he sees your lips moving, and then it's your shoes scrunching up against the floor, and then it's your sword, and he realizes-

Panic seizes him, and then dark violet floods his vision, tinged by hints of the sun but bespeckled by the stars. He can't see, he won't see, his mind racing too fast to process whatever his eyes are telling him. His heart pounds in his ears, and all he can hear is the sound of his own breath.

It's quiet - too quiet.

Is he dying? It seems so. But he doesn't want to die, he can't die, not without the dream, not without that paradise, not without seeing Robin one last time.

And with that thought, the paralysis breaks. Sunday gasps as strength surges into him and he regains control of his body, and he nearly topples over as his knees almost give in from under him. But he manages to catch himself in time and avoids yet another humiliation.

He clutches at his chest, catching his breath. His body still quivers, and yet, he can stand just fine. The venom's sting begins to subside - although not completely, but enough strength has returned so that he can push it to the back of his mind.

But most importantly, he's alive. His hand, the one that isn't dirtied, trails up from his chest to his throat, feeling at where the edge of your sword should've cut. But there is nothing to be found. His skin is intact, with no sign of blade or cut.

"Wow, you've been holding out on me. I'm almost offended."

Sunday flinches at the sound of your voice and he whirls, only to not find you anywhere. His brows furrow in confusion, before you speak again-

"Up here, princess."

Sunday turns, and immediately his mind blanks. He blinks. Then he rubs his eyes. Then he blinks again.

"What in the world...?" he mutters.

At least you seem to be as confused as he is, although fond pride graces your smile despite it all. But that's not the confusing part - or at least, it isn't the most confusing part.

You hang upside-down from the ceiling, dark, vivid indigo thorns binding your feet together and your arms to your side. Your damned sword is still in your hand, but with the vines wrapping around you, you can't make any use of it.

"You tell me," you quip back, shaking your body slightly so that you can swing around like a punching bag. Sunday leans back to avoid you smacking into him. "I mean, they're yours, aren't they?"

What? Sunday shakes his head. "That can't be right. I've never even seen these before. Are you sure you didn't accidentally self-sabotage?"

Your face falls flat into a deadpan. "If I were that sloppy, I wouldn't be here anymore. These vines are yours."

"No," Sunday insists. "My abilities lie solely in the Imaginary, never Quantum. I've never..."

But he has,Sunday suddenly remembers, trailing off. You raise a brow.

"You do know that people aren't confined to one single element, right?" With a flick of your wrist, your sword slashes through the vines, the shreds of Quantum falling to the ground. You land on your feet and catch the handle of your sword in one fluid motion. "Take me for example. When using my sword, I'm of the Physical element. But any other time, I'm of Quantum."

You bend down and pick up a stray vine from the ground. It flickers and warps in your hold, a new constellation shining in its branches whenever you move.

"Webs's got something similar going on - She's both Lightning and Fire," you say idly as you come up to him. "So I'm not sure what you're worried about."

"That's not the issue," Sunday sighs. He steps back when you offer him that stray vine. "I have always been Imaginary. That other element- No, those powers, I have avoided using them for a reason."

As much as he wants to tear his gaze away from those vines, he can't. They glimmer back at him, inviting but patient.

No.

"So you have seen these before." Twirling the vine around your finger, you raise a brow at him. "They're pretty decent, especially to have caught me off guard. Why don't you use them more?"

Sunday sighs.

"They originate from the Harmony. And, well," he breathes an awkward laugh that doesn't quite meet his eyes, "my relationship with Xipe isn't the greatest as of right now. It wouldn't be wise to call upon THEIR blessing. Not unless I want to provoke the wrath of an Aeon."

It isn't the complete truth, but it is enough to get the message across.

And besides, he thinks, Xipe is... weak. Strong for the many, but weak for the few. If Sunday wants to survive in the kind of environment that the Hunters call their norm, he can't rely on such a Path.

No matter how right it feels.

And yet, despite that thought, there's that little nagging voice in the back of his mind. The memories of his earlier practice resurface briefly in his mind.

"If that's what you want," you hum. You let the vine fall from your wrist and dissipate into flickers of light. "But if you ever need help with controlling those things-"

His clipped tone comes out harsher than he intends. "No. You've helped me enough."

But you hardly react. "Suit yourself."

Sunday blinks. He straightens, expecting something more, but all you do is start playing around with your sword, presumably readying yourself for another round.

"Aren't you going to attempt to persuade me otherwise?" he can't help but question.

You snort, flipping your sword into the air. "You're not a child; I'm not going to make your decisions for you."

Catching the dark handle as it falls, you point your blade at him once more, and Sunday instinctively takes upon a defensive stance, rapier poised to protect.

"But, if you want advice," you say, "there's a saying we often go by: 'When you have the chance to make a choice, make one you know you won't regret.'"

Sunday stills.

A choice?

His mind flashes back to the script Elio had given him.

At 22:38:10 system time, the reigning kingdom of Alfeasa-VIII will fall. [Name] will dispense multiple gas bombs at the banquet. They will give you one gas mask to give to a person of your choosing. Whoever you choose will become the next ruler of Alfeasa-VIII. I trust that you will choose wisely.

Always with the choices, it seems - ironic, considering that he never had much of a choice when it came to joining the Hunters. His options were them and the IPC - it didn't take a genius to see which was the safe option.

But... No, that wasn't fair. Up until Elio had spoken to him, he had been completely willing to lay his head beneath the guillotine, to atone for his sins and to accept his punishment.

He had chosen this path.

And Elio had chosen him.

And soon, he must choose a fate for an entire planet.

That's why he is here, after all.

He doesn't need a weak Path such as Harmony - he won't need it. He refuses to.

And with that, his mind is set.

Seeing how he straightens, tosses aside his dirtied glove for a clean one, and brandishes his rapier towards you once more, you smile approvingly.

"Ready for another round?"

You needn't ask. A step, a lunge, and a swing of his wrist, and the dance begins once again.

—

Unfortunately, you never did stop with the stabbing (something about him just "having to get used to it", which he isn't happy about). His entire body is littered with the smallest of scratches, cuts, and punctures from where you've nicked him, and he's pretty sure that half of what runs in his veins is venom instead of blood.

Movement spurs in the corner of his vision. Kicking off of a nearby exercise machine, you leap into the air and bring your sword down upon him in a one-handed strike, but unlike before, Sunday is ready for it.

He jumps out of the way and summons his Echoes at the same time. With their support, strength returns to him, and the Imaginary tree's whispers fear his ears once more. The orchestra sings, and their tune shoots out in sharp flickering missiles towards your landing figure.

But you are quick on your feet and easily maneuver around the projectiles, slipping and swerving like an otter does through water as they shattered around you. The veins of your sword glow, and so does the outline of your form.

His Echoes squeak in warning and he just barely manages to tilt his head in just the right direction before he hears the wall crack behind him.

With a start, he realizes that you'd thrown your sword. Blood beads at his cheek at where it had grazed him. But that's the least of his problems. You're still running at him, after all.

You jump and aim a kick towards his head. Sunday's wings unfold rapidly and he winces as pain slams his joints, but he manages to propel himself out of the way so that you hit the wall instead. Without so much as missing a beat, you grab and wrench out your sword and kick off the wall towards him.

Obsidian meets silver in a fierce clash. Sunday grunts as you press forward, having to use both of his hands to keep his rapier steady against your attack. Rapiers were never meant for blocking, but you leave him little choice.

The standstill persists for a short while, and Sunday realizes you're waiting - waiting for more of that godforsaken poison to kick in. And just as that thought passes through his mind, lightning attacks again, and he jolts, tasting iron.

And that is enough for you to quickly change the tune of the dance.

Maintaining full eye contact, your blade slips from the clash and throws him off balance. Instead it comes up from under, and its handle scrapes against his palm just enough so that you can once again knock his rapier out of his hands and off clattering against the floor. There is a cold sensation against his chin, and Sunday realizes that it's your sword.

He sighs, raising his hands in yet another defeat. With a hum, you step back, and with you goes your sword.

"That makes five now," you hum, fishing out a vial of concerningly colored liquid and tossing it to him. Sunday sighs as he catches it.

"I can hardly call this fair," he mutters, unscrewing the vial and downing it like a shot of vodka. The antidote burns similarly to the alcohol, but rather than being bitter it is sweet like fruit tea - which he appreciates; alcohol was never his favorite beverage, and will never be. "You know, most would call using poison dishonorable."

"Good thing I'm not most people. Wanted criminal, remember?"

Sunday rolls his eyes as the cuts and aftershocks from the poison ebb away. You will never stop bringing that up, will you?

Before he can retort, both of your phones ping. At first, you elect to ignore it, pushing it to the side in favor of opening your mouth to speak. But then it pings again, and again, and again until you get the point and let out a frustrated groan.

"I swear, if it's Elio telling us to buy ink again," you mutter, fishing out your phone. Your brows raise. "Nope, it's worse."

"Who is it?" Sunday asks, grimacing as he flexes one of his hindwings. He must've opened them too quickly back then and pulled something in the process.

"Webs," you reply, already typing out a response. Your sword dematerializes and you walk off to sit down on a nearby bench against the wall. "Let's take a break - oh, and let me see your wing while we're at it."

Pausing, Sunday blinks at you. Was he being too obvious about it?

His phone vibrates in his pocket as he makes his way over to you. This time, however, the pings are more frequent and somehow, more heated, if that makes sense. You're probably arguing with Kafka, or... whatever the two of you do. You're fine enough on your own, and Kafka is... eerie, at best, but put you two in the same room, and Sunday wants nothing more than to bolt.

And to think he's going on a mission with the both of you in a week or two.

He sits down with the injured wing hanging limply towards you, already dreading his future. Almost instantaneously your hand is upon it. A gentle swipe of your thumb over where he's pulled a muscle or two, mending the fibers there, and the lazy yet methodical sifting through his feathers in search of other injuries, and Sunday instantly relaxes, a dull hum thrumming in his chest as he moves to get his phone.

But then, because apparently this universe wouldn't be happy if Sunday didn't suffer at least once every day, he catches sight of the hand he'd coughed into a while ago, and he freezes.

Technically speaking, he knows that his hand had been protected from the grime, and the only dirty thing is the glove sitting in his inventory. He has already replaced the sullied glove, there is nothing diseased on his person anymore.

But it doesn't stop his irrationality from suddenly pulling the already clean glove tight against his fingers.

It's not tight enough - yes, it is, Sunday, you can see the outline of your hands, you can feel it, it's tight enough, you're fine, nothing touched you- But what if it did? What if he coughed something out and it seeped through the glove and it touched his skin and now he's dirty and he should wash his hands- No, calm down, you are fine- but he doesn't know that, should he check? He should check.

Sunday nearly pulls up the wrist of his glove, until his thoughts assault him again- What are you doing, Sunday? Are you crazy? What if they see? You're dirty, you don't need to-

He pulls the glove back on so harshly it might've torn. But it doesn't - he makes sure of that, adjusting it yet again until the voices begin to quiet down enough for him to think properly.

"You okay over there?" you ask suddenly, glancing up from your phone. Sunday's mind starts running again, but Sunday himself appears to be calm.

"I'm fine," he assures, customer service voice resurfacing unconsciously. You raise a brow.

"If you say so," you say, clearly not convinced. Sunday prepares himself for an interrogation, but you return to your phone and drop your hand from his wing, evidently done with your treatment.

Sunday flaps his wing reflexively, pleased to find that the ache is no longer there. His phone vibrates in his hand, reminding him of why the two of you were sitting down and not sparring in the first place.

The second he opens the group chat, he's immediately assaulted with spam messages that make him regret opening it in the first place, and all thoughts of his gloves meld into the background noise of his mind.

Sunday lets out an exasperated sigh along with a shake of his head.

He can already feel his brain cells shriveling and withering away. Who was it that said that the Stellaron Hunters were a terrifying terrorist group, each capable of destroying entire empires with a mere pull of their finger?

Especially Kafka - she was the Hunter with the highest bounty and the most infamous out of all of them. Sunday had already long lost any expectations he had about you, but at least he still had some respect left for the quite frankly, creepy enigma that was Kafka.

Now, he isn't so sure.

Still, he can't deny the amused smile that was slowly creeping up upon his lips. He sneaks a look behind him, no longer feeling your hands on his wings, and he finds a similar grin on your face, a snort escaping you every so often as you play up this charade with Kafka.

A sharp pain smacks his shin. Sunday hisses and glares at you, to which you only smile at him from the corner of your eye.

"Hey, you're supposed to defend me," you chastised, shaking your head in mock disappointment. "Not give the local pyromaniac a reason to attack me."

Sunday rolls his eyes with a smile.

"I'll defend you when you replace this shirt," he says, tugging at the high-necked collar that hugs his form. At least, it did. Now it was littered with cuts and tears in the fabric, all done in by a certain medic. "I'm afraid I won't be able to make much use of it now."

"Hold on, pyromaniac's yelling at me." You quickly type out a few paragraphs in your defense.

Once you've (somewhat) escaped Firefly's wrath, you set the phone down and assess the damage you've done to Sunday's attire. Even if his wounds were now healed and the poison neutralized, fabric wasn't something you could heal.

You raise a brow. "How many of those did I get for you?"

"Five," Sunday answers automatically.

"And the old man has never torn up a single one? I find that hard to believe, considering how rough he can get."

Sunday cringes, his abdomen aching from the mere memory of all the times Blade has drop kicked him there. "To be honest, I'm just as surprised as you are."

You squint at that, before your phone pings again and you check it. Thankfully, it isn't another onslaught of messages from Firefly that you need to defend yourself from, and so you don't pay it much attention.

"I'll ask Webs to stitch it up for you," you say, patting him on the shoulder. "Unless you want me to head back to Euphrosyne and raid them of their entire stock."

Much to his horror, Sunday almost considers it. But then he comes to his senses and shakes his head. "That won't be necessary."

"Are you sure?" You prop your elbow on his shoulder, leaning into him. "It's doable, just give me ten minutes, a couple of bombs, and-"

Sunday pushes your face away with his finger, his ear wing coming up to act as a shield between you and his face. "We are not committing bioterrorism on an innocent planet."

"Who's we? Technically, it's only me, and that planet isn't exactly innocent, if you know what I mean-"

"[Name]."

You raise your hands in surrender as he narrows his eyes. "Alright, point taken. Oh, also, Webs's talking to you. Might want to answer before she starts calling you a homewrecker again."

"We can't have that," Sunday chuckles.

...What did he just get himself into? Sunday slowly turns to gauge your reaction, to which you only shrug, which isn't helpful at all.

"You'll be fine," you say. "Probably. Most likely. 50-50. Depends on the hour. Depends on how much she's had to drink."

He raises a brow. "How comforting," he says dryly.

You pat him deftly on the back before standing up and stretching. "It is what it is. We should go, though. Wouldn't want to keep the good lady waiting."

He moves to follow you, but before he can stand up, his hand comes to touch his throat, and he remembers the shirt, the shirt ruined by your hands.

Panic takes him by storm. He can't be seen like this. You are one thing - you've seen his wings at their worst, mangled and messy, but Kafka is another. Kafka is a higher up. Kafka is a senior. Kafka, in a way, is his boss outside of Elio.

And if she sees him like this, untidy and messy, he'd throw himself out into the cosmos and accept his death there.

But he doesn't have time to go into his room and grab a jacket, does he? Not if you're to head in at the same time, and he refuses to be late or have you wait outside his room while he changes into something more suitable. But what other choice does he have?

He begins to dig at his palms again, but this time, the pain fails to ground him. If anything, it makes his raging thoughts even worse as he thinks, thinks, and thinks of what he can do, what he could do- By THEM, this is why he always made sure everything was in order before he left the room. But you had to ruin-

His fingers dig harder at that thought. Irrational anger is swallowing him, and he tries to drive it down- It's a spar, Sunday.A spar with real swords, no less. He should've expected this. He knew what he was getting into- But for you to stab him? Wait, why is he still sitting down? Stand up, move, already, you idiot- Why did you have to ruin him like this?

He looks up, halo beginning to glow despite his rational telling him to step back and just breathe, only to get smacked in the face by a ball of thick fabric.

"Wha-" He sputters and takes a step back, indignance and pure, utter, bafflement replacing his anger at record speed. Catching the fabric as it falls down, Sunday's eyes widen as he realizes what it is.

"Are you done freaking out?" you ask dryly. Your sword has reappeared in your hand and there's tatters of cloth on the ground by your feet. "Put that on if you're so worried about looking decent."

Sunday turns the hoodie around apprehensively. It isn't the one you bought for him - it's too bright in color for that, and Sunday wasn't one to wear this color if he could help it. Not only that, but the fresh cut where the back is supposed to be is ragged, making it obvious that the hoodie wasn't tailored this way.

You didn't have to... His brows furrow. Why did you do this? For him, of all people- and what you said, before, did you notice yet again?

That won't do. He's never been this bad before. He needs to relearn what made him Sunday, Head of the Oak Family. He needs to relearn the art of performance, needs to remember how to push down weakness and cover it with expensive paint.

"Did you wash this?" he blurts out, tearing his gaze away from the hoodie. You snort.

"Just the fact that you asked me that tells me a lot about how you view me. What the hell. After I just cut it up for you, too?"

"I apologize. It's-" Sunday inhales, wondering how in the world he was going to word this without sounding paranoid. "It's a habit of mine."

You shake your head with a smile, crossing your arms. "Yes, I washed it. It's straight from the inventory, so don't worry, you won't catch anything."

"I didn't mean it like that-"

"I know," you chuckle, "no need to get all worked up. Now are you coming or what?"

Sunday hastens to throw the hoodie over his head, patting his hair into shape as he follows you out of the training room. With his body still admittedly warm from the sparring, it's uncomfortable and admittedly disgusting to have such a thick sweater over all of it, but he'd rather melt covered up as opposed to being exposed in such a disheveled manner.

"Are you sure about this?" he still asks as you step into the hallway. "With all this sweat-"

"I don't care, princess," you sigh. "You don't even have to return the thing. Mercy knows how many hoodies I've got in my wardrobe - letting go of one isn't an issue to me."

Sunday's hand comes to grasp at the neck of the hoodie, feeling the fabric. He looks away from you, his gaze falling to the constant motion of his feet.

"I appreciate it," he murmurs, wings coming up to cover some of his face. You hum.

"Don't mention it. That's what friends are for."

Sunday feels his cheeks warm slightly. His wings shift further up his face. "Friends... That is what we are, isn't it?"

"Yeah," you say as if it were obvious. "What else would we be?"

He shakes his head, his wings unfurling to reveal his soft smile. "No, this is enough. I was simply caught off guard, that's all."

You furrow your brows. "To be called a friend? That's... concerning."

"Don't look too far into it."

"I'll tell Elio to ring you up with a psychiatrist."

"Please don't," he sighs. You snicker.

"No promises."

The conversation fades into a comfortable silence after this, with the only sounds being the gentle pit-pat and tapping of your footsteps. Sunday spots a new graffiti on the wall that separates your door from Silver Wolf's. This one is of a raccoon, one that oddly looks similar to that one grey-haired Trailblazer with the baseball bat. Beside it is an Origami Bird that resembles Silver Wolf. As the two of you pass, a vividly orange flower snaps playfully at him, but unlike the one he's yet to replace, it doesn't seem hungry. It placates under your touch.

"I wasn't lying, by the way," you say suddenly. Sunday glances at you with a tilt of his head. "About what I said in the group chat. You're doing better than any of us expected."

"Thank you?" Sunday isn't sure whether to take it as an insult or a compliment. The corners of your eyes crinkle.

"I'm being serious. I'm surprised you were able to fight through my poison at all, even if it was a mild one. Any other person would've given up the second the paralysis hit. But you managed, somehow. So good on you."

Sunday stiffens. Not knowing what to say, he merely gives you a nod of appreciation. His footsteps slow slightly as you come up to Kafka's mahogany door so that he stands behind you. As you raise your hand to knock, he feels a slight prick at his wrist - and this time, it isn't of his own doing.

As subtle as he can, he risks a glance down at that hand.

The pointed edge of a thorny vine peeks out from under his sleeve, the dark purple taunting as it sways ever-so slightly.

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reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

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monster-effer · 18 days ago

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Christmas Time in the N109 Zone – Sylus x reader

Summary: Can you bring Christmas cheer to the N109 Zone? There’s only one way to find out. Content: Fluff, Sylus and reader are dating, reader is the MC, Christmas cheer (1.3k wc) A/N: I was not planning to write a Christmas fic, but I couldn’t help myself once “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” by Brenda Lee played on Spotify shuffle. I hope y’all are having a lovely holiday season no matter which holiday you may or may not be celebrating! Please enjoy <3

You were on an important mission. Your objective was to bring Christmas cheer to the N109 Zone, specifically Sylus’ place. Since you lost your grandma and Caleb in one fell swoop, you’ve struggled to feel any sort of Christmas cheer around this time of year.

With this plan in mind, your first step was to bring this up to your boyfriend Sylus. After you explained the reason behind your new project, Sylus’ crimson eyes softened, and he nodded in agreement. He would give you anything you asked for, and often things you didn’t think to ask for.

Over the days leading up the holiday you’ve drip fed bits of Christmas cheer into Sylus’ life and home.

December 20th:

You insist that Luke, Kieran and Mephisto join Sylus and you for Christmas photos at the local mall with Santa. Sylus huffs at the suggestion but after some insisting, relents because he can’t say no to you. You try to hold in laugh when the twins relentlessly tease their boss as you all wait in line for photos.

It is a little awkward trying to figure out where everyone will go for the photo. Eventually, you and Sylus end up sitting on the red rug at Santa’s feet, Luke and Kieran are sitting on one of Sant’s legs each while Mephisto perches himself on Santa’s left shoulder.

The resulting picture is silly and heartwarming. Right before the camera flashed Mephisto let out a festive "sqwack!" which caused you to glance up at him with a smile. Sylus is warmly gazing at you with a small smile on his face. Luke and Kieran are wearing their masks but with the addition of elf hats on each of their heads while they hold up bunny ears behind Santa’s head.

You make sure to have several copies in assorted sizes printed out before you leave the mall.

December 21st:

Sylus to comes with you for last minute tree shopping. Initially you were resigned to the idea that only thin, sad looking trees would be left. But a Christmas miracle occurred because you scored a HUGE, 10 foot tree that would fit perfectly under the high ceiling in Sylus’ living room.

Transporting the tree was the next obstacle, but luckily this was resolved with a generous tip from Sylus. And the tree was delivered later that day. Once the tree was placed in the designated corner of the living room, you could enact the next phase of operation: Bring Christmas Cheer. The decorating.

December 22nd:

The morning after bringing home the Christmas tree, you brought over some ornaments, garland, and an eerily familiar looking crow tree topper that you found while browsing online.

You…may have gone overboard with the three boxes of decorations you brought over but you wanted the entire living room to look festive. After having breakfast together, you, Sylus and the twins divided and conquered the decorating tasks as Christmas music played softly in the background. The twins were handling decorating the mantel above the fireplace and hanging up Christmas lights.

You focused on decorating the tree with Sylus. He decorated the upper parts of the tree that you could not reach because the tree was massive. Once you were satisfied with the decorations on the tree, Mephisto took it upon himself to seize the crow tree topper and plop it perfectly onto the point of the tree to finish it off.

December 23rd:

On this day, everyone went their separate way to buy, and wrap presents. You spent the day strolling through Linkon city’s downtown area and the N109 zone trying to drum up ideas of what to get everyone.

So far, this is your progress:

Luke and Kieran: matching ugly sweaters and red, festive crow masks commissioned from 303’s workshop in the N109 zone.

Luke: Crow shaped ice molds since you always catch him crunching on ice no matter the season.

Kieran: Supplies for dart making.

For Mephisto: a shiny Reindeer bauble because he loves collecting little trinkets.

The only person left on your list is Sylus. What would be a good gift for a man that could buy himself anything? You wander around for hours before dejectedly thinking about getting him something generic like a Christmas themed lotion set.

But your eye catches the glint of a beautiful picture frame inside of a photo shop, and you realize you have found the perfect gift for your boyfriend.

December 24th:

In anticipation for Christmas being tomorrow, you requested everyone’s presence at Sylus’ home.

You put on your favorite Christmas song playlist, while you all arrange your wrapped gifts under the tree. After they are all placed, you start baking some gingerbread cookies in Sylus’ kitchen.

While the cookies are sitting on a cooling wrack, you put on some classic Christmas films. You and Sylus cuddle on one of the couches while Luke and Kieran chase Mephisto around the room trying to place a teeny, tiny Santa hat on his head. (They were not successful)

During your childhood, it was a Christmas tradition to stay up until midnight before opening the presents. You try your best to do so, but you are no match for the Christmas movie marathon and Sylus’ body warmth. You end up dozing off.

The next thing you remember is being gently nudged awake. Opening your eyes reveals Sylus looking down at you amusedly. You glance at the clock on his fireplace mantle, and it reads 11:58 pm.

December 25th (midnight):

You smile softly at Sylus and get up to stretch. Then you spot Luke and Kieran cuddled up together and asleep on another couch. After waking them up and summoning Mephisto, you exchange gifts just as the clock hits midnight.

Luke and Kieran enthusiastically rip open their gifts. They both briefly pause as they unearth the identical masks you had commissioned for them, they unceremoniously stand up and run out of the room together. They return a few minutes later proudly wearing their new crow masks. “Thank you, Ms. Hunter,” they say in unison.

Mephisto caws happily as you roll another sparkly bauble his way. He quickly nips it in his beak and flies off to add it to his ever growing pile of trinkets.

You watch in nervous anticipation as Sylus begins to unwrap the gift you handed him. What you bought him is not the most expensive or luxurious gift, but you hope that your intentions shine through.

Once he’s removed all the wrapping paper, he takes a moment to silently scan the titanium picture frame. The frame holds multiple photos of you and him the past few months you’ve shared together.

Finally, after what felt like the world’s longest pause, he looks directly into your eyes and says, “Thank you for this sweetie, I’ll hang this up in my bedroom so I can see it when I fall asleep every morning.” Sylus’ smile is soft in a way you rarely get to see. His usual barriers and walls are down as his appreciation for the gift and his affection for you is clearly on display.

You heart is filled with gooey warmth as you look around the living room. Your gaze reaches the tree then realizing you are the only one who has not opened their presents. You received an astonishingly ugly sweater from Luke and Kieran and a crow plushie “from” Mephisto. Sylus hands you a small black box that holds a beautiful gold locket. When you open the locket a photo of you and Sylus looking blissfully happy greets you. Your grin is bright as you ask him to fasten it around your neck.

You wouldn’t forego all the chaos you had to go through to create the memories made with this chaotic bunch. This year, Christmas has officially made its way to the N109 Zone.

#sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x mc #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace fluff #lads sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #l&ds #l&ds x reader #sylus qin #qin che #sylus fluff #sylus fic #fanfic #monster effer

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chukys-mouthguard · 6 months ago

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why not both

5.4K words

genre: smut

warnings: minors DNI, 18+ content; threesome, dirty talk

featuring: jamie drysdale x female reader x cam york

summary: when two men are fighting over who gets to sleep with you, why not choose both?

note: the reader and Cam often call Jamie “jim” or “jimmy” in this as a nickname. Also, this is my first ever attempt at writing a threesome, these 2 men just really needed to be written together in my opinion 🥵 I’m not super proud of this but hopefully y’all like it 🫶🏼

Giving yourself a once over pulling at the hem of your skirt, you questioned if it was too short. Knowing the boys you were hanging around they’d surely love if it was, so you opted to ask Jamie, the least likely to undress you with his eyes and give you his honest opinion.

“Jamieee!”

Soon enough the jet black haired boy appeared in the doorway of your bathroom, his outfit making you chuckle.

“I swear to god you and Cam really said what’s the most generic outfit to wear for a country music festival…anyways, thoughts?”

Hands on your hips you did a spin, giving him the opportunity to take in your outfit. A black mini skirt and black cowboy boots, paired with a white tank top that read j’adore cowboys and a black cowboy hat to top it off. Jamie’s jaw slightly parted as he looked you up and down.

“I feel like I reallyyy dropped the ball now seeing you.”

He flashed you a shy smile as you took his words as a sign that you looked good. Tipping your cowboy hat to him as you walked past, stealing his High Noon in the process as you tossed back the remnants that were in the can.

“Thanks Jimmy!”

The sounds of Morgan Wallen blasting from the kitchen of the airbnb as you walked in to find Cam pouring shots for you all.

“Where the hell is everyone?”

Noticing the house was empty you checked the time, assuming you were running late as you usually did. However today you managed to be almost 30 minutes early, a new record for you.

“They are on their way and-holy shit, someone is trying to get all the cowboys hot and bothered today huh?”

Cam flashed you a cocky smirk as he handed you a shot, leaning against the counter while he took in your outfit. Playing with the silver sparkly chain that laid over the skin of your exposed stomach.

“Don’t you know that necklaces are meant for your neck?”

Cam leaning in towards you, grinning from ear to ear before you’d mirrored him, your faces inches from one another.

“Don’t you know that I don’t give a fuck?”

Raising your eyebrows you tossed back your shot, giving him a wink before Jamie joined the two of you asking for his own.

The dynamic between the two boys was one you’d never fully understood, but it made sense. Cam was outspoken, a cocky fuck to put it plainly, who would tell you exactly what he wanted to say, whether it was something you wanted to hear or not. The energy between the two of you was always one of trying to one up each other, your competitive sides always on display. But Jamie, he was the total opposite. Soft spoken, mindful of anything and everything that came out of his mouth. He was the one you went to for advice, the late night talks where you’re up until 3am eventually forgetting the point of the conversation.

Though bringing the two of them together always guaranteed a good time. Hot guys, alcohol, and a music festival, a girl was living the dream.

Once the rest of your group had arrived, it was time to head out. The girls of course needing to take tons of pictures before leaving, making the boys roll their eyes but giving them the opportunity to toss back a few more shots.

“Why’d she call you to her room earlier Jim?”

Cam shot Jamie a playful smirk as the boys trailed behind the girls on the long path to the entrance gates, to which he shook his head with a laugh.

“No way dude, don’t even go there. She asked me what I thought of her outfit.”

Rolling his eyes Cam threw an arm over Jamie’s shoulder. His voice now just above a whisper as he didn’t want the group to overhear.

“You’re telling me that outfit she has on isn’t driving you crazy? Cause shit, she is driving me crazy right now in that mini skirt.”

“Keep it in your pants dude!”

Jamie shoved Cam from his side with a laugh, trying to ignore his friend's comments. Cam just putting his hands up with a shrug. “Listen Jim, if you won’t finally make a move, I just might.”

Jamie had hid his feelings for you since the day you’d met. He had never seen a girl so beautiful, but he wasn’t the type to be forward and blunt about how he felt. Unlike Cam who made it known that he thought you were hot and would do anything for a chance with you. Jamie had told Cam in confidence one night how he felt, at the time not knowing that Cam felt the same way. And since then it had been their secret, one that almost brought out the competitiveness between them whenever the three of you got together.

Several hours into the festival, having been spent in the direct sunlight, it was safe to say you were in need of water and food. Thanking yourself for picking an outfit that didn’t have much fabric so you were somewhat cooler than those who had multiple layers. The boys benefited from the fact that they could simply take their shirts off, while you could only put your hair up in hopes of it cooling you down.

“If I don’t get french fries in my mouth in the next five minutes, I might actually die.”

You groaned as you sat on the grass, fanning yourself with you hat as your friend group followed suit. All of you trying to rest before you headed off to the next artist’s stage.

“Someone ask for some french fries?”

Jamie smiled as he sat down next to you, handing you a basket of fries, seeing the look on your face as you practically scarfed them down in seconds.

“I could kiss you right now Jamie oh my god!”

The phrase making his eyes go wide, despite knowing that there was likely no intention behind it. Though he couldn’t help but think back to Cam’s words from earlier. Hoping that maybe today, in a moment of drunken false confidence, he’d work up the courage to finally make a move.

“Oh my god!”

Jamie was shook from his thoughts as he looked at you, concerned that something was wrong.

“What!?”

“You even remembered I love ranch with my fries? God I love you Jamie!”

He softly smiled as he was happy to know he’d made your day remembering such a minor detail about you. The two of you sitting in silence as you refueled yourselves before heading off to the next spot.

“I really do like your outfit today by the way. Sorry I got a little tongue tied when you asked me this morning.”

You watched Jamie slightly blush as he spoke, his eyes not connecting with yours as he seemed almost nervous about his words. A smile on your face as you continue munching on your fries.

“Tongue tied? Because of?”

“How hot you looked, obviously.”

The words catching you off guard coming from Jamie, sure he’d complimented you before but never so bluntly. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or maybe the heat was getting to him. But it was a side of him you liked. Having spent so much time with Cam you thought for sure he would’ve gained some of Cam’s confidence, his boldness. But he’d remained the kind and gentlemanly man he’d been since the day you met, which you appreciated in contrast to Cam. Though sometimes you wanted to see that cockier side of Jamie, and see him be more outspoken. Not let Cam run the show or call the shots so much.

“You think I look hot?”

“Oh absolutely, you alwa-“

“Don’t mind if it do!”

Cam interrupted Jamie’s words as he pushed between the two of you, stealing a few fries from your basket before he tipped his hat to you and blew you a kiss.

“Thank you little lady.”

You rolled your eyes at him, shaking your head before you looked back at Jamie who was awkwardly laughing off the situation. Almost thankful Cam interrupted so he didn’t end up saying what he planned.

You tucked some hair behind your ear as he offered to help you stand up, taking your empty fry basket and tossing it in the trash as your group was ready to start walking again.

“Jamie, you were saying something? Before we were rudely interrupted!”

Making the gesture as if you were going to kick Cam in the butt as you empathized your words, causing Jamie to laugh.

“Just that, you always look hot to me.”

He flashed you a wink before one of the guys had called him away for something, lucky for you as a blush was quickly creeping over your cheeks. Hopefully disguised as you just being flush from the heat so no one would think much of it.

As your group made your way to the final stage of the night, you all had grown eager for the final performer. It was the main reason you’d come to the festival, and you all were ready to sing until your voices gave out.

Onlookers probably thought your group was annoying, the way you all belted out the lyrics, dancing around with one another. But none of you cared, enjoying every second of the night you all had been looking forward to all summer.

As you danced around, you noticed Jamie standing and talking with Trevor, drinks in hand like two awkward freshman at their first college party. Making your way over to them, you grabbed Jamie’s hand, attempting to bring him out of his shell a bit.

“Jamie don’t make me dance alone, come onnn!”

He smiled down at you as you took his hands in yours, laughing as you belted out the words along with the crowd. But despite being as drunk as he was, he wasn’t giving you much to work with. Simply rocking back and forth as he watched you. A smile on his face as he’d wondered if this was his chance, to make his move like Cam had teased him about.

But as the song came to an end, you’d let go of his hands and clapped along with the crowd. Looking on in anticipation as you all tried to predict the next song, Jamie immediately missing the feel of your hands in his as he rejoined Trevor at the back of the group.

The second the slower strums of the guitar started, you threw your hands to your hat in shock, searching the area for Cam as you knew his reaction would be similar. This song had been your favorite from the album, and you’d each had it on repeat for weeks leading up to tonight.

He’d found you from across the group, the two of you immediately belting out the words as he wrapped his arms around you, swaying you to the music before he’d switched to slow dancing.

Jamie watched as you threw your head back laughing, the way Cam’s hands were resting at your waist, beating himself up for being too concerned about what people thought to dance with you how you’d wanted. He couldn’t blame Cam for the way he acted around you, Cam wasn’t afraid to show you how he felt towards you. And you seemed to appreciate the boldness of him. And while Jamie felt he expressed his feelings in other ways, he was starting to think that it wasn’t good enough.

After several hours in the sun and far too much alcohol, you all were ready to head home. The house was only a short walk once outside the fairgrounds, but your feet were killing you in your boots and you were sure they would be covered in blisters. Every step hurt worse than the last, and you were ready to take your boots off and leave them behind.

“Ouch, fuck.”

Jamie noticed you wincing as you walked, and in true Jamie fashion he’d thought up an idea. Stopping you in your tracks, he’d positioned himself in front of you, slightly bending down before instructing you to jump.

Normally you’d question him whether or not he was sober enough to carry you, but with the alcohol flowing through your system and the pain in your feet, you gladly accepted. Wrapping your arms around his neck, his arms around your thighs, the two of you were the closest you’d ever been. Your cheek practically touching his as he carried you with ease down the trail.

His eyes occasionally catching yours before you’d look away embarrassed. Luckily the amount of alcohol in your system and a slight sunburn was hiding any blush that had appeared on your cheeks.

“You good?”

Jamie smirked at you as his eyes traveled from yours to your lips, then back. Something in them was different, and you felt almost nervous to be so close to him. Taking the time to appreciate how good he smelled, the way his face lit up when he looked at you. Sure you’d always thought Jamie was attractive, but you’d never thought about him in that way. But feeling his biceps flex as he carried you with ease, his hands gripping your thighs just beneath your ass, you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol getting you warm or something else.

“Giddy up cowboy!”

The sting of Cam slapping your ass quickly pulled you out of the moment with Jamie as you playfully yelped. A hand leaving Jamie’s neck to grab at your ass, rubbing the sore spot before you cursed Cam.

“Don’t have it on display if you don’t want me touching it, little lady.”

He playfully tipped his hat at you, flashing a wink before he ran to catch up with some of the guys.

“He’s such a perv.”

You laughed as your arm returned to wrap around Jamie’s neck. Noticing how Jamie’s expression had turned a bit annoyed, not used to seeing him that way.

“Jamie, what’s wrong?”

He shook his head, trying to laugh it off and pretend like it was nothing. Embarrassed that he was even getting jealous over Cam’s interactions with you.

“Nothing, it’s, it’s nothing.”

You glared at him as he kept his eyes forward, knowing him all too well to believe that it was simply nothing. He could feel your eyes practically burning a hole in his cheek, finally letting out a sigh as he gave in.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s anything you don’t already know. It’s silly that I’m even bothered by Cam wanting to fuck you so bad.”

You practically choked on your own saliva hearing the words pour from Jamie’s mouth. Sure you knew that Cam flirted with you, hell he flirted with every girl that crossed his path. But either you don’t know him well enough, or you’re just oblivious to him wanting to sleep with you.

“Um, actually I didn’t know that…but why does that bother you?”

Jamie knew he could risk jeopardizing his friendship with you, but Cam was right. He needed to finally man up and make a move or he’d never have the chance.

“Because I obviously like you too. You can’t tell me you’ve never noticed it? I mean I don’t run around slapping your ass and drooling over you in front of your face. But, Cam and I feel the same way. We have for, well forever.”

“So you want to fuck me too?”

Jamie bit his tongue, unsure if he should open up a can of worms with his response. He knew the second he’d admitted how he felt, there was no turning back.

“You fucking told her?”

Cam’s voice was barely above a whisper as he scolded Jamie, shocked to know he’d finally grew a pair and told you how he felt. But not without dragging Cam into the mix along with him.

“Well, you told me to make a move, but then you were busy making a move and I got jealous and she noticed and it just slipped out!”

The two of them whisper bickering back and forth, trying not to make too much noise for you to overhear as you’d gone to take your hat and boots up to your room.

“It slipped out for you to tell our best friend that we both want to fuck her? Jimmy I swear to god I could kill you!”

Walking into the kitchen you couldn’t help but notice the two boys awkwardly stopping their conversation. Both of them smiling at you as if to cover up something.

“Um, hi?”

“Hey, how uh, are your feet feeling?”

Jamie tried his best to break up the awkwardness, Cam slightly laughing at his choice of a convention starter as he walked over to the island to crack open a drink.

“What is going on with you two?”

Leaning on the counter as you snacked on some chips, holding a hand out for Cam to pass you his drink so you could steal a sip. His eyes darting from Jamie to you as he handed it over, a smirk on his lips as he chuckled.

“Look, I know Jamie let the cat out of the bag. So, we just want to know, who would you pick?”

Leaning against the counter as he took his drink back from you, Cam couldn’t help but smile. Crossing his arms over his chest as he awaited your response. Jamie’s eyes wide as he had no part in the questioning, easily you knew this was Cam’s idea.

“I’m sorry?”

Playing dumb you countered the question as you walked over to Cam, jumping up to sit on the counter as he shook his head. He could see right through you, knowing that you knew exactly where he was going with this conversation. But you figured you’d have a little fun with the two of them, make things more interesting.

Cam looked to Jamie, seeing that he wasn’t going to be the one to push the conversation forward, per usual he’d have to be the one to take the lead.

“I said, which one of us would you pick to fuck you?”

Cam’s hands were now on either side of your thighs, his lips inches from yours as he studied your response, seeing how you’d slightly tensed up as he got closer. Your breath hitching in your throat at his forwardness.

“I have to pick?”

A playful tone in your voice as you raised an eyebrow at him, watching as he leaned back against the counter behind him to join Jamie. The two boys in front of you impatiently waiting for a response. Cam assuredly thinking the answer would be him simply on account of his boldness. While Jamie was hoping it was him to knock Cam off his high horse, wanting this competition between the two of them to finally be over with.

“Can I pick both?”

Both of their eyes going wide at your response as they were sure you were joking, earning a slight laugh from you. The idea certainly not one you’d had prior to this very moment, but who could blame you?

Cam had always struck you as the type of guy you’d normally go for. Outspoken, a little bit of an asshole, knows he’s hot and will be sure to remind you of it. But could back it up with his body and his ability to make you blush with every flirtatious comment that came off his lips.

Jamie on the other hand, was more reserved and lacked the surplus of confidence Cam possessed. He’d compliment you, but never too boldly. Always a gentleman and respectful, though you often wondered what he might be hiding should you ever get past his shy demeanor. Like Cam, his body was one you’d occasionally get caught staring at, the both of them strict about their gym routines and it showed.

Still in their cutoff flannels from the festival your eyes landed on their biceps, then traveling to their chests that were peeking out due to one too many buttons being undone. Which you definitely appreciated, having to squeeze your thighs together to help with the building pressure you’d started to feel as you thought about the idea of the two of them finally getting their hands on you after wanting the opportunity for so long.

Cam took notice of you pressing your thighs together, a smirk on his lips as he looked at Jamie, who was clearly hot and bothered himself over the idea as he awkwardly adjusted his stance as if to hide a growing problem in his shorts.

“Well, what do you say Jimmy, should we give the little lady what she wants?”

He waited for a moment, to get some type of response from Jamie, but he clearly was unsure of the idea. Like a deer in headlights as he watched Cam close the distance between the two of you. His lips immediately on yours, sloppy as he’d clearly been aching to have this moment. As predicted, Cam fought you for dominance. His tongue pushing past your lips as his hands gripped your face, a slight moan escaping you as you gripped his ginger curls.

Cam playfully bit your lip before his trailing kisses down to your neck. First sucking, then biting, and finally trailing his tongue over the red marks to soothe the skin.

“Fuck Cam”

He smirked against your skin hearing his name pour from your lips, urging him to continue. As your eyes slowly fluttered open, you found Jamie trying to ease the discomfort in his shorts. Embarrassed when he locked eyes with you, unsure of what to do. Sensing his hesitation to jump in, clearly by Cam taking charge of the situation, you reached a hand out to him. Pulling him towards you by his shirt as his hands softly rested on your thighs.

“Oh come on Jamie, you said you wanted to fuck me right?”

Your tone playful as you teased him, pulling him by the chin to your lips. Fingers tangled in his black locks as his hand moved to your waist, lightly digging into your skin as he finally seemed to relax.

“Atta boy Jimmy, don’t be shy. She wants it just as bad as you do.”

The kiss intensified as Jamie became more comfortable, a hand slowly pushing past your tank top to find your lace covered breasts. His hand immediately bypassing the fabric, earning a moan of approval from you as you broke the kiss, gazing up at both boys with lust filled eyes. The two of them unsure what to do next as they’d not planned for a moment like this.

“How about we go somewhere that gives us a little more space to work with?”

Biting your lip you nodded in agreement, Cam pulling you in for one last kiss before he led the way upstairs. Jamie offering to help you from the counter, to which you accepted. But not without trying to ease his nerves in the process.

Wrapping your arms around his neck you pulled him in for a kiss, his hands gripping at your waist as your legs circled his, inviting him to lift you off the counter.

Jamie carried you upstairs, the two of you stealing more kisses from one another before he laid you on the bed. Cam tossing his shirt to the side, then discarding his shorts before he’d begun trailing kisses up your thighs.

Jamie following suit before joining you on the bed, his lips finding yours again as his hands pulled your tank top over your head, eyes immediately getting ahead of his actions and undressing you further. Your hand dropping to his cock that was pressing against your side through his briefs. Jamie moaning into the kiss as you palmed him over the fabric.

Cam noticed your focus on Jamie, lightly biting at your inner thigh to gain your attention.

“Ow fuck, Cam!”

“Sorry, you were giving him all the attention. I want to know I’m making you feel good too baby.”

His hands hooked into the waistband of your skirt, pulling it down with your thong in one motion. Instinctually you closed your legs, nervous for the boys to see you so vulnerable, but Cam immediately gripped your thighs, pulling them apart as he positioned himself at your core.

“Come on baby, you can’t be shy now. You chose both remember?”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you felt Cam’s tongue trace up your slit, your free hand falling to his hair as you gripped his curls. The other hand pushing past the waistband of Jamie’s briefs, stroking him slowly as his lips fell to your neck. Breath heavy as he moaned against your skin.

“Fuck.”

His moans were needy, telling you’d need more than just your hand.

“Take these off, let me give you more than just a hand.”

Lifting his hips, Jamie pulled down his briefs. His cock slapped against his stomach as your jaw had slightly dropped at the sight. His size definitely not what you’d expected but you weren’t complaining.

“Mmm, you gonna suck his cock while I eat your pussy baby?”

Without warning Cam slips a finger between your folds to accompany the work of his tongue. Your hips arching off the bed into his touch as Jamie pulled you towards the edge of the bed, tilting your jaw to face him as he stroked his cock. Eyes falling to yours for the go ahead before slowly thrusting into your mouth.

“Holy…fuck.”

His hands falling to your hair, guiding you down as far as you’d let him. Gagging as you deepthroated him, Jamie’s breathing harsh as his head fell back at the feeling.

“Mm, she being a good girl for you Jim?”

“So fucking good.”

Jamie’s eyes met yours as he watched you take all of him in your mouth, his grip tightening in your hair as he fought the urge to fuck your face. Wanting to go easy on you and not rush anything.

Cam dipped a second finger into you without warning, picking up his pace as your hips bucked against him. His free hand moving to hold your hips in place. Wanting to help you ride out your orgasm.

“Fuck, oh my god Cam I’m gonna cum.”

“Don’t stop fucking her face Jim, make her take it.”

Jamie grabbed your hair, finally giving in to his urges. Thrusting into you as his cock hit your throat, eyes watering as you felt your climax closing in. Cam’s tongue and fingers in unison as your clenched around them, hips lifting off the bed as you came. Your moans muffled as your mouth was preoccupied with Jamie’s cock.

“Mm, she tastes so fucking good Jim. Come try for yourself.”

Jamie pulled his cock from your lips, taking Cam’s place between your legs. His eyes flashing up to you for approval before you gripped his hair and urged him to taste you.

Cam positioning himself behind you as his hands gripped your breasts, kneading the skin before focusing on your nipples as he watched Jamie along with you.

Jamie’s tongue slowly traced your slit, stopping to pay attention to your clit, the sensation causing you to buck against his face as you were still coming down from your high. Cam’s lips falling to your neck, kissing and biting at the skin before he brought your lips to his.

Hearing you moan into his mouth let him know Jamie was doing a good job. He watched as your hands gripped his hair tight, grinding your hips to match the rhythm of his tongue and fingers.

“You want him to fuck you now? I think you can handle it baby.”

Biting your lip you nodded your head, fingers releasing their grip in Jamie’s hair, though he continued. Enjoying the taste of you as he’d felt you tighten your grip on his fingers, letting him know you were close.

“Tell him what you want, use your words.”

“Please Jamie, fuck me. I need you.”

The words pouring from your lips like magic to his ears, his cock twitching at the sound of you begging for him. Pulling his fingers from you, immediately earning a whine as you already missed the contact. Cam’s fingers soon taking over as Jamie lined himself with your entrance.

He stroked himself a few times before thrusting into you, the feeling of Jamie’s cock stretching you while Cam’s fingers circled your clit had you seeing black.

“How does she feel Jim?”

“So fucking tight, fuck!”

Jamie’s hands gripped your hips as he couldn’t bother going slow, his thrusts hard and quick as he’d already been close since you’d had him in your mouth.

“Does he feel good baby? Stretching you out while I rub your clit?”

Cam’s cocky smirk was working overtime. You always assumed he was a freak, but you swore he was made for sex. The way dirty talk rolled off his lips and had you dripping wet at the sound, you were wondering how you’d gone so long without this.

“Mhm, feels so fucking good. I, I’m so close. Please don’t fucking stop.”

But instead he pulled himself from you, a gasp catching in your throat as you’d had your climax halted from the immediate loss.

You looked at Jamie as he climbed onto the bed, laying down next to you as he stroked himself.

“It’s only fair Cam gets a chance to feel how tight you are too baby.”

The sound of Jamie calling you baby had you melting, rolling over onto your knees as Cam gladly took advantage of the opportunity to fuck you from behind. His grip tight on your hip as he teased your slit with his cock, loving how wet you were.

“Ready baby?”

Ready as you’d ever be.

You’d taken Jamie’s cock back into your mouth as his hands tangled into your hair, forcing you down his length as Cam finally thrusts into you. Your moans muffled as you deepthroated Jamie, Cam’s fingers leaving bruises on your skin as he held you while his thrusts showed no signs of ceasing.

“Fuck, pussy is so tight baby. Jimmy didn’t stretch you out too much huh?”

“Fuck you Cam!”

You watched as Jamie spat back at Cam before his eyes reconnected with yours as your hand began working in unison with your mouth. His hips bucking against you as he grew close to his climax.

“Shit…I’m gonna cum baby. Keep sucking his cock, make sure he cums for you.”

“Mmm, shit. I’m gonna cum.”

Both boys moans turning you on, the low groans and grunts that spilt from their lips as they both were nearing their peaks. Watching as Jamie’s abs twitched while his breaths were short and choppy.

“Yes, fuck, ah”

The boys groaned out almost in unison. Jamie’s head fell back against the pillow as he came, your mouth still on his length as you felt the warmth of his seed hit the back of your throat. Making sure to swallow it all while you felt Cam pull his length from you as he came on your ass.

The three of you sweaty and exhausted as you tried to catch your breath. Cam heading to the restroom to grab a towel, while Jamie found you a tshirt and himself some shorts.

As the three of you got cleaned up, you nestled between the two of them under the blankets. Your head on Jamie’s chest with your legs were tangled with Cam’s, his fingers tracing circles on your thigh.

“So, you think you’ll be more likely to come visit us in Philly next season?”

Cam raised an eyebrow at you while Jamie just laughed, a hand running through your hair as you shrugged.

“I mean, if the visit is anything like tonight, I don’t see why not.”

The boys both smiling at your answer, pleased with themselves that they didn’t disappoint. Happy to have finally gotten the chance at something they were sure would never happen.

“I think the real question we want to know is, who was better? And it’s okay if you need to tell Cam he was better just so his feelings don’t get hurt, I understand.”

Rolling your eyes you could not believe how competitive they truly were. Although you could, considering that they made it a point to trash talk each other during sex.

“Mmm, hate to say it but I think it’s a tie. We might need to try again to solidify a winner?”

#jamie drysdale fic #Jamie Drysdale #Jamie Drysdale smut #cam york #cam York fic #cam York smut #jamie drysdale x reader #nhl imagine #nhl fics #hockey imagine #hockey fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl blurb

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girlbossagenda · 10 months ago

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Hi! I love your posts! Can you do one on: how to stop fawning over pretty more “seemingly” confident and educated women our age? I tend to do fawning and it’s embarrassing because I want to have more successful and confident friends but I end up being a pushover or weirdly admire them wayyyy to much and I become nervous speaking to them. Thanks so much!

HOW TO STOP FAWNING OVER OTHER GIRLS AND BE YOUR N°1 FAN

Omg, this is such and underrated topic!! Thanks for asking, we usually see the beauty and the light in other people, to the point that we stop seeing the true beauty inside of us, sometimes we ever become doormats to our own friends, Time to change! So here's how:

౨ৎCREATE CLEAR BOUNDARIES౨ৎ

Girl stop showing up for every single little thing, especially if they won't do it for you too!

౨ৎDON'T SPEND TIME WITH THE SAME PEOPLE ALL THE TIMES౨ৎ

Try to enter in different rooms with different people and found in which roon you are more appreciated, maybe you shine more in a place full of alternative people or in a place with the classic ig influencer!

౨ৎDON'T BE EASILY ACCESSIBLE౨ৎ

People are going to take you fro granted if you're the one who always shows up, especially if the plan it's last minute, ofc, I'm telling you to not skip every meeting or people will start to not invite you, but take in consideration to live more for yourself.

Sometimes saying "No sorry for this day I can't" or "sorry maybe next time" can help you gain more appeal and make you feel more confident.

౨ৎPUT THEM DOWN OF THE MF PEDESTAL౨ৎ

Why bow to them and not bow to yourself? What makes them so special? Are you not the main character of your life? So act like it! take space, act like the leading role!!!

౨ৎTIME FOR A GLOW UPPP౨ৎ

If you are bringing down your looks, I suggest to actually practice some for of selfcare along side with putting in practice some glow up tips, starting from the basics to then reaching the top level!!(I might post a glow up guide soon!!)

౨ৎGET TO KNOW YOURSELF౨ৎ

When you know yourself, you know how much you are worthy, do it for your younger self, once you get to know how you are inside, you'll start to idolize your own self

౨ৎEDUCATE YOUR SELF౨ৎ

If it's education the proble, gain more knowledge, get educated, but don't always talk about it randomly ofìr people are gonna take you for a show off, instead try to share that knowledge by going to acculturated places, or inviting them out somewhere like a museum, a book review meeting, a festival etc...

Sorry for the late answer, you know In middle school I hed your same problem, but I solved it by simply avoiding this type of girls and focusing on myself, so every single time whe had some type of conversation I could handle it with my brain(I wasn't that much of a beauty back then lol). I hope you have a great day, and I hope I helped xoxo gougeous

-𝓐

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bunbun-mochi · 19 days ago

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Mischievous IV

Luke and Kieran, Ft. Sylus x MC

Warning: Fluff, no one's dying

Word Count: 1376

Preview: It's almost Christmas. MC dragged Luke and Kieran to do everything and everywhere. First to decorated Sylus' place with her to make it more "festive" then took them for Christmas shopping...

@liz9898

Three weeks before Christmas:

The doorbell dinged. Luke and Kieran looked up from the book they were reading in the living room, wondering who could be ringing the doorbell here of all places.

Boss? No, he owns this place.

MC? No, she co-owns the place. (Boss said so).

The twins looked at each other. "Do you think MC forgot the keys?" Luke asked his brother.

Kieran shook his head, "This mansion has face recognition. They'll open the door when they see MC."

Luke stood up from the sofa and walked toward the front door with Kieran followed closely. He looked into the screen next to the door that the security camera shows outdoors. There was no one outside.

Luke pulled a gun from his belt, giving a signal to this brother that there might be danger.

Suddenly, their phone rang. It was MC. Luke nodded to Kieran to answer the phone. Kieran walked behind a wall and whispered, "MC?"

"Kieran! A package just arrived! Could you bring it in for me?"

Kieran looked over to Luke and mouthed, "A package."

Luke checked the security camera again and found the corner of a brown box. He nodded and the twins sighed in relief.

"I thought we might be under attack," Luke laughed.

Kieran laughed with his brother and answered MC, "Yea, yea, we get your package."

"Open it and set it up, please!" MC said before cutting the line.

Luke opened the door and dragged a giant brown box into the house. "What could she get that could be this heavy!" Luke grunted.

Kieran shrugged, "She told us to set it up."

Luke cut open the box and inside is a tree. An Evergreen.

"It's fake." Kieran pointed out.

"Yea, whatever. Help me take this to the living room."

While Luke and Kieran were setting the tree in the corner of the living room. Ropes were holding in the tree.

"Should we cut it?" Kieran asked.

"Idk how else we could get rid of the rope." Luke grabbed a pair of scissors. "Let's get to work."

Luke cut the rope one by one while Kieran watched his brother.

"I don't understand why she would get a fake one. We could get a real one." Kieran said.

"Yea. It's not that expensive. She literally has Boss'- OOF"

Without warning, Luke was flung back. While he was cutting the rope, the weight of the branches flung out, hitting Luke.

Kieran laughed, "You got attacked by a tree!"

"Oh shut the fuck up." Luke groaned.

Then they heard the door open and a loud voice rang, "Oh, Christmas Tree! Oh, Christmas tree!"

Then MC ran to the living room carrying a box and beamed at the giant Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. "Oh my god, it's so beautiful!" She set the box down and opened the lid, revealing all sorts of decorations. "Help me put those ornaments on!"

It took them nearly an hour to put all the ornaments on. MC smiled wider and wider as the Christmas tree was decorated. Then she grabbed a star from the box. "Now we need to get the star on the very tip of the tree. How are we able to do that?"

Kieran huffed, "I got it!" He grabbed the star and walked further away from the tree. Then he turned around and bolted toward the tree. Then he jumped as he could. Onto the tree. Not only did he not jump high enough, he landed on the edge of the tree and fell, taking the tree with him.

MC rubbed her temple, "I don't see how that would work."

"The idea was better in my mind," Kieran groaned.

Two weeks before Christmas:

MC had asked the twins to decorate Sylus' office without Sylus' knowledge. So she dragged Sylus out for a date. She brought all the crafts and ornaments. "Decorate his office while we are out!"

The twins without supervision are practically a disaster about to happen.

“LUKE! HELP!” Kieran shouted.

“Help yourself! I’m busy!” Luke shouted back.

“It’s going to tear off my hair!” Kieran howled. “You don’t seem to be dying, help me!”

“I’m very much dying, thank you very much! Every man for themselves!”

“It’s every man fends for himself!”

“Same thing!”

“You said it wrong!”

“You know what? Fuck you, you’re on your own!” Luke barked.

“No! Help me! Help! Me!”

The screams and cries of the twins were heard from the outside.

MC and Sylus stare at the mansion. MC was sweating profusely while Sylus narrowed his eyes. He looked at the mansion and then at MC.

“Are you hiding something from me, kitten?”

MC nervously laughed, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sylus smirked, “Hm, is that so. Shall we walk in and perhaps it might jog your memory of what you and the twins were planning?”

MC gulped, “H-how do you know?”

Sylus cocked his head to the side, “Sweetie, you seem to forget that I have several security cameras in the house. I can hear what you three are planning about. ”

“I’m blaming that pigeon.” MC scowled.

A sad caw was heard from above them. MC pointed at Mephisto, “You just don’t know how to keep your mouth shut!”

“Sweetie, must I remind you that Mephisto has no choice but to report back to me?”

MC narrowed her eyes, “Tell me, what has Mephisto reported about me? Huh?”

Sylus smirked, “A lot. Which one would you like to know? How about I tell you about the time when you brought a body pillow of me? Or the time when you walked around the mansion naked when none of us were at home? Or the time-“

MC immediately covered his mouth, her face red, “Enough! Enough! I get it! Please stop!”

Then another scream echoed. Sylus rubbed his temples and sighed.

And the couple walked into the house, preparing for a battle they were about to face.

MC and Sylus stare at the twins. Sylus looked mildly frustrated while MC looked so surprised her jaws nearly dropped to the ground.

Saying the office was a mess is an understatement. It was complete chaos. The Christmas lights were all tangled. Winter fir were scattered across the room. There were ripped gift wraps, staples, and tape everywhere. The twins are in the corner of the room, screaming at each other. One was holding a liquid super glue.

MC knew immediately what happened.

The twins' hair was covered in tape and their hands and clothes were glued.

MC felt her eyebrow twitch. She shouldn't have trusted the twins so easily.

One week before Christmas:

Luke, Kieran, and MC are out Christmas shopping. She dragged Luke and Kieran because she doesn’t know what to give to Sylus so she thought Luke and Kieran would know.

Who knew that the twins knew nothing either, despite working under him for years.

Luke shrugged and Kieran said a simple “IDK”.

MC sighed, “at this point, I’ll be giving Sylus air.”

Luke nodded enthusiastically, “This would be perfect. Boss would love anything you give him. If you put the air you breathe in a jar, he’d keep it.”

MC playfully slapped Luke on the back of the head, “Seriously?!”

Kieran exclaimed, “Oh heck yea. I bet that if you give him nothing for Christmas, he'll take you as his gift.”

MC rolled her eyes, "Whatever."

Then Luke gasped, "I know exactly what you should give boss!"

MC beamed, "Tell me!"

Luke pointed ahead. MC traced his line of sight and saw... the lingerie store. Her face immediately turned red. She turned around to tell the twins she was not going to buy one but they were gone.

Luke and Kieran went the the food court. They fist-bumped each other and sent a "You're welcome" message to their boss.

Christmas evening:

Luke and Kieran were in their room, music blasting as they played some card game. MC had given them a custom-made twin dagger, one for each. They were overjoyed.

When it was their boss' present, boss and MC went to his bedroom. Luke and Kieran already knew what they were going to do, so they had their music on max volume.

Their boss owes them one.

Thank you for reading! Happy Holidays to you all!

#luke and kieran #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus fic #sylus fluff #sylus #qin che

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sol-lar-bink · 21 days ago

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Halaro New Ref!!! Halaro New Ref!!!

A revised, finalized look, and a lil deeper look at his electric magic (: ... I prooobably should have designed another outfit for when he's on Venostar, but the Casual look will work for now.

More info under the cut!

Name- Halaro

Age- 25

Gender- Male (He/Him)

Species- Floralian Spider

Sexuality- Bisexual

Occupation/ Job-

During Sectonia's reign= Royal Cleaner/ Butler

After the events of Triple Deluxe = Works at Castle Dedede & also works with Puffe as part of Haltmann Works Company, Galactic delivery services.

Future - Works with Medea in her bakery 💙🧡

Bio- Halaro is a Floralian spider who grew up in Wild World with his parents. He worked for Sectonia for a few years before her demise in Triple Deluxe. Afterwards, he remains at Castle Dedede, only for adventure to drag him away from Planet Popstar and explore the galaxy!

Halaro himself is a pretty standard spider that you'd expect from Floralia. Black horns with cool ivory tips, a band of orange separating the segments. He has 6 orange diamond shaped spider eyes, two pure white eyes and orange fangs. His hair is a warm grey color, and is rather spiky, pointing downwards. The top of his hair is smooth. Six floating hands in white gloves, with a dark orange cuff and triangle pattern on the back of the gloves- and the thumb too.

As a kid he was happy and bouncy, always making friends, happy to help others... but once he got older, his personality shifted (Mostly due to his first jobs boss being such a terrible person). He keeps to himself, he gets easily irritated, he can get loud if pushed over the edge, but deep down he's still trying to be nice. The people he does care for help bring him out of that secluded shell.

Story: He grew up with his mother and father in Wild World, living in an jungle beside one of the many golden pyramids. His father was a chief leader, while his mother came from Royal Road. Halaro was a wild kid, but as he grew, he became more interested in his mothers live in Royal Road. They would go to yearly festivals, and he loved them. This was the spark that made Halaro want to live and work there.

Fast forward to him as an adult, he worked at a blacksmith with a Bonkers boss who abused and overworked him. Despite living through this nightmare, he would eventually meet Taranza, who offered him a job in the castle as Halaro had unknowingly been tending to some of the castles pieces, including some of Sectonia's jewelry.

After two long years of waiting to get in... by the time he arrived at the castle, the Queen was no longer recognizable to him.

His time in the castle was tough, but leagues better than the prior job. He started out as a simple polish boy, but would quickly become one of the main butlers.

He'd befriend Taranza and Medea, one of the maids- as well as meeting his mirror counter-part, Halara, whom he pretends is a long- lost cousin or step sister... they could never agree on an idea.

After Sectonia's fall, and Dedede destroying the Dimensional Mirror, Halaro and most of the others end up living in Castle Dedede, after he so generously offers a place to stay while Sectonia's castle is in need of repair.

Life seems chill for once, until they realize Halara can't get home with the mirror being shattered. Its pieces cleverly scattered across Dreamland by Dedede, so that it won't harm anyone again.

Halaro, Halara, Medea and a People of the Sky (PotS) named Petalia go in search of the mirror shards. Halaro teams up with Marx at one point, which leads him to sneaking into a Haltmann Works. Delivery Ship, where he would be whisked away with one of the mirror shards in his pocket.

Puffe, the delivery driver immediately punishes them and takes them to headquarters, where Susie decides the two boys must repay their actions through work. Halaro gets paired with Puffe, while Marx gets paired with Pierce.

It would be this decision that leads Halaro and Puffe on a strange quest across the galaxy, finding mirrors of similar power scattered around the various planets.

One of such is Venostar, where Puffe's ship is attacked by a strange creature, crash landing on the planet and separating the two. It is on Venostar that Halaro meets Toxecia, Sylvette, Galene and the Mage Sisters; Zan Partizanne later teaching him electric magic, sensing a potential in him.

There's more to the stories to come, but I'll save that for later!

#binkart #halaro #floralian #kirby #kirby oc #kirbyocs #ocs

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crystallizedtwilight · 2 months ago

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🎃 LSBC Questions: Part 22! 🎃

Lock, Shock, Barrel, and Calliope questions that call for quick answers will be under the cut in batches of 10-15 🧡

Previous bulk questions batch

Lock argues that his hair should factor into his height. Shock always wears a giant hat. Shoes would face the same argument 😂

Shock loves to read informational books about magic, Barrel likes comic books, and Lock hates reading.

As for TV, they don't have one, and mostly watch youtube for entertainment. However, they do have a pull-down screen for their living room projector and they like to watch movies there!

Zero is beloved by the trio and especially by Calliope! [1] [2] [3] Zero loves them back and if they're ever tromping through the pumpkin patch sometimes they'll take him along.

Lock takes Barrel's hoodie sometimes (It's not red but it IS comfy so it'll do) [1] [2]

I imagine that Halloween Town citizens are very long-lived under normal circumstances, and some can potentially be immortal, but all can be killed by means specific to their species. Wooden stakes for vampires, silver bullets for werewolves, banishing or ascending ghosts, being shot down from the sky while they try to take over Christmas for SOMEBODY we know...Luckily, with Oogie gone, Halloween Town is a safe haven for the supernatural so all residents are living very safe and happy lives there!

They hate tea 😭 Lock says if he wants to drink gross leaf water he'll take a sip from the shore of the town lake. They're not even big coffee fans, but they love sweet things like apple cider and hot chocolate!

Barrel knew Lock was prone to fleeing when troubled and has learned to give him space when he needs it, but that distance had never lasted an entire week before and Barrel knew something wasn't right. At that point he was worried and wanted to fix it as soon as possible.

"ZOOM Lock is gone" is a common theme whenever Lock doesn't want to talk about something 😂 if you don't GRAB him he's just miles down the road.

The Town Trio have been BFFs since kindergarten and still hang out together this day! They stayed in school and are more well-mannered than the outskirts trio we know and love. They're genuinely good kids. [1] [2] [3] [4]

Much more graceful! Sally welcomed her with "I know starting over can be scary, but we're here for you if we need us."

Thank you! Calliope tags along for shenanigans on Halloween night, but when it's just her and Shock, they both prefer calmer activities. However, Calliope can be mischievous when she wants! [1] [2]

The real question is: Is Christmas ready for THEM

Lock Shock and Barrel can often be found causing mischief in town, exploring earth festivities via the tomb portals, or just lounging around (calm days are good for keeping people on their toes, yunno).

As for the other Halloween Town residents, the planning of Halloween is ongoing year-round, but many have their own interests that keep the town charming:

Pay a visit to the Pumpkin Queen if you feel like you need some new clothes custom-sewn for your style! Stop by Cyclops’ diner where his passion for desserts makes every item on the menu delicious (he recommends the “Jelly Brains”) The town band will always play you a song and they're happy to take requests (be sure to tip!) The elder witches will always have a potion on-hand to cure your ailments, grant you luck, or liven up your day.

Dr. Finkelstein can build you any kind of invention (though he and Jewel will talk your ear off about what a wonderful job their daughter is doing as queen)

And that's just to name a few of the typical ongoings that make Halloween Town so frightful and delightful! 🧡

#tnbc bulk questions

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forest-meadow · 3 months ago

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Drinks and Confessions

Shinso x Bakugou x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: cursing

@pearl-blue-musings I figured you'd want to read it lolz

The three of you hanging out and having drinks wasn’t so uncommon. What was uncommon was Katsuki drinking as much as he did that night.

“You wanna slow down there?” Hitoshi asked him.

Katsuki glared at his boyfriend and downed the rest of his second drink.

Hitoshi put his hands up in surrender.

You returned to your living room with a bottle of your favorite wine, a bottle of Hitoshi’s, and two wine glasses, “Geez, Suki, you have a rough day or something?” you ask as you settle on the floor across the coffee table from them.

“Something like that,” he gruffs.

You shrug, open Hitoshi’s bottle of wine, and pour him a generous glass before handing it to him.

“Thanks, kitten.”

Again, nothing uncommon, but recently the pet name he had for you had started making you feel hot at the collar.

“I need another drink.”

“Get some water first, Kats,” Hitoshi ordered.

“Fuck off,” Katsuki flipped him the bird to really nail down his point.

You watched the blond as he waltzed into your kitchen like he owned it, which he technically did, since he often paid your rent without your asking or permission, and poured himself another glass of whiskey, “What’s got his panties in a twist?” you asked Hitoshi.

“He’s nervous,” he said into his wine glass before taking a long drink of wine.

You snorted, “Katsuki? Nervous? About what? He’s only ever nervous around All Might and emotional things.”

Hitoshi chuckled as the man in question rejoined the two of you and dropped into his place beside his lover. The purple haired man draped his legs across Katsuki’s. You noticed his hands remained on his lap and away from Hitoshi’s calves where they would usually rest. His palms must be sweaty, you realized. He only kept his hands to himself in private like this when his palms were sweating. Maybe he really was nervous.

“So, though you’re both welcome whenever you want, you don’t usually show up unannounced. What can I do for ya?” you asked the pair.

You noticed Katsuki stare at you with more intensity than he usually did. It made you feel things in forbidden places. You felt your neck heat up even more under his gaze.

“No reason in particular. Just had a long day at work and wanted to see our girl,” Hitoshi watched you with a careful eye, making sure not to stare too long to draw your attention, but making sure to catalog all of your reactions.

Katsuki smirked as he saw you shift in your seat on the floor.

“Our girl,” Hitoshi had said. How you would love to be their girl. You’d had a crush on the both of them for years now, ever since you saw them on the tv for their first sports festival in your living room.

You weren’t a hero by any means, rather a barista at the cafe Hitoshi frequented. When you saw him the first time he came in during your shift, you didn’t know what to do at first, with yourself or towards him. But you realized he was a person, so you treated him with the kindness and civility you would any other customer. He seemed slightly surprised, as it was pretty obvious you had recognized him, underground hero or not.

“Can I get a name for the order?” you asked him with a smile.

“Er, Shinso,” he said.

Your smile broadened, “It’s nice to meet you, Shinso. I’m Y/N.”

He left a $20 tip in your jar that day.

Katsuki you didn’t meet until a few weeks after. They had come in holding hands and while you were elated that the both of them had found someone, you couldn’t help the disappointment that sank into your stomach.

“Let me guess,” you had said, “This is who you buy all those caramel macchiatos for?”

Shinso gave a wry smile, “How’d you guess?”

You shrugged, “You seem more like the black coffee kinda guy.”

He had nodded, “Can we get your number? We’d love to hang out sometime,” wouldn’t we, Tsuki?”

Bakugou had rolled his eyes, you didn’t know him well enough to tell if it was playful or not, “Whatever.”

“That’s as close as we’ll get to a yes, I’m afraid,” Shinso said.

You chuckled, “I’ll out my number on your cup for you.”

“Thanks, kitten.”

You hurried behind the espresso machines to hide your flusteredness.

That had been three years ago. By now, the three of you were thick as thieves and you knew them like the back of your hand.

You took a drink from your glass. You knew better than to ask them about work. If they wanted to share or felt it was something you needed to know, you would already be talking about it.

Katsuki finished the rest of his third drink and went to get up for a fourth. Hitoshi deftly pulled the glass out of his hand as he stood to which Katsuki glared at him.

“I’m a big boy, Hitoshi. I know my limit.”

“When’s the last time you ate, big boy?” you asked from your place on the floor.

Katsuki turned his glare to you, “Nobody asked you, sweets.”

You snorted and returned the glare, “I wasn’t aware I had to be invited to a conversation between the two of you now.”

“You don’t,” Hitoshi said firmly, “Kats. A tall glass of water, then you can have another drink. Please and thank you.”

Katsuki grunted and went to the kitchen, getting himself a tall glass of water like he was instructed, and a snack to top it off.

“When’s the last time you went to the shops, sweets?” he asked.

You shrugged, “Been a while. Why?”

“You’ve just got junk,” he complained.

You shrugged again, “When money’s tight, you get what’s cheap and easy, not what’s healthy. But you wouldn’t know about that.” you were still bitter about his comment from a minute ago.

Hitoshi looked to the heavens as you finished your first glass of wine. He knew you didn’t need the alcohol to keep Katsuki on his toes like this.

“You could just ask,” Katuski brought his glass of water with him as he returned to his seat and popped a piece of kettle corn in his mouth and chewed.

“You know I hate asking for that sort of thing from you, Tsuki,” you said as you poured yourself a second generous glass of wine.

“Why not? I like taking care of you,” he said, then amended, “We like taking care of you.”

Hitoshi ran a hand down his face, “See, this is why you should have quit while you were ahead, Katsuki.”

You looked between the two of them, “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means we like ya, sweets,” Katsuki said.

“Well yeah I assumed as much or we wouldn’t be here?” you were beyond confused at this point, if not a tiny bit hopeful that this meant what you hoped it meant.

“No, like, we-” Katsuki ran a hand down his face with a groan, “Toshi, you take over.”

“With pleasure,” the purple haired man said.

You watched cautiously as Hitoshi swung his legs off of Katsuki’s lap, set his half empty glass down, and faced you fully as he folded his hands together.

“Y/N.”

Oh gods. He used your name. Not “Kitten” or some other cutesy name he would sometimes use to get you flustered. But your name.

“Hitoshi?” you were beyond nervous now.

“Katsuki and I have done a lot of talking lately,” he said.

Oh gods. They were going to leave you. They didn’t want you in their life anymore. They-

“We wanted to extend the invitation to join our relationship to you,” Hitoshi said plainly.

You choked on air.

“You what?”

Katsuki groaned, “I told you this was a bad idea.”

“Shut up, Tsuki, that’s not what I meant,” you snapped at him.

His attention snapped to you, “It isn’t?” he said it more like a statement than a question.

“No. I meant it as in I’ve had a stupid school girl crush on the both of you since I first saw you on tv for your first sports festival and it’s only gotten worse since the two of you have come into my life and this feels like I’m dreaming,” you ramnbled.

Hitoshi smirked at his boyfriend, “Fuckin’ told you.”

“Shut up, lavender.”

“So?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “This isn’t a dream?”

“Not a dream, kitten. We want you to be ours. Officially. Since you’re too fuckin polite to pick up on any hints we tried to drop you,” Hitoshi chuckled.

You grinned, “I didn’t want to butt in where I wasn’t wanted.”

“Believe me sweets, you’re more than wanted, “ Katsuki said, his gaze darkening a little.

Hitoshi nudged him, “Later, Tsuki. We don’t want to overwhelm her.”

You laughed, “Oh my god this is real. Holy shit.”

“Real as I am,” Hitoshi reassured. “So what do you say, kitten?”

“Yes!”

#monet's desk #shinso x reader #bakugou x reader #shinso hitoshi x reader #hitoshi shinso x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #hitoshi shinso #shinso hitoshi #shinso x bakugou #bakugou x shinso #shinso x bakugou x reader

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jgthirlwell · 10 days ago

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2024 Year In Review

2024 was another intense year. It was the first time in twenty years I wasn’t scoring a show for TV, and I got to concentrate on finishing albums and starting new projects. The year began with the premiere of my chamber symphony for Alterity Chamber Orchestra in Orlando and ended with guest-vocalizing with the Losers Lounge Band on a Bowie classic at Joe's Pub in NYC. I completed new albums for Xordox and Venture Bros, to be released in 2025. I released an Archer Soundtrack album and scored a Harry Smith film for L’Etrange Festival in Paris. Worked with Laura Wolf on a new project and premiered my Ensemble project at the Big Ears Festival in Tennessee. Recorded many overdubs for the next Foetus album, also to be released in 2025. Began a new series of sculptural wall pieces. We lost Phill Niblock in January and Steve Albini in May. We lost my colleague Roli Mosimann in September. I still woke up 5am in a panic on too many occasions. As a cultural omnivore, many sights, sounds and stimuli penetrated me.

Albums that I enjoyed in 2024

Sleepytime Gorilla Museum of the Last Human Being (Pelagic) Present This is not the end (Cuneiform) Tristan Perich/Ensemble 0 Open Symmetry (Erased Tapes) Drew McDowall A Thread Silvered and Trembling (Dais) Warrington-Runcorn New Town Development Plan Your Community Hub (Castles In Space) Extra Life The Sacred Vowel (Bandcamp) Geordie Greep The New Sound (Rough Trade) D-en Haut D-en Haut (Pagan) Aksumi Fleeting Future + Lines (Tonal Union) Louis Cole Nothing (Brainfeeder) Uniform American Standard (Sacred Bones) Zeal and Ardor Greif (Redacted) Shellac To All Trains (Touch and Go) Bangladeafy Vulture (Nefarious Industries) Ekko Astral Pink Balloons (Topshelf Records) Kee Avil Spine (Constellation) Fennesz Mosaic (Touch) Marewren Ukouk Round singing Voices of the Ainu 2012-2024 (Pingipung) Elysian Fields What The Thunder Said (Ojet) Melvins Tarantula Heart (Ipecac) Blood Incantation Absolute Elsewhere (Century Media) Aoife O’Donovan All My Friends (Yep Roc) Anna Thorvaldsdottir Aerial (Sono Luminus) Grace Bergere A Little Blood (Casa Gogol) Bob Vylan Humble As The Sun (Ghost Theatre 2) Andy Akiho Kin (Aki Rhythm) Yannis Kyriakides Hypnokaseta (Unsounds) Big | Brave A Chaos of Flowers (Thrill Jockey) The The Ensoulment (Cinéola / earMUSIC) Beth Gibbons Lives Outgrown (Domino) Beak >>>> / Kosmik Musik (Invada) Sebastian Tropic OST (Ed Banger) Chaser Planned Obsolescence (Decoherence Records) Jesus Lizard Rack (Ipecac) Ex East Islander Norther (Rocket Recordings)

Some books I enjoyed

Yuval Noah Harari Nexus Chris Stein Under A Rock Bill Buford Among The Thugs Patricia Highsmith The Talented Mr Ripley Sy Montgomery Soul Of An Octopus Malcolm Gladwell Revenge Of The Tipping Point

Some films I enjoyed

Furiosa ZEF Story Of Die Antwoord Joker Folie A Deux Kneecap Bad Faith Rebel Ridge Hundreds Of Beavers Ministry Of Ungentlemanly Behavior Teachers Lounge

I saw hundreds of concerts in 2024. Some highlights:

01.24.24 The Chisel at Bowery Ballroom 02.15.24 Jack Quartet play Austin Wulliman at Roulette Intermedium NYC. 03.09.24 Louis Cole / Genevieve Artadi at Brooklyn Steel 03.14.24 Kate NV at the Atrium at Lincoln Center 03.18.24 Sleepytime Gorilla Museum at Elsewhere in Brooklyn 03.23.24 Secret Chiefs 3 at Big Ears Festival 03.23.24 Hatis Noit at St John’s Cathedral in Knoxville TN for the Big Ears Festival 03.24.24 Kenny Wollesen’s Sonic Massage at Knoxville Art Museum for the Big Ears Festival 03.24.24 Elliott Sharp’s Void Patrol (with guests Cyro Batista and Colin Stetson) at Big Ears Festival 03.24.24 Aoife O'Donovan with the Knoxville Symphony Chamber Orchestra at the Big Ears Festival 04.01.24 Caleb Landry Jones at The Sultan Room i 04.06.24 Lovely Little Girls at Hart Bar. 04.19.24 Keith Fullerton Whitman performs ‘Playthroughs’ at Ambient Church 04.23.24 Mandy Indiana at Elsewhere in Brooklyn 04.26.24 Knower at the Brooklyn Bowl 05.04.24 Oberlin Contemporary Music Ensemble, directed by Tim Weiss, play Alex Paxton at Long Play Festival 05.04.24 Fuji|||||||||||ta at Long Play Festival 05.05.24 Ligeti Quartet perform Ligeti + Anna Meredith at Long Play Festival 05.17.23 Swans at Music Hall of Williamsburg 05.23.24 The Rolling Stones played at Met Life Stadium in New Jersey. 05.24.24 John Zorn’s ensemble, the New Masada Quartet 06.08.24 Rebekah Heller’s Bassoon Ensemble 06.25.24 Mdou Moctar at Bowery Ballroom NYC 07.12.24 C.Gibbs Review at Barbes 07.23.24 Bangladeafy at The Sultan Room in Brooklyn 08.18.24 Kid Congo and the Pink Monkey Birds at Union Pool 08.23.24 Alarm Will Sound play Marcos Balter’s Code-Switching, 09.30.24 Uniform at Bowery Ballroom 09.04.24 King Dunn aka King Buzzo (Melvins) and Trevor Dunn (Mr Bungle etc) at Music Hall of Williamsburg + White Eagle Hall in Jersey City. 09.13.24 Steven Bernstein and Nels Cline with the Arturo O'Farrill Latin Jazz Orchestra, playing James Bond themes. At Bryant Park in NYC. 09.15.24 PJ Harvey at Terminal 5, NYC 10.11.24 John Zorn’s Cobra in a 40th anniversary performance at Roulette Intermedium in Brooklyn 10.17.25 The The played at the Beacon Theater 10.22.24 Die Antwoord at Brooklyn Steel, 10.23.24 Boris played at Racket in NYC. 11.01.24 William Basinski for Age Of Reflections 11.04.24 Growing performing for Abasement at Artists Space in Manhattan 11.06.24 Pioneer Works presented a concert of Louis Cole Choral Music. 11.08.24 Lankum at Warsaw in Brooklyn 11.17.24 sunn o))) at Lincoln Center for the Unsound Festival 11.21.24 Extra Life at TV Eye. 11.24.24 Zeal and Ardor at Le Poisson Rouge NYC 11.25.24 Axiom, comprised of Juilliard students and conducted by Jeffrey Milarsky playing Solstice Ritual by Augusta Read Thomas 11.26.24 Blood Incantation at Elsewhere 12.01.24 Pharmakon’s awesomely unhinged performance at Union Pool. 12.11.24 Jesus Lizard played a great set at Brooklyn Steel 12.28.24 Grace Bergere / Jon Spencer / Gogol Bordello Capitol Theater Port Chester

Honorable mention to the multiple concerts I attended at the Abasement series at Artist Space, as well as multiple shows by S.E.M. Ensemble and Wet Ink Ensemble

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portraitofalinkonfyre · 10 days ago

Text

12 Days of Christmas: 2024 Christmas Event

Day 7: Snowed In

Pairing: Four x Reader

Warning(s): N/A

Notes: I honestly love this one lol; did get a bit suggestive, but I'm keeping this clean for y'all.

Main Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Previous Day | Next Day

Well, you thought as you stared out the half-covered window into a veritable sea of freshly-fallen snow, there's no way I'm going to work today. It wasn't often that it snowed in your part of Hyrule, and even rarer that it reached the awe-inspiring height of what had to be mid-thigh on you. Fuck that, you might as well use those vacation days you'd saved up for moments like these, especially when your boss was a tiny old lady who lived a mile up the road, meaning she wouldn't be caught dead wading through the catastrophe that was last night's blizzard.

There was a creak, and you were torn from your thoughts when a pair of arms wrapped around your waist. "You're up early," Four murmured against your shoulder, his breath puffing across the bared skin where your tunic sagged, and you couldn't help but huff a laugh at the countless memories of him waking before dawn. Sometimes it was nightmares, and occasionally insomnia, but you'd found it was usually to get a head start in the forge. You had no complaints, especially when he wore that sleeveless tunic beneath his heavy apron. A contemplative silence followed. The snow outside continued to fall. "...You're not going to work, are you?"

You shook your head, placing your hand over his clasped ones. "Not a chance, I value my life."

"Good, I was worried," came his smartass response, and you smacked his wrist in retribution. "Sorry, sorry, I was distracted."

You shouldn't; it was a trap of the highest caliber, primed and waiting. Despite this revelation, you opened your mouth for something that wasn't food or dick and took the painfully obvious bait. "By what?"

Four pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder before delivering the very blatant, very terrible punchline: "You."

"Wow, for realsies?!" You gushed, and the sheer force of his eye roll could have broken down more doors than you'd seen the knights of Hyrule do on their off-time.

"You're a menace, you know that?"

You didn't even try to contain your glee. "Absolutely. It's my best trait."

Four, unfortunately, was less than impressed. "That's beside the point," he huffed, the tip of his nose ghosting over your flesh.

"Actually, I think it is the point," you shot back, giggling when he held you a bit tighter, fingers digging into your flesh in a way that made you want to take the holiday festivities to the bedroom. Again. "But since you're so desperate to change the subject since I'm obviously right, how do suppose we spend our first official snow day?"

"I have a few ideas," responded your boyfriend, a little too casually to be completely innocent.

"Oo, like that creaky floorboard by the kitchen?" you asked like the little shit you were. "Or that very dangerous loose nail on the porch?"

"Actually–"

"Or! Didn't you say the forge needs a deep clean?" you smirked, turning around in his grip to wrap your own arms around his shoulders, giggling when the point of his nose brushed your sternum.

Four's eyes narrowed, and you swore they flashed a bright, brilliant blue before fading to a familiar, muddy green. Despite the height difference, his gaze made you feel like he was at least a foot taller. "It will when I'm done with you."

"Wow, no breakfast first?" you joked, watching as the tips of his ears pinked, though there was nary a crack in the expression he was giving you.

There it was; a deep, unfiltered violet. "Who said I wouldn't be eating?"

Well, hot diddly darn, he had you there.

Despite the many, many innuendos shared between you and Four throughout the morning, the forge remained mercifully undefiled, which was a miracle unto itself.

You didn't flinch when the Hero of the Four Sword tugged your arm, expression drawn. "It's no problem, I can–"

"No," you adjusted your bandana and glared at the top corner of the room, where a large spiderweb resided. Let it never be said that you two skimped on cleaning duties, but the frequent adventuring had taken a larger toll than you originally assumed. "I've got this, Link. You're too young, too beautiful."

"You say that like you're not–"

"Hush, beloved," you used your free hand to press a finger to his lips, making sure to sound as dramatic as possible. Fuck common sense, you wanted to be ungovernable. That, and the romance novels you'd taken to in his absence. "With love comes sacrifice, and this is mine. Do not despair, my fate is sealed."

Four's gaze was one of amused exasperation. He released your arm, running a hand through his stick-straight strands. "At least let me get you a chair? We both know that broom isn't long enough."

"If you must," you simpered, leaning on the broom like an overly emotional maiden, just shy of placing the back of your hand across your forehead. "Know this: every second lost is a sweet sorrow, my love."

"...How do you feel about expanding your reading horizons to nonfiction?" your boyfriend asked dryly, irises swelling with a familiar purple color.

"Gasp!" You slapped a hand over your heart. "Blasphemy!"

Even though Four was pretending to be unamused, not even a fool couldn't miss the way the corners his mouth ticked upwards. "...I'll get that chair."

"You're the man," you grinned.

"I'm the man."

You were ready; the chair was properly positioned beneath the web and the broom was appropriately brandished in your dominant hand, aimed directly at the bane of your sleep schedule. That damn spider.

"You've got this," Four encouraged from below, holding the chair to prevent it from tottering. "Remember: strike quickly to disarm your opponent."

"Got it," you said, eyes trained on said opponent. The broom was no sword, but it might as well have been in your hands. "Strike quickly... like a bee. A really quick bee."

"Buzz buzz," were Four's next words as his intrusive thoughts won once again.

"Fuck yeah, baby," you grinned, drawing your arm back, pointing the base of the broom at the web. "Buzz me up."

"Oh, I'll–"

It happened so quickly. You inhaled. Exhaled. Prepared yourself for the possibility of failure, though it was hardly an option. Then, you struck, slamming your broom into the epicenter of the woven threads with a dull thud.

Then, out of nowhere, a dark blur whizzed past your face, and you felt something land in your hair.

You couldn't help it. You screamed.

"Oh my Hylia!"

It was on you; it was fucking on you!!

You shrieked again when something skittered across your scalp, practically tearing your bandana off to dislodge the creature, which was your second mistake of the afternoon. The bandana, complete with a small black blog clinging to the edge, sailed downwards, splatting against Four's very confused, very shocked face.

"Wha–" The hero let out a muffled sound of bafflement, tearing the cloth away from his beautiful face, and promptly gasped when he caught sight of the very alive, very fast addition. His hands scrabbled to remove it, but the fucker was quick. "By the three–!?"

Amid the chaos, you managed to hop down from the chair, brandishing your broom like a weapon of m-ass destruction, feeling nearly feral from the adrenaline rushing through your veins. "Stay still!"

Four's gaze snapped up, and you caught the very second he registered your next move. Terror coated his expression. "WAIT–!"

You whacked the broom against his chest, screaming in terror when the spider skittered onto the thick bristles, heading straight for you. A string of curses left your mouth, and you would have been impressed with their variety had you not feared for your very life, flinging the object away like it had burned you.

It clattered to the floor. The spider escaped. You felt ready to pass out.

Slowly, you turned to Four, wheezing and clutching his chest. Slowly, you spoke.

"...Fire rod?"

A determined expression crossed the hero's face. He straightened. "Fire rod."

Gotta put some holiday fails SOMEWHERE lol.

#2024 christmas event #linked universe x reader #the chain x reader #lu x reader #lu four x reader

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dandydrunky · 16 days ago

Text

The Winter Recital

A/n; this was so rushed, I am so sorry, I tried

Warnings; fluff?

"How do we plan three weeks in advance, and you're still unprepared?" Rafe grumbled, watching you toss through your closet. "In my defense," you didn't miss his teasing glare, daring you to justify it," a lot can change in three weeks."

You are headed up to St. George in Bermuda for the holidays, exquisite, isn't it?

Kildare had a history of celebrating Christmas, but their more glamorous festivities are usually around summer and spring.

Not that you minded, but this was you and Rafe's 2nd Christmas together. And it had to be nothing like the last one."I'll buy you something when we get there, if we can get there," Rafe offered, tugging you out of your closet.

It's just nerves. He was also escaping his family for the holidays.At least until New Years. Somehow, Rafe had managed to get you out the front door and out to the dock where your ride awaited. You skipped ahead, now your turn to urge your boyfriend along.

"Cool your jets," he was being weighed down by the luggage you wanted to bring. The only thing of his he carried was his wallet. Lord knows he would need it. Especially when you had wanted to double the 20% tip he was already leaving the driver. The cabin was quaint and festive, ribbons tied above the door and looped throughout the staircase in bright green and scarlet. It smelt of pine and cinnamon as you were led through the house, admiring the decor as you did.

It was so homey, and Rafe knew it was perfect when you disappeared up the stairs, leaving him to haul your luggage through the doorway. "I'm never going back home" was your official declaration. And that wasn't even the best part. Amist raiding the insanely sweet hygiene products, in the bedside the you found a holiday card for the guests of cabin 8, "Rafe," You called, hearing his hurried steps, you chuckled to yourself, flipping the card over. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, everything is perfect," you handed over the card, watching a defeated sigh leave his lips, but a look of curiousity flash as he skimmed over it's contents.

"Okay? It's just a welcome card." Just a welcome card? "It's scented," you snatched it back scratching at the back, your dull nails denting the card, rather then the patch.Rafe sighs, tossing you his keys which you fumbled but then caught.

"Why did you bring these?" "That's what you're worried about? They're my house keys, they were coming with me even if we went to the North Pole." There was his Christmas spirit.You shrugged at the point, racing the keys over the card, bringing it up to your nose, inhaling deeply. He simply watched, a slight scrunch in his nose, watching you cuddled paper.

"It can't be that good," he grumbled, stepping forward to be met with your shoulder as you turned away.

"It's better than your cologne," you teased, to which his smile sank into a pout, "you love my cologne," "Yeah, but..." You drew out, another long, excessive inhale, "This is my new favorite." The parchment was ripped from your face, folded half heartedly, "enough of that," he hummed, tucking the card into his pocket.

"Don't be sad," he wrapped his massive arms around you, rendering yours to your side, his heavy head falling against your squared shoulder.

You tried to shake him off, managing a slight twist before giving up. You were only getting out if he let you out.And strangely enough he did.Something replaced the warmth of the scented card, something stronger, muskier and thick. Rafe's cologne. "Now I smell like you," "and you love it," he argued.

The night went on like that, playful banter, and gentle affections, eventually you crashed in the living room by the the brick fireplace.Rafe wandered down the steps in a low hanging towel, another working at his wet hair, his attention landed on your curled up form on the couch. You're resting in front of your unopenned briefcases splayed out on the fur rug.

To his surprise you were in one of his flannel curled up against the velvet couch.

"You packed three suitcase just to wear my clothes?" he scoffed playfully, picking up a shirt of the floor. The next morning you two woke up snug on the couch, your head in Rafe's lap and his arm around your shoulders.

"Hey, hey," he gently whispered nudging your shoulder, "Merry Christmas," his lips ghosted over the she'll of your ear.

Your elbow jerked into his stomach instinctively, earning a groan into your ear. He leaned back scooting against the couch, resting his head against the pillows.

Don't worry, he's was gleefully dancing around the kitchen to some old vinyl you found, and making hot chocolate late into the day.

And it wasn't all bad, you took a walk around the town, visiting stations, and you spent time in the store spending Rafe's money.

At that point he had trade you his wallet so he could carry all of your bags.

You returned back to your cabin after all of that and crashed to watch some holiday movie waiting for nightfall.

When it did you asked Rafe to help you pick an outfit to which he kept responding "you look great in anything."

It was frustrating as it was flattering.

You ultimately ended up with fur coat, (Rafe's) and a sweater dress with wool leggings, just in case it gets cold. And it does, but it also snows, Rafe's hand holding yours as you walk side by side, your other hand smearing it from every availabe surface.

You go out, party, dance, but your favorite part of the night was the couple's cooking contest. To participate in your favorite tradition of the night, and to also be with the one you love unlike last year.

Now the cooking was slightly over cooked, but it looked pretty. You didn't win, but you had fun. You did however get voted for best chemistry, earning you a wreath around your neck, wrapped in ornaments, chesnuts and a classic mistletoe.

"You owe me a kiss," Rafe teased, to which you scoffed, nudging his shoulder.

"Under the mistletoe, remember?"

Rafe grumbled beneath his breath, his hand reaching for your arm, "What're you doing?" you asked, feeling him squeeze your elbow.

"Mistletoe, remember?" He carefully picked you up, you squealed your feet leaving the ground.

Still, you attempted to balance yourself against his shoulders, resting your arms, his hand wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, guiding your head down to his.

And you share a gentle kiss, his lips cool against yours, and your tension melts, allowing you to soften in his grasp. He smiles against your lips, letting out a breath of cold air, "ready to take this back to the cabin?" You nodded against him, leaning back in.

#obx x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron #Chrismas #outer banks fanfic #drew starkey #Deadlinesareabitch #fluff #obx kooks #festive #drew x reader #obx men #blurb #poc reader

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junedenim · 2 months ago

Text

2009

beneath the boardwalk, part 7 (series masterlist)

secret door

warnings: a tad angsty, a tad fluffy, a tad smutty, a sweet tooth, etc.

word count: 10.5k

Alex and I shared his childhood bed. I spent Christmas and New Year's with my family in Bath, but I made the trip up to Sheffield on the 4th of January for Alex's birthday on the 6th. It was a rather unremarkable birthday but it remains one of the coziest. Alex and I thought about going out to drink but his mum made him a cake. After we ate the cake, we were too tired so we played a game of Cluedo with his parents and went to bed.

After this birthday, I realized I enjoyed Alex's birthday more than my own. My birthdays have had the long tradition of ending in dramatics or sadness or just plain boring. The simplicity of Alex's birthdays has always brought me comfort, maybe because he doesn't want a party. He doesn't want to do anything. He just wants to relax and play Cluedo.

When we went to bed that night, we were practically stacked on top of each other. He offered to sleep on the floor because, although we had done the twin bed shuffle before, it never equalled the best sleep. I denied him and said I would. He denied me so I laid half my body on top of him to not fall off the bed.

I combed his hair back. It had grown out in the desert but was softer than ever. His mum made him get a trim, which tamed up the hair, making it fall perfectly as opposed to his faux sideburn days. "How's 23 feel?"

He shrugged and reached a hand up to push my curtain-like hair behind my ear. My hair was getting long too, which I was thankful for because I didn't want to resemble Alex too much. I had grown my fringe out in the desert. My hair looked shaggier than ever but I kind of liked the roughness of it. Maybe that was the part that resembled Alex's hair. "No different than 22," he said.

"I guess we've passed all the fun ages," I sighed. "We're truly adults now."

Alex smiled softly. "That feels weird. I know we've done all these adult things, but actually being referred to as one is still weird."

"I can always account for you being older than me. That's all that matters."

He shook his head, amused by me. "Those 3 months mean a lot to you."

"Yeah, they must have been the worst 3 months of your life."

"Why?"

"'Cause you were living in a world without me."

He kissed me and then said, "That would truly be." A kiss to the cheek. "Hell." A kiss to the neck. "On." A kiss to the right collarbone. "Earth." A kiss to the right breast.

In the latter half of January, the band went on a small Australian & New Zealandian tour. I went because what else would I do? The majority of the tour was for the Big Day Out Festival which was hosted in Sydney, Melbourne, Gold Coast, Adelaide, Perth, and Auckland.

Their first show back in Wellington came with the debut of some Humbug songs, which I had already known of through recording and rehearsals. But seeing "Pretty Visitors" live for the first time ever was life-changing, even if Alex did stand awkwardly with his hands in his jacket's pockets. Like Pinocchio came to life, still not adapted to his new body.

I used the label-comped airfare travel to explore rather than attend most of their concerts. The dates were compacted close together so I was the only one out of our crew that got to defrost from the British winter in the Australian sun.

In February, the band was due to return to California to finish the album. Late one night in Perth, Alex asked me, "Are you coming back?"

It had been a deflected point like most things. Pushed off until someone or something made the decision for me. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to go back to London alone. I didn't want to be in California alone. Ultimately, the business card from Opal stuck in my wallet tipped the scale.

"I think I want to finish it out," I told him.

Excitement flashed in his eyes but he stayed still. "Are you sure? I'll be back before you know it. Everything will be fast. You won't even miss me."

I tugged at him. "Of course, I'll miss you. And you'll be off on tour soon and I like the idea of going with you but you know I can't do a whole tour with you. I have to be independent."

The greatest accomplishment in my life might be Alex's pride in me. I don't know how I earned his belief in me. It was there right from the moment we met and it never dissipated, even when we broke up. His smile flashed with pride then, small, but always proud in the stances I made for myself.

"I know," he said. "And I love being with you but I like hearing what you get up to when I'm away. And it'll be more flexible this time since you're out of school."

"And, maybe, I could get some work out in LA. Just freelance or something. I feel like I just gave up last time and didn't bother with a job. You know, me and complaining."

"Shush, you're opinionated. It's how I like my women."

"Women?"

He corrected, "Woman."

I chuckled and slotted my head on his shoulder. "I think maybe I'll get in touch with Opal. Maybe one day write for the LA Times. Would that make me a traitor?"

"No," he laughed, "just maybe a red coat." The skin near his eyes crinkled up, pleased with his joke. I prayed to make those wrinkles become permanent, for him to live in a lifetime of laughter, specifically from my jokes but I do get a special funny feeling when he's laughing at his own humor. It's like he's patting himself on the back, something he does physically do.

There was a question of giving in too much to Alex. I was chasing a boyfriend through the world, which was okay because I was traveling and exploring too and I wanted to be with him but I always worried about my association with him—clinging too tightly, representing an image of somebody who lived off of him. At times (and eventually), it consumed me.

In our rented LA home there was a bay window, which didn't look out on much other than the road and the opposing house. While Alex was at the studio, I sat there and wrote. By that point, I had compiled my essays in a file I called "LA Times." My intention wasn't to submit the works to the LA Times—I had yet to hear back from Opal on any openings—but it was simply something in the works—a digital diary of those past few Californian months.

I had begun submitting work and didn't hear back. I thought of getting a part-time job or babysitting gig, but it felt like a waste of my degree, and Alex had plenty of funds to go around.

Opal and I went out for drinks and it was the first time I went out in LA, independent from Alex. It was fast fun. Opal talked in excessive sweetness but was snarky in response to any disparity toward her.

She seemed so worldly but had never lived anywhere outside of LA. She wasn't any form of a writer but she worked with writers all day and asked if she could look at my work. I was shyly reluctant but she tugged it out of me. Some small 500-word piece I liked.

She gushed about it (and still does) insisting on me giving her more of my writing. I slowly trickled more pieces to her before she accumulated enough to give to her friend, Jackson Ferrera.

Opal began coming over to our house. If Alex was out late, we'd have dinner together. We drink together most Friday nights. We smoked a joint together once and she laughed so much she peed herself.

Opal and Alex had an interesting relationship. Opal paid compliments to his appearance like she did with everyone but it never verged on sexual or romantic. She was an observer like all of us, but she didn't write about it.

She'd also mock him as most girls do together behind their boyfriend's back. All remaining affectionate and loving. The kind of way I talked about Stacey. She was my pestering little sister who was also my youthful partner-in-crime.

"I love your hair, hon!" She said once to Al after he returned home to us watching Glee on the couch.

"Oh." He patted down the sides of his hair as if he forgot it was on his head. "I guess."

He left the room and Opal turned to me and said, "That man can not take a compliment."

I laughed and shrugged. "I've tried my best. I think he thinks you're lying to him."

"Why?!" Opal's mouth lay agape. "I'm not a liar."

I stared at her speculatively. "Everyone's a liar."

"I'm not." She placed her hand on her chest, insisting to me, "My mom told me to never lie."

I don't know if Opal has ever lied, not expansively. Not even little white lies. If you asked her how her day was, she'd tell you honestly. Maybe she fibbed and told half-truths, but she'd never fake compliment you.

She was judgy. On the other side of her kindness was someone who would honestly tell you that you look ugly in that dress. Her job seemed like her destiny, paid to have an opinion because she wasn't designed for fake niceties. I appreciated and needed the quality. It was a confidence boost and a humbling force.

For my birthday, Alex took me to Big Sur. We flew up to San Jose and Alex drove us down to our lodge where I fell asleep and woke up 23.

In the early morning, we walked along Pfeiffer Beach where the water was too cold and dangerous to swim in and the wind blew so hard it blinded us. We abandoned the beach, had lunch, and walked Point Lobos, which felt like we'd walked into a dream. The water waved its blues and the wind waved through the trees just right to create the perfect breeze.

"You know," I said, "this is the first trip we've ever been on. Just you and me."

Alex bowed his head and said, "Suppose that's my fault. At least we've done Wicklow."

"I know, but it doesn't really count. We probably wouldn't have gone if we weren't in Dublin." We both walked with our hands in our pockets and it was easy to think of all those talks we'd had before with our hands stuffed into our jeans pockets.

Alex smiled, his eyes covered with sunglasses, and his hair framing his face. "I'm making up for it now. Best I can." He placed one of his hands on the small of my back; a reassuring touch. Alex often felt insufficient and I wasn't the best at combating that doubt. I know he's carried guilt for self-claimed selfishness. If we were both older I wouldn't have tolerated this in the manner I did at that age. I never cared that he wanted things because he wanted me to be a part of them. However, there was always a sense that Alex had to "make up" for what he had done. I don't know if that hurt me or pleased me.

When we finished the trail we had to go back to our lodge because Alex had slipped down a hill and cut a hole into his jeans. Believe me, very funny, I wish I had it to submit to Funniest Home Videos but alas...

Alex drove for the majority of the trip. I wasn't very good at driving in America. It confused my brain. I reached over, brushing a chunk of his hair behind his ear like he had done for me countless times. "You think you're going to keep it long?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Do you think I should?"

"If you like it," I permitted.

He glanced over and gave me a look. "Does that mean you don't like it?"

I hummed. I had never really thought about it. "No. I like it," I decided. "It makes you look older. I think if you had the same cut as college you'd still look like you were 17."

"You don't think I've aged at all?"

"It's hard to tell. I've never been away long enough to notice a difference. What about me? Do I look older?" I batted my eyelashes.

He chuckled at my brazen show. "You look 23 to me."

I got a call from Jackson Ferrera a week after my birthday. I didn't know who he was and almost didn't answer the call when it rang at 10:30 AM, still in bed. Alex had left an hour or two earlier, kissing my forehead and unintentionally waking me up. We mumbled, "Bye, baby" to one another before he left and I drifted back to sleep.

I was in the shower when Alex returned home. It was somewhere around 5 PM and a Wednesday and I hadn't left the house once. I was in the middle of washing my hair when I heard the bathroom door open and my worries about this becoming a scene from Psycho dissipated when Alex said, "Hey, honey." Isn't it cute? We call each other honey now. It originated from Opal. We imitated her calling everyone "honey" with one another until we actually just ended up calling each other "honey" all the time.

"Hey," I called out over the shower. Alex discarded his clothes and joined me in the shower. We had started doing that more often too. We didn't often have sex in the shower either. I mean, it did happen, but we decided to shower together more in a chaste quality. Alex has the ability to wash your hair in the same way it feels at a salon. It's complete bliss. "How was your day?"

He was my little dog with his long hair getting wet in the shower and sticking to his face. He let the water run over it completely before pushing it back and out of his face. "Good. Fine," he answered. "I feel like I've been hunched over all day." He pecked my lips, a domestic greeting.

I reached down for my conditioner and told him, "I'll rub your back before bed." We might as well be the old married couple with aching backs and a stay-at-home woman willing to soothe them. I don't like to view us as old-fashioned. We were unconventional. British desert Californians, who were a musician and a pretend writer.

Alex took the bottle out of my hand, taking the conditioner into his hands, acting his role of hair masseuse. "You're my savior. I'd have a humpback if it weren't for you."

I shrugged as I turned for him to rub the product in my hair. "I like taking care of you. Shall I have dinner on the table too?"

He scoffed, "God, no. I'd be dead of food poisoning if you did that."

I laughed because I wasn't offended by not having any cooking skills. Alex understood that and has never forced a change on that. "You can't blame me. My parents don't know how to cook either."

"Your parents don't know how to do a lot of things you can do. Excuses, excuses." He clicked his tongue and I giggled as he squeezed one of my butt cheeks. "What did you get up to while I was gone?"

I sighed, turning back around to face him, a big smile plastered on my face. "Okay, well, don't freak out because I don't know anything yet."

Alex immediately grabbed my hands, nearing a panic. "What?"

I pushed his hands down. "Calm down," I instructed. "It's not that big of a deal." He relaxed and awaited an answer. "So, I got this call from someone Opal knows. A guy named Jackson Ferrera—"

"Oh, god, Janie, you're leaving me, aren't you?" Alex joked, turning his head away in dramatics, pushing me away, unable to bear the sight of me. "I always knew it."

I slapped his arms away. "Will you shut up? Listen." He looked at me normally and nodded his head. "Opal gave him some of my writing and he's this literary agent and he wants to talk about maybe him representing me—"

I was interrupted by Alex's excitement. "Are you serious? Like a book or something?"

I was reluctant to say anything, not wanting to get his hopes up, my hopes up like speaking it aloud would cancel out any possibilities. "I don't know yet. I haven't even met the guy yet."

"But you're going to?" Alex clutched my waist, his grip filled with giddiness.

I nodded, trying to fight this big smile. "This Friday at noon. And I don't know what it would be yet. He could just recommend me for some stupid literary agent job."

Alex quickly shook his head. "No way, Janie. You're going to make a book."

"I'm not going to make a book," I insisted.

But he fought back, confident as always, "You're going to make a book."

"Don't jinx anything. He might just help me submit some of my pieces to some higher-up magazines. Who knows, by the end of the year, I could be in the New Yorker?"

He scoffed, "You're better than the New Yorker. They'll be begging for your work."

I bumped into him. "Don't say that. I'd love to write for the New Yorker. I'd be happy writing for Playboy at this point."

Alex wiggled his eyebrows. "They do have some really good articles."

I pinched his side and told him to shut it. He wrapped me up in a hug and a dramatic rain—well, shower—kiss. Everything felt like it was landing in place and California did really seem to be a place where dreams came true and all that nonsense that I'll make fun of for the rest of this book but for this one moment, I'll believe to be true. Then, Alex got shampoo in his eye.

"Ow! Fuck, fuck, fuck." He clutched his left eye and doubled over. The water and shampoo suds still pouring down his face.

I grabbed his shoulder and asked if he was okay. He insisted on being fine but his hand remained on his eye and he grinded his teeth down before I managed to pull him out of the shower without tripping.

I sat him on the toilet seat, dripping wet, and shampoo still a mess in his hair. "Let me see," I said, drying his face off.

He waved me off. "No, no, I'm fine." His hand remained on his eye with a refusal to remove it.

"Al," I said and tugged at his wrist. He dropped his hand and slowly opened his eye, bloodshot and pink. "Oh, Jesus."

"What? Did it fall out?" He joked.

I snorted a laugh and began searching for eye drops. "It's dried up, that's all."

Then came the struggle of actually getting the eye drops into Alex's eye because he refused to keep his eye open. He kept muttering, "Ow, ow, ow" as each eye drop flooded his eyeball.

Later that night, after I fell asleep in front of American Idol, Alex must have moved me to our bedroom or I slept-walked there. Alex said I did that a few times. When I woke, the red digital clock on my bedside read 2:32 AM. I dug my face into the pillow, pissed I had woken up in the middle of the night. I turned my head and came to the realization Alex was missing if he was ever in bed, to begin with.

I padded across our cold wooden floors barefoot in the dark before I saw the back patio light on and the faint shadow of Alex. I stepped one foot out and saw him, notebook in lap, cigarette in hand, gazing out onto the dark backyard, deep in thought.

"You shouldn't be smoking with your eye," I said hoarsely.

His head tilted back to look at me and he had a soft smirk on his face. "I'll live. Just needed something to relax."

"Take an edible then."

He vibrated off laughter and tapped the ash off his cigarette. "I'll find a different excuse."

I kept one foot outside and one inside, asking, "Do you want some company?"

He shook his head, insisting, "No, no. You sleep."

I was hesitant to move. "You sure?"

Alex nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Just finishing up some writing. I'll be in soon."

"Okay."

I returned to bed and fell asleep before Alex came back but when I woke up in the late morning he was asleep beside me. I wondered what Alex wrote. The beginning verses to "Stuck on the Puzzle" or if he never picked up his pen to begin with? Maybe I read too much into it but Alex never had qualms about me keeping him company while he wrote and our late-night smokes were ritualistic at that point. I believed he thought about something else. Me. Something too personal to share.

With both of us, those secrets that we kept from one another were exclusively worries. I can't help but think Alex knew what was eventually to come from my contact with Jackson. I can't help but think he worried. He always worried, suffering in silence. I screamed about everything and he sat with it, let it stir and brew for days, months, years. It was a habit of our 20s. But Alex always seemed to know, a habitual psychic and I was the palm in his hand.

It didn't end up being a book, not at first, but we did a trial period in which I submitted to Jackson who began shopping my pieces around to publishers. I was terrified and didn't tell anyone other than Alex and Opal for fear it would fall through and fail. Jackson felt confident and I supposed that helped, although I couldn't comprehend a world where I wrote a book, even though, for years, I had already written books in my notebook.

I tried not to think about it much. We were coming up on Alex going back on tour again and the question of whether to stay in LA rose, which was really just whether I would. I didn't like the thought of being in LA without Alex. I found the city rather unappealing but I didn't know where I'd return to. London was an option but I don't know how at home I would've felt there. It's cheesy to say Alex is my home because he's a person and I found that statement to be rather exaggerated. In those days, I just felt more comfortable wherever he was, maybe because I was so aimless myself, but I knew that I finally found a direction to go in.

One of my pieces did end up in The Village Voice. Alex paid to have a print copy sent, and he framed it. It embarrassed me so much that I stuffed it into drawers when we had guests over.

One night, we went to a party on some random Monday and sat on the uncomfortable fancy chairs, drinking cocktails. Alex had an Old Fashioned, I had a Cosmopolitan. It was an affair with some elegance, though I can't remember what it was actually for. We both vowed not to get drunk because we couldn't be hungover on a Tuesday.

I had my hand on Alex's knee and he had his arm around the back of my chair. I think the dinner they served was chicken but I don't remember. It wasn't very good either way.

"Do you think I should get my Master's?" I asked Alex.

He sipped his drink with his left hand and lightly tapped my shoulder with his right. "Why would you do that?"

I shrugged and picked up my Cosmo, trying to be Carrie Bradshaw in hopes it would get me a job as luxurious as hers. Or maybe just the clothes and the apartment. "Something to do. I like the idea of going to school here."

Alex's brows furrowed as he looked over at me. "But you hated school."

"That's not true."

He chuckled. "J, you complained about it all the time."

Maybe I did. I don't remember. It's like when people have babies and they forget how hard labour was so their bodies trick them into having more kids. "I liked the structure of it. Plus, a Master's would allow a more flexible schedule and you'll be away on tour soon so it'd be something to do."

Alex shook his head. "I don't think you'd like it."

I frowned. "Maybe I would."

"I mean..." Alex searched for what to say. "I just think you're getting somewhere with your writing and you're running away from it."

I rested my head on my hand. "Maybe."

Alex reached out and pushed my hair out of my face. "Whatever you do you'll be great at. Just do what you love, okay?"

His smirk put me on edge and I raised my eyebrow. "What? Like you?"

"Huh?" His face looked puzzled, worried that he had offended me somehow.

"I love you so you want me to do you?"

He threw his head back in laughter. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Janie."

The whole Master's idea felt foolish. So, I decided to do it, except it was March and way past the time for applications. In the meantime, I tried to figure out what I would do while Alex was away. I felt I should have wanted to leave Los Angeles after all my bitching and moaning, but something drew me to stay. There was a new friend in Opal but I didn't have any job prospects through her or Jackson. Freelance could fit but I didn't want it to fit. The idea of me writing a book burrowed more inwardly to my mind as Jackson stopped mentioning book deals and directed me more toward staff writing jobs to get my name out there.

But I felt that LA had wrapped its warmth around me and suffocated me long enough to want to stay. I liked America and I liked the city, but I also had a visa to worry about. I was over on a tourist Visa and since all work I had done was freelance, I was paid as if I was located in England still. I could fly back and stay for another 180 days or I could get a work visa, which meant getting a job.

That's when Condé Nast appeared. Jackson had unofficially become my unpaid job seeker, doing it solely for me as a favour. I suspected he felt bad for not achieving a book deal and decided to help me out. The Condé Nast position was for a product writer and reviewer. The issue was I had no history with a full-time writing job, but either Jackson had connections or they felt pity for me, too, so I got the job.

So, it wasn't LA, it would be New York.

Alex loved the idea and boasted about it to everyone, kissing my cheek after each statement, and squeezing me to his side. As for New York, he simply said, "It's your turn."

He would be away on tour anyway, so it didn't matter much other than that he would crash at whatever housing I picked in New York. We flew to New York in June. I had never been to New York in the summer. I had never been with Alex in New York.

Usually on our excursions, I dragged Alex around the town and up the hills. In New York, Alex dragged me to the Strand, Chelsea Hotel, the Mudd Club, the Transit Museum, and, most importantly, the turtle pond in Central Park.

Beside the box turtles and red-eared sliders, Alex and I rested against a rock as they padded their way shoreside. He wore a baby blue shirt and picked at his jeans, his mannerisms the same as when I spotted him across the room. "Do you remember when you used to have writing on your jeans?"

He looked up at me, smiling, pushing his hair behind his ears, pounds of fluff. "Yeah."

"What was written on them?" Those blurs of red markings and my wish to know those depths of his soul as if what he was really thinking was written on the knees of his jeans.

He shrugged and almost shamefully said, "Just song lyrics. Strokes and stuff."

"You wrote on them?"

"Yeah."

"I always figured that your mates had written on them. My Converses used to be covered in Joanie's handwriting and hearts." I hadn't thought of her for a long time. Nothing in America reminded me of Wakefield and so Joanie never came to mind.

Alex broke me out of my thoughts, asking, "Can I write on your trainers?"

I raised my eyebrows. "On my new shoes? Can I write on your jeans?"

"Sure." He pulled a pen from his pocket and handed it to me. His quickness made me hesitate but I pulled the pen from his fingers and thought of what to write. I could've drawn a penis but I wasn't that cruel. The black pen was faint against the dark blue denim but I repeated my sketching until the letter was clear enough. I wrote my name because I couldn't think of anything else. What's more beautiful than a person's name? Gross.

Alex seemed to like it, a grin upturning on his face, and an eyebrow raised against me. "Why don't you draw a heart around it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Do you want me to put an arrow through it too?"

He laughed but said, "Sure." I didn't add the heart or arrow. It would be too cheesy and ruin my beautiful cursive name. I returned the pen to him and he tapped his hand over the writing. "With me every step of the way."

I giggled, both embarrassed and charmed. "You gonna get it tattooed?"

I joked but he took it shockingly seriously. "Do you want me to?"

I bolded my eyes and tilted my head. "Stop," I chastised him. "I'm not trying to brand you. I won't even let you write on my shoes and you're willing to get me permanently on your body?"

"Those are nice shoes," he countered.

"You've got a nice body," I argued.

"It'll add to it."

Whether it was sweetness or idiocy, it did feel like love. I raised my legs and plopped my feet in his lap. "Alright. Write away on them then." They were just trainers anyway and his name in a heart with an arrow through it was worth much more.

Afterwards, we toured an apartment. Previous apartments we had toured had been far above my expected salary. Alex had this need to contribute to the apartment's rent despite not getting a break from touring until late October. I had a need to pay rent for myself. I never lived on my own and I felt this apartment should be my apartment, even though Alex's stuff would be there.

Alex understood all of this, although still pushed to contribute some to the rent and, well, I'm never one to deny financial assistance so we made a deal that he would pay me for storing his stuff while he was gone and I would pay for the rest. This all meant those apartments next to Central Park were out of the question. So, we headed downtown, Petula Clark style.

"You know, this area is called SoHo too?" I asked him as we walked down Thompson Street. He shook his head and I explained, "It's because it's south of Houston Street. So. Ho."

He chuckled and nodded. "It'll be like a little piece of home with you."

It turned out to be. I found a place on Prince Street for a reasonable amount. 1 bed. 1 bath. Windows that drenched the floors in sunlight, a big closet, and—the thing I was most excited for—a bathtub.

On our first night there, Alex and I attempted to do the romantic having-a-bath-together thing. I purchased a bubble bath solution from Target and Alex got a bottle of wine from Wine and Spirits. We felt very American in both stores.

"I can't remember the last time I took a bath," Alex said as he sank into the warm oasis.

"They used to just spray you down with a hose, right?" I joked as I sipped on my wine.

Alex cupped his hand in the water and sent a splash my way. "Hey! You got water on the floor. And in my wine." I frowned at the bubbles resting on the surface of the wine.

"I'll get you another glass," he said as he stood.

I reached out and grabbed his leg. "Don't leave."

At my request, he sank back into the water. "Here. You can have mine." He stuck out his half-full glass. I leaned forward and kissed the back of the hand that was holding it. My version of thank you as I took the glass from his hand.

He stretched his legs out and we kept poking each other until I took Alex's feet into my lap. I lightly rubbed on the left one, his big toe sticking out above the water. I felt sinking in myself and refused to look at him. I was becoming too soft. "I'm gonna miss you."

Alex sighed. I knew he hurt more than me. I missed him and we loved each other the same but I knew he had to deal with two kinds of pain. His and mine. We had to deal with missing each other and he had to deal with the guilt. I always told him it was ridiculous to feel guilty because I never held any resentment toward him for going away. But I guess we never properly addressed all that ugly stuff from the past, only in fights, and we never concluded properly, just in exhaustion.

But I think we both knew that communication would be the difference this time. The band was more established. I was more established. I think I would have hated being alone in our LA house without Alex but something about New York, feeling it was mine, made me feel a little freer.

"I'm sorry," he said.

I shook my head. "Don't apologize. I'm proud of you."

"Proud of you too." I looked up to see the big smile on his face. You know, it heals anything.

I slide deeper into the tub, the water covering my neck. I was bare-skinned and my insides were beginning to feel the same. "I'm nervous."

"We'll be fine," he assured.

I shook my head. "I know. I'm nervous for me. Being alone and the new job."

His hand found my leg in the water, stroking it. "You'll make friends in no time and you're a whiz."

"But what if I hate it?" I sounded wobbly like I was about to tip off the edge.

Alex, the calm force dragging me through life, said, "Then, on to the next thing."

I held a smile to him. One he returned. "My mother would say I'm being picky."

"Your mother who drinks for a living?"

I held offence when Alex spoke of my mother. The things he said were true but my whole life I’ll feel the need to protect her. At that age, I still felt destined to unknowingly become her. In that way, Alex was insulting future me. "Hey! She does other things. Probably."

Alex laughed and pulled his feet from me, curling his legs. "Alright. I'm cramping here." He rose from the tub, swishing the water around, peeking at the edges.

I gasped. "Even if the foot rub I gave you?"

We moved out of LA pretty quickly but yet again transporting all your belongings from one side of the country to another was a pain. We enlisted the help of friends but in New York, we were on our own for the most part, other than some hired movers. We weren't getting that couch up the stairs.

The band did a few festivals in Europe in July before returning for a New York show at the beginning of August. I was only a few weeks into my job and it was the fulfillment and structure I needed, although I wasn't doing much writing. I was fine with working my way up, setting an achievement, and moving forward. It was a mostly new idea for me.

After their concert, we did the ritual of bar hopping. I invited my new friend, Tasha, and her boyfriend to join us, however, her boyfriend ditched her after the show, which led her to get very drunk and weepy and therefore pulled me away from any time of catching up with the group. Although, they seemed very consumed by the drama.

"I don't mean to put this all on you," she cried to me. "But he said he was gonna buy me a drink tonight and I—" she was taking away into sobs.

"I'll buy you a drink," Matt offered.

"Really?" It was in fact her fifth drink. She had quickly consumed the first 2 from the rounds and pulled the other 2 from me. "I really liked him, you know. I love him, I think."

"We know, sweetie." I felt bad for her but all the crying was becoming quite tiresome, especially with a girl you had only known 2 weeks in the setting of an office space.

She sat up straight, wiping away that wetness on her face when Matt arrived back with a drink. For the time being, she calmed her waterworks with a gulp of liquor. "You wouldn't do this to Jane, would you Alex? Why can't I find a guy like that?"

I chuckled, "Alex ditches me all the time."

To the side of me, Alex's head snapped to me. "What?" His face was etched with a furrowed brow and a frown.

I turned to him wide-eyed and confused. "What?"

"I don't ditch you."

My mouth created a slight opening in bafflement. "Yeah, you do. Or did." I turned back to Tasha. "Either way, they're all assholes, you just have to find the asshole that fights you."

"Ha. Asshole." Jamie laughed.

While Jamie found humour in the situation and Tasha found slight comfort, Alex found offense. "You think I'm an asshole?"

I turned back to him. "Yeah. Don't you think I'm a bitch?"

His eyes were wide at the word like we were kids taught to put coins in the swear job. His response was quick. "No."

I tried my best to give it to him in an explanation that would placate him. "Okay. Well, I get on your nerves or whatever. Either way, you just have to find the guy that fits you. Now, I think we should get you a cab." Tasha nodded with a sniffle.

After I stuck Tasha in a cab, I stayed outside to have a cigarette. I had a weird feeling in my stomach that I wasn't sure if it was from the alcohol or something emotional. I had a rash on my left leg that I labelled as being from stress but I wasn't sure what it was stress from. I felt a pressure on my chest and the perfect solution was a cigarette.

It wasn't a smoke signal for Alex to join me although I should have thought that considering our history and the perfect view from our table out the window to the street. He came out halfway through the ash and walked with hair in his face and hands in his pockets.

When he stepped in front of me, I reached out and brushed his hair out of his face and wondered if he felt this way—this feeling of caring, uncovering someone for your gaze—every time he did it for me. I tucked it behind his ear and peeked the small smile underneath that shaggy head. It tickled me, exposing a silent laugh from my lips.

"You really think I'm an asshole?" He asked. His tone was playful but I knew he was worried I considered him to be one of them. That breed of man who brushed women off after they got their goods as if he hadn't loved and cared for me since the moment we met.

I held my palm over his cheek, holding my hand over his fire, rubbing the lobe of his ear. I just wanted to hold him forever and I felt like crying at the thought I couldn't. I don't know where the sudden emotion came from but I suppose by this point it isn't shocking to find myself crying, especially after 3 drinks outside a bar. I couldn't speak so I shook my head and kept the overwhelming pathos at bay by the rhythmic stroking of his ear.

"I missed you," he said.

I cut any further words he had off with a shake of my head, a dismissiveness I needed. "I don't want to talk about missing each other anymore." The gates fell and I dropped my arm away from his shoulder, picking at my nails as my voice quivered. "All I talk about is missing you."

"Jane."

Exasperated with myself, I shook my head and looked away not to cry. "I just want to enjoy the night." I looked at him, listening attentively, eyes trained on me. "I don't want to think about you leaving tomorrow night and I'm fine, trust me, but I feel this ache all the time and I don't want to feel this ache while you're here and I don't want to talk about this ache because I know it's mutual so let's stop talking about it and pretend that this is just any other night in our lives and we're in Sheffield, grabbing a pint with our mates or something."

I laughed wetly. He reached out to me and brushed my hair behind my ear and it made everything feel alright. "This feels pretty Sheffield, doesn't it?"

"What?"

He shrugged and took out his pack of cigarettes, plucking one, and placing it in between his lips. "Light me up, Janie, would ya?"

A smile tugged my lips and I dug into my purse one-handed for my lighter. He leaned forward, the end of it so close to me I could take a bite of it. I lit the flame between us and then to his cigarette. He took a puff before stepping back to exhale, his eyes stuck with mine.

"I love you. I feel like we don't say that enough," I told him. He stood away from me but I felt so close to him like we had wrapped ourselves up in a fort of blankets, not standing in the humid August streets.

"You don't have to say it for me to know it. Hasn't that always been our MO?" In wordless whispers and those longing stares, we had always spoken with some underlying language that didn't even make perfect sense to us, it was just there.

"Yeah. Still, I want to remind you."

He chuckled and stepped closer, hooking his arm around my neck, and pulled me beneath his chin with a long gaze down at me. "I love you too, Janie. And all the rest."

"The rest?" I questioned.

His Adam's apple bopped and he looked up at the sky for a moment as if God was giving him the all-clear. His eyes reintroduced themselves to me. "There's this weight of love inside me that I'll never be able to express to you. It's just there, a consuming being that flares up whenever you're near me or I think about you. It's this constant. I've had it since I thought your name was Jeanie and I still don't know how to talk about it or what to call it—all this unexpressed love."

"It seems like you did." I tried not to sob. I thought of Tasha, likely crying in a cab, and I know I've always been a fortunate girl and I've been called lucky since birth, but I never felt like I truly won anything other than meaningless games until I was brought to Alex. I thought of all those missteps I could have taken to have never met Alex about how many things had to go a certain way for me to be at that first gig. How—I guess—I have to thank Matt, although that part is reluctant for me to say (a fear it will go to his head). But I kept it all inside and didn't tell Alex this because I think this is part of that weight of love I still can't fully express. "Are you sure it's not a tumor?"

He laughed at me and kissed the top of my head. My cigarette had been scuffed out against his jeans so we shared the rest of his before Alex suggested, "I think we should head home." I had never confessed how romantic I thought the idea of going home with Alex was to me but I have a feeling he just knew because he always just knows.

He took me by the hand and took me back inside the bar where we said goodbye to our party of people and I smacked a kiss on the cheek to each of them. They've always felt like brothers-in-law to me but I found as we grew older and closer, they were my friends too.

We headed back to our apartment, taking the A train. Alex held my purse for me and we sat in a sweaty, non-air-conditioned subway car, and it felt as though we were in London on the tube, praying for a gust of wind to come in through the little window and provide momentary relief.

It was too hot to touch each other's skin so we held a small space between us and knocked knees with one another. Alex sat hunched over, his hands sitting on the top knee of his crossed legs. I leaned back against the plastic orange chair. The train was mostly empty but we filled its quietness with laughter. Halfway through the ride, that sentimental fuzzy part of me took a picture of him. I still owned a flip phone for the sole purpose of having a slideout keyboard, not known for having a good camera, and the photo was mostly unrecognizable to anybody but me, which might be why I liked it so much.

I’d take these photos often and flip through them occasionally when I was waiting for the subway. I printed some out and pinned them on the walls because I didn’t want to buy picture frames. I folded one up and put it in my wallet because I always loved that Alex had a photo of me in his wallet—a tiny crushed-up photo of my graduation portrait, ugly, but he had pride for it and me).

Without Alex, the apartment had succumbed to my mess. There were clothes tossed in the corner of the bedroom, the desk was covered in papers, books, and more clothes, and the kitchen was dealing with a major dishes problem.

The hour was late but we were both determined to soak up as much time with one another as possible. We undressed from the day and dressed for bed, but sat on the edge of our bed over the covers, talking, talking, talking. Two frogs croaking at one another from across the pond. All we needed was Charlton Brook and we'd be our old selves again.

"I never thought I'd like work. I'm not in love with this job but I come home and my feet ache and I love it. I like feeling I worked for something," I told him. "I think I need firm direction in my life otherwise I turn into a mess."

Alex looked pleased but all-knowing. He knew all these parts of me before I did. "You were raised without it so you crave it in other aspects." He leaned back on the bed, putting his arms behind his head, so casual in every sense of the word.

"Who needs a therapist when I have you?" I asked. He laughed but I was serious (both good and bad). He's an observer, he just knows these things from one look at you. He reads you completely and then acts like it's nothing. I feel I know Alex well, better than anyone, but not like he knows me. I've always felt there was a piece of Alex that was off-limits to everyone, even himself sometimes. There's a corner of him I will never reach. For him, my thoughts have always been a nude model on full stark display.

Alex turned onto his side and reached a hand over to me, clasping it with a tight squeeze. "You happy?" It was a quick check-in, the reassurance he needed that he wouldn't leave me totally screwed up and alone. Alex often had the feeling of needing to "rescue me," which was partially true but he took too much on sometimes, bearing the weight of both our emotional states, an overwhelming thing that put so much consequence on the question he asked like I wasn't just answering for me, I was also answering for him.

I squeezed back to ease his anxieties. "Yeah. You?" He stayed silent and looked around the room once, startling my heart. He tugged on my arm once as a smirk spread on his face. "What?"

He tugged again, this time harder. I stared at him quizzically until he pulled once again, yanking me down to lay on top of him. He communicated with his lips, both silent minus gasps. He turned us, hovering over me, flat on my back. We got under the covers.

The following night we stayed in and ordered a pizza before having sex on the couch. After, I laid on Alex's chest, our nude bodies up against each other and I do apologize to anybody who sat on the couch after, I swear it wasn't that dirty. His hands were solid on my back, studying the lower curve of my spine, hitting a spot that made me stretch like a cat after a nap.

I sighed as the tension released from my back and laid back down on his sternum. "We're awfully vanilla," I said.

Alex snorted this big ugly snort of laughter that I find so cute like a baby learning how to breathe. "What, like chains and whips?"

I laughed and raised my head up, my chin pressed on his skin, staring up at his tucked head, awkwardly propped up on the armrest. "No. Georgia just told me this story about doing it on the roof of her building."

An amused Alex asked, "You want to head up on our roof now?"

He motioned sitting up but I pushed him back down. "We have an exposed roof. I'm not getting the cops called on us."

"Where's the fun in that if there isn't a little risk of indecent exposure?" He joked.

I giggled and thought of making a joke about getting visas revoked for public nudity, instead, I told him, "We're hiding tonight. Besides, I don't need all that for sex to be fun with you."

He bucked his hips up against mine. "'Cause I'm so good in bed?" He raised an eyebrow and wore a taunting smirk that made me want to slap and kiss him. How infuriating to be so intoxicated by him.

"'Cause you love me," I teased, tapping his nose. I slobbered a kiss on his cheek, which made him groan in disgust like it was his mother doing it in front of all his friends. "And you're going to take me to get ice cream because I'm thinking about vanilla ice cream now."

"From Morgenstern's?" He asked me, even though he knew the answer.

I sat up from him, noting his eyes on my exposed breasts (sometimes, it's nice to know a man is still a boy), and hummed, "Yes, sir." Morgenstern's sat two blocks up on Houston and in the past few months, I had developed an addiction to their bourbon vanilla ice cream and considered it my special treat after a day of work. Alex was partial to salted chocolate, which I always thought was a good balance with mine, especially since he'd let me steal scoops off his cone and mix it with my cup of ice cream.

Alex went out in jeans, a T-shirt, and his Doctor Martens. I went out in sweatpants, a camisole, and my flip-flops. It was 11:40 and only 2 blocks away!

I was charged up and kissed him behind his ear as he paid for the ice cream. We must have been foul to look at with our hair unbrushed and a careless woman hanging off her good-looking man. I often had little care about how I looked at night in New York. Everyone in New York, one way or another, was loathsome to watch at night so I had no problem with the idea the cashier might have hated us for coming in right before closing, dangling around as we waited. Besides, Alex left a tip.

My hands clawed around Alex's shoulders and I bounced on the balls of my feet as they scooped our ice cream. We ate our ice cream on the small bench they had outside the parlour. Alex ended up with smears of chocolate on the corners of his lips. It was pleasurable to see him so untidy, it would make you laugh and kiss his lips, transferring some of the residue onto you like lipstick.

Alex chased me up the stairs of our apartment building with the menace of pinching my ass to coerce squeals out of me. We caused a ruckus, loud off of our sugar high, but, at the very least, not stumbling drunk up the stairs like some of my other neighbors. Alex caught me at the apartment door. I had no escape, he had the keys. He cornered me and gave a hard pinch working his way up from my butt to my stomach where I was ticklish.

"Mercy! Mercy!" I surrendered. He called off his attack, ready to head inside for some explicitness.

He put the key in, turned it, and then it snapped. He held the bow, the shaft lodged in the lock. "Fuck," he cursed.

Panic set in as Alex fiddled with the doorknob with no luck. "Fuck. Are we locked out?" I asked.

He picked at the lock, muttering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..."

It soon became clear that we were stuck. It was nearing 1 AM, I desperately had to pee, and Alex had to leave in 6 hours. "Can we kick the door in?"

"Are you suggesting either of us is strong enough to break the deadbolt?" Alex stood up straight, tossing his head back in exhaustion.

I shrugged. "I don't know. You're pretty fit." He was proper chuffed by this, a slight puff in his chest. "I could try."

"With your flip-flops?" They were the cheap kind. I bought them at 5 Below. "If we break the door the whole building can walk in."

Not knowing the number of any emergency locksmiths, I called 911 and waited at the bottom two steps of the staircase facing the front door. "I guess this is what I get for eating too much ice cream," I quipped.

"No such thing," Alex excused.

Shrouded in quietness and a reputation of lacking patience, I laid my head on Alex's shoulder and would have fallen asleep if my bladder wasn't prepared to burst. Alex tapped a beat on the denim-covered knee and we didn't talk, just stayed close, two beings huddled together for survival and companionship.

Firefighters came and had no luck removing the broken key so they busted into the apartment. We couldn't lock it but we could at least close it. I rushed in for the bathroom. I laid down on our bed and waited for Alex while he used the bathroom. I fell asleep before he returned.

In the morning, Alex nudged me awake. He was fully dressed and by the light stumbling in through the window, I knew what it meant. "I fell asleep. Why'd you let me?"

"Figured if you fell asleep while I was in the bathroom you were pretty tired." Over the covers, flip flops kicked off the edge of the bed, in the two minutes he was away.

"'Kay." I was still fiddling out of sleep when Alex tapped my arm, an insisting action to make me stay in bed. "Let me walk you out."

"No, stay in bed, it's fine." He kneeled beside the bed, forcing my hand.

"You sure?"

He nodded. "I'll see you in a little. Yeah?" He kept it short. It was the easier way.

I rubbed my eye, knowing I wouldn't be going back to sleep as much as Alex hoped I would. "Yeah. I'll try to get off sometime in September."

"Don't feel pressured. I'll see you in Philly, right?" That would be over a month away, 30th of September.

I nodded because it was easier than speaking. "Call me when you get to Boston."

He donned an assuring smile, leaned down, and kissed me. He left and I made myself a cup of coffee and drank it and sat with silence.

On a Wednesday, after a day of work, I took the train down to Philadelphia. I had never been before and part of me wanted to enjoy all the tourist things about it but I had limited time between 30th Street Station and heading to the Electric Factory.

However, I made a pit stop along the way, getting off the subway, and meeting Alex at the Reading Terminal Market for a late lunch/early dinner. It wasn't the Art Museum or Independence Hall but it allowed a cultural indulgence of the city.

Alex wore a jean jacket and didn't look like a man about to front a sold-out show. We bumped shoulders with passersby as we made our way through the narrow passageways. Alex got a cheesesteak, which I found disgusting. I ate a soft pretzel and assorted candy from a Pennsylvania Dutch candy shoppe.

We managed to find a table wedged between dad with his two kids and a group of high schoolers. Safe to say, we had trouble hearing each other over the chaos but we communicated through shared observations, reacting with a stare at one another as the father began to yell at his son or a laugh at the high schoolers mocking one of their teachers.

We hadn't really spoken until we left the building, stepping out into the beginnings of a crisp autumn evening. Alex bought me ice cream from Bassetts (as if I needed more sugar) and gave the change to a group of busking drummers by the door.

I grabbed Alex's attention at a stoplight as I dragged out, "So..."

He chuckled at my solicitation, dragging out his own, "So..."

The light turned green and we stayed in step with one another. I initiated the conversation but I had no follow-up for my So-ing. Sometimes, I just wanted to look at him but walking and staring is a difficult practice. "One of my pieces is going to be in this magazine n+1. Something I wrote back in LA, Jackson submitted forever ago."

"Is it going to be printed?" He asked.

"Yeah, but I think you can read it online."

Quickly, he shook his head. "I want the physical thing."

I laughed. "Always one for physical media, Al." It was clear with the record collection I was storing in a small New York apartment. You had transferred this habit onto me as I went out to purchase the New York Times from a street kiosk instead of reading it online.

"It'll be easier. I can read it on a plane, on the bus, on the toilet."

I hit his shoulder light-heartedly. "Alright, I'll get you the print."

At the end of October, Alex returned from Tokyo for a small tour break. We fell into a cycle similar to that of our London days. I went to work, Alex stayed home. We went out to dinner sometimes, and we occasionally went out for drinks with my work friends, but more often, we just stayed home. It was a cocoon and I think we both preferred to stay still with one another after distant months apart.

I drank coffee in bed one morning, a Saturday or Sunday with no rush for any obligations, fine with retiring to a day in our shoebox. We were both still in our pajamas. Alex sat on the edge of the bed, facing me, strumming his guitar. I was on my laptop, scrolling through someone's blog, but mostly watching him.

These unguarded moments with his head slumped over his guitar. His hair covered his face almost completely, only able to distinguish his nose from the rest of him. The ends of his hair held these perfect curls that I envied. He's been perceived to be a cool, uncaring person but I've found Alex, especially during these early years, held such a concern about coming off a certain way, whether considered cold or cool. A long-held hatred for unwanted watching, even from me.

His muscles had suspended into relaxation finally. I found he acquired this rest most often with a guitar. He held a light strum, sometimes humming along, sometimes writing a note in his little notebook.

I thought I was catching an unaware Alex working away, much like our first year of knowing each other. Then, he looked up and said, "If you're going to stare at me, you might as well help me." He tossed me his notebook with dashes and scratches that to the untrained eye looked like a chicken scratch of nothing.

I read it and this time I could feel him watching me. I poured over the words as he had done with his writing and when I finished I said, "I feel so inadequate next to you."

"Shut up," he insisted, both through his support of me and his own insecurity.

"It's a beautiful song." I handed the notebook back to him. "A very beautiful love song." I crossed my arms, smiling at him.

"Well, you know."

"Yeah." Because I always did. This loving, hideous, unspoken language of ours.

"Good inspiration. You gave me the title." Alex took months of crafting before giving something exposure, like formulating a fine wine.

"Well, you wrote the rest of it," I reasoned. "Is it for the new album?"

He shrugged and examined his own work. "I don't think so. Maybe just for you and me."

a/n: this is pretty much for goblinontour. the next parts will come much sooner, we're approaching the thick of it... oh, and if you see any mistakes, no you didn’t.

#alex turner fic #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x oc #alex turner x reader #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x you #alex turner #alex turner smut #junedenim #beneath the boardwalk

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