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midnight1nk · 6 months ago

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So, WOTFI 2024...

[Spoilers below cut]

I'm so excited! Got my bingo card ready and my popcorn, we gotta manifest good things here.

(the following is my live reaction:)

3... 2... 1... HAPPY NEW YEAR Oh wait, wrong thing oops

happy to be here, Leggy (WE'LL SAVE YOU GUYS DON'T WORRY)

TENDER TUNNEL?! ...oh nevermind then. it's so over guys

OH Four, Mario!

this would've been such a Mar4 moment if it was still the Tender Tunnel cuz this reminds me a lot of the SMG34 tiktok kiss challenge

...wait is that... OMG IT'S TV TIME ARRANGEMENT OMG LET'S GOOOOOOOO marking this on the bingo card

the FNAF models....

"...a portrayal of my life." YES PLEASE give us more

the fact that Puzzles made a puppet of his child self just for this reenactment (i don't think he's ok guys)

oop, Leggy don't drop the child!

"Papa" gives so many flashbacks to other characters who call their abusive father "papa" (me, an Ace Attorney fan)

hold up, I need to talk about this for a bit. I know it may seem like random graffiti, but because it has gears and such, his future might've been set in stone. To become TV.

"I locked myself in my room and watched TV all day!" and no one checked up on him? Did he stay in that room all the way to adulthood?! Okay, the SMG4 universe has a different way of how time and body necessities work. But hunger and time are still things. The implications are kinda of messed up if you think about it: Mr Puzzles stayed in his room for YEARS without food or even sleep, watching everything on TV. He would've been a CORPSE by adulthood. No wonder Mr Puzzles has a thin waist.

"And the rest is history." No, Puzzles, you can leave us like this! I need more! What happened after he cut off his head, did he replace every limb of himself? What happened to his dad?

Well, we got more of his backstory ig, marking that for the bingo card

WOAH I knew Mr Puzzles swore before but DAMN

I might have to mark "Grudge against Four" box but we'll see

NEW OUTFITS OMG THAT GETS A MARKER

"We'll just have to go along with his twisted games for now." Hell yeah, you gotta be part of WOTFI, boys :)

AY SPECTACULAR TITLE CARD, LOVE THE ART

Blast-off Fire

this reminds me of Toy Story for some reason

C'mon guys, you can do it!

What's your idea, Mario? NO FOUR let him talk

WOW I LOVE [*ragdolls*]

OH IT WORKED

Insult-2-Dunk

OH the frame of what the challenge says has the 5 stars, I'm going to mark that

This is giving the hallway scene in IGBP, where Four has his thoughts on display

Yeah I'm going to count that as an IGBP reference

they really are boyfriends 💙💜 gay people do be sitting

really tempted to mark the "You Saved Me" box but I'll wait

That's... actually sad if all the negative thoughts SMG4 had in IGBP came from the YT comments. Not surprising but it makes sense why he would try to keep everyone happy.

"This is nothing." OH THAT'S EVEN WORSE SOMEHOW, SMG4. THE AUDIENCE IS ONE THING BUT KAREN, A CLOSE FRIEND, TOLD YOU TO KYS

idk I could just imagine Four saying a lot of horrible things to himself

DAMN MARIO

but also Four's been flirting with Three, you already know that Mario /hj

Slap Box

TARI WE'RE SORRY BUT WE HAVE TO SAVE YOU GUYS

well you did get a bit of karma for what you said earlier to Four, sorry Mario

HOLY SHIT YOU KILLED HER DUDE oop Four said it for me nvm

Ferris Wheel Frenzy

I got jump scared and thought it was my minigame lmao

"Survive"? OH, are they going to get stuck on the Wheel ride?

please 34 please 34 nooooooooooo fuck

Missed opportunity man, still pretty funny

Fire Bonanza

Wow, Bob, that trick was pretty good ngl

Did somebody say arson? :)

even I'm clapping!

Marware shippers, how are y'all feeling?

Tightrope Terror

OH just like in the trailer, right?

OOH THREE VS FOUR

...yeah, Three would win, I'm not even surprised

That's so sweet, like actually

This feels familiar... oh that's right

Hey, I did say "love wins, love always wins"

And that didn't work for Leggy... but it worked on Four back then so that's nice :)

Sword Showdown

poster reference!

Can Mario even defeat Bob? and also, reference to the poster?

Oh shit Mario did the Sephiroth shot from the Smash announcement

Knife Throw

boyfriends throwing knives :)

also poster reference

"...avoid hitting our volunteers" IS IT THREE?! oh no it's just Boopkins and Tari

I WANTED A "YOU SAVED ME" MOMENT NOOOO

....blindfolded?!

FOUR DOESN'T WANT TO HURT HIS FRIENDS

So uh yeah definitely a grudge

Four, that's Gmod. THIS IS NOT THE SAME

Three's the one throwing the knives at Tari right? ...yep *sigh /aff*

Balloon Blast

*looks at Luigi's creations* ....say what now?

"Supper Mario Balloon" I... shouldn't be surprised

He kinda looks like Pedro ngl

Pie-a-Ton

HI KAREN

NOOOO MARIO'S FIRST LOVE *prowler music*

...wait, "Mario Die"? OH well, the universe is doomed lol

Touch Grass

alright then *goes outside and touches grass* we did guys!

Clowns Clowns Everywhere

Puzzles, Four has boots on and Bob has no shoes at all. Does it look like we have time to put running shoes on?

ACE ATTORNEY? IN MY SMG4 WOTFI? :D

"King of Clowns" PFFT That never gets old

What did you expect Four? You make memes for a living, become the clown

Bomb Ski Ball

What type of SAW trap is this?

OH RIGHT Karen is still a cat

Yeah Mario, you celebrated too early

Ducky Mania

poster reference(???)

Well, thanks Luigi, we're dead

BELLS (ok, it might not count cuz they used this before)

YAY FOUR GOT ONE

Free-Fall Frenzy

And of course, Three and Karen and Saiko are all using the things they are skilled at

OH SHOOT MELONY'S SWORD

GO ON MARIO DO YOUR THING! MEGGY'S BACK!! IT WORKED

NO PUZZLES WHYYYYY

Whack a Leggy

Oh I love that Mario screen reference

SWORD FIGHT SWORD FIGHT SWORD FIGHT

...goop!4..?

oh nvm, cameras. that should've been obvious *slaps face*

SMART THINKING FOUR

OH hi Puzzles

LET'S GOOOOOOOOO

DUDE I'M GONNA CRY STOPP THIS IS SO SWEET OMG

"YOU'RE RUINING EVERYTHING", welp Mario Ruins the Show confirmed, checking that off

I just love how this scene was animated (edit: it turns out that this is a scene Anaidon animated, no wonder this was so good!)

THE KEYBOARD MONSTER FROM IGBP!!! IT'S BACKKKKK

AND EYES IN GENERAL

Marker for the bingo :)

AND PARK (kinda) DESTROYED, another mark (yes it counts)

Superhero landing!

Wait... what is it, Four?

...oh I hate this *IGBP flashbacks*

AND PEACH nooooooooo

I get that it's supposed to be Didney stuff but like that's past trauma right there for Four , seeing the castle and Peach costume again *checks off the bingo*

and we're seeing it through Four's right eye *head in hands* eye of horus

It's Rap Time? IT'S RAP TIME

Carnival-themed too! Another one for bingo

"Pay for what you've done" KARMA "We'll make him pay" KARMA

(edit: it turns out Shadow animated this scene, it looks great dude great job :D)

[*points at background at 22:31*] BELL THERE IT FUCKIN IS

MORE BELLS AT 22:55

and also I realized that there was a lot of "death", huh

Doomed Yaoi(TM)

Yeah, we can count this as the Freak Show

"Puzzlevision+" ...puzzlevision 2...?

hold up, what the hell is that? NO NO WE CAN'T JUST PASS BY THAT

Huh, how interesting is that Mr Puzzles, being controlled by wires, looks like a puppet when he's the only usually puppeteering hmmm

MEGGY CONFRONTS also she tried to give Puzzles a chance when she couldn't do it for Wren

"That child is gone... Six feet under right where you and your stupid friends belong." Oh, shit. That got me somehow.

There is something in philosophy called "Ship of Theseus" that basically is: what if, gradually over time, we replace every part of a person and the question would be, are they the same person anymore. It could apply to Mr Puzzles here. Bring back to my corpse question, his child self and his current self are not the same. Not anymore. Metaphorically and perhaps literally, the real man before Mr Puzzles came to be is already dead.

Some people do say that they can be "reborn" so.... *shrugs*

SACRIFICE! No one dies but they're risking their lives here!

Meggy going into Puzzles' mind reminds me a lot of Melony getting into Zero's, except for the meeting younger self stuff

Interesting, why did Little Puzzles cower from the woman shadow figure? They could've just put Meggy there but they didn't until a few seconds later... hmmm......

Well Meggy confronts Little Puzzles but it's more like her demanding him to set her friends free, which is understandable

THE CLUB PENGUIN DANCE IS BACK!! :D

ONCE AGAIN Little Puzzles gets scared of someone coming towards him. jesus what happened for you to react like that, dude?

THIS IS ACTUALLY MAKING ME FEEL THINGS DUDE. IF MR PUZZLES DIES AND THIS IS THE LAST THING HE THINKS ABOUT.... *head in hands* THIS IS SO SAD

And more of the Engine Room gets broken down

silly little goobers :)

MR PUZZLES LIVES

and I oop [Mr Puzzles will remember that.]

....oh, this might be a fate worse than death. I don't blame the Crew for not trusting him and after what he did to Meggy but damn I don't think this is the right choice, gang

But it is probably the best ending the Team could've given him.

Yes, painting is nice. Oh, a puppy too!

"...OR we could assassinate our enemies and anyone who's ever double-crossed us!" OH NO IT'S MAKING HIM WORSE

To destroy Four and the others, yeah that makes sense. But he must've taken Meggy's confrontation as a double-cross. He's going for everyone!

Dynamic Change, everyone!

but also.... puzzlevision 2 maybe....

OH HEY CHRIS AND SWAG HI

well, the park isn't completely destroyed but some of it did so....

"Hopefully Mr Puzzles will change for the better." HMMMM I don't think so, Meggy. Actually, are they aware of where he is now?

Aw, Mario checking up on Meggy is very sweet, the M&M siblings

YOU ALL NEED THERAPY

"Turning into Leggy was really taxing on my body but...I think that version of me has escaped off to a better place." Meggy, you must've inherited Phoenix Wright's invincibility when you were a lawyer because you were literally SCREAMING IN PAIN when you were forced back into Leggy, and all you get is just a bit of a sore back?! Girl, you must've broken something. I do hope they bring this back so that she can't do sudden maneuvers or fancy tricks due to what happened to her. There has to be some consequences here.

And now, Leggy's not coming back (I'm sure that's great news for the people who find her annoying, not me tho)

and I oop 2: electric bagaloo

MORE RIDES FOR THE SHOWGROUNDS HELL YEAH

Happy ending and all but hold up... Why is this the last shot of WOTFI? They could've had the Ferris Wheel, the entrance, or any of the other rides. WHY?! *shakes the crew* ANSWER MEEEEE

Well we didn't get a challenge relating to Tender Tunnel but since it appeared in the final shot, I'll count it just for appearing (and also because it might be important later but we don't talk about that now)

Of course, MERCH

"And, who knows? Next year, there might be even more things to come..." WHEN I GET YOU

Hoodie, poster, keychain I CALLED IT

baby leggy :3

"You'll just have to wait and see." Oh I'll be waiting *wiggles fingers together like a cartoon villain*

the great milk heist of 1899 :)

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

Here's my bingo card:

I think it's all of it, let me know if I miss or need to change anything. Can we count all the Four & Three soulmate parallels to the "You Save Me" box? Please? *sneaks a marker on there* To those who participated, I hope you guys had fun with my bingo card!

I'm still going to cherish that Ferris Wheel chase scene from the "Welcome to Puzzle Park" episode

Well, Ben, Shadow, you got anything to say?

Ben: Well that was fun We should really do this again sometime…

GOD DAMMIT BEN NOT AGAIN/affectionate

Shadow, in voice clip: "Hello once more, Twitter and SMG4 community! As always, I'm The Inverted Shadow and yeah, War of the Fat Italians 2024 has come and gone... and uh, as it is customary with a lot of these big events with SMG4, I have things to say but this time, I'm actually not going to make a big show out of it this time like what I did for Puzzlevision and..." *clear throat* "The things that came before because I'm going to be completely honest, guys, I was really fucking nervous for this one because, um, to be completely honest, this rap battle for this WOTFI is, I can safely say, one of the hardest things I had to do when animating for SMG4 thus far. And I was really really scared and nervous about (one) if it would actually come out good and (two) if people would actually like it. But just based on the reactions from the watch party with the SMG4 team and also just seeing everybody's reactions to WOTFI this year, um.... Yeah, you guys surely showed me I still must be doing something right." *laugh* "But, no no no. In all honesty, once more, thank you all genuinely. Genuinely, thank you all once again to the SMG4 community, to Luke, to Kevin, the SMG4 team. Everybody. Thank you all so much for showing me that I apparently still got it and I can still do the thing as it were." *chuckle* "Um, I do really hope you all enjoyed WOTFI this year. For now, I need to go get me that new Mr Puzzles plushie 'cause I need it. So, genuinely thank you all again and uh, peace!

Oh, we enjoyed this year's WOTFI, SMG4 Team! As Mario would say, that was-a loads of fun! The animation, the art, the music, everything was really really good. There are a few plot tweaks here and there that need a bit of work, but otherwise, it was great! Props to everyone on the Team! I can't wait to see what you guys do next.

"Silly little meme show" Right, and it's the same people who gave us horror, I'm on to you guys. please puzzlevision 2 please goop!4

Make sure you all support them bc they deserve it :) As for what will happen to the SMG4 crew, Mr Puzzles, and the Showgrounds, we will just have to wait and see.

;)

ink, it's not even a theory what are you talking about?

#smg4 #smg4 wotfi #wotfi 2024 #wotfi 2024 bingo #smg4 mr puzzles #smg4 mario #smg34 #smg4 marware #smg4 leggy #smg4 meggy #ink reviews

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neitherabaron · 15 days ago

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My honest opinion: the Switch 2 Direct had several “Yay!” moments, but a LOT of “meh” ones too.

Despite having lots of cool things to announce, and very little bad, it ultimately felt poorly structured and in my opinion emphasised many of the wrong things.

My favourites (and my criticisms) under the cut. Spoilers from here on out so be careful:

Favourites:

- Mario Kart World. I desperately want to see more of this because it looks ridiculously fully featured. Open world racers haven’t always landed with me, but the idea of exploring a massive game world full of Mario Kart’s design and sensibilities? Exquisite.

- Donkey Kong Bonanza. Redesign aside, this is gonna be fantastic. I love the idea of a more chaotic 3D platformer than we’d normally expect to see from Nintendo, plus after 25 years, it’s high time DK got another crack at 3D.

- The Duskbloods. Holy shit, I was not expecting this. Mind blown. Can’t wait to get my hands on this. Miyazaki saw Sony dragging their feet and finally took matters into his own hands, huh!

- Kirby’s Air Riders. I imagine a few people might have preferred it if the game Sakurai’s been alluding to had turned out to be Smash 6, but I’m mostly just glad that he’s had a chance to do what he wants and develop a different passion project, rather than getting fed straight back into the Smash Bros grinder.

- Deltarune. I’ve actually been putting off playing Deltarune for a good long while, because I didn’t like the idea of starting a massive story and then having to wait so long for a conclusion (not a shot at the release model, just my own inability to hold characters and scenarios in my head). But now I’m finally gonna be able to play the whole thing, and I am Hype.

Least favourite game announcement:

The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker (specifically the GameCube version, via emulation, on the NSO subscription): Just let me pay for the HD remaster with all the improvements they made for Wii U, rather than paying monthly to have access to the inferior version of the game, through the lens of Nintendo’s questionable emulation, thanks.

My general criticisms of the Direct:

Oh boy. This is gonna read as very negative, which kind of sucks because on the basis of what was shown, there is a LOT to be excited about. But I think taken as a whole, the presentation left a lot to be desired and didn’t add up to a great first impression. It was less than the sum of its parts, and really shouldn’t have been. Let me explain.

They spent a good deal of time showcasing hardware feature, particularly the camera and mouse mode. This was a great idea in theory, they failed to reveal much in the way compelling gameplay that integrates them - particularly the mouse. DragXDrive is a start, but it looked to be the barest of bones on this first showing.

A lot of time in the early to mid presentation was spent re-announcing games that are already confirmed for Switch 1 and explaining how some of them will be very slightly better on Switch 2. While, again there’s nothing wrong with this idea, leading with, and placing major emphasis on minor performance upgrades and expansions to Switch 1 games, some of which have been available for many years, does not create a compelling case for sinking hundreds into a new console. This is something you factor in at the end of the presentation, not as one of the first concrete details you cover.

(Side note - I actually think this is cause for concern. While the reasons for the Wii U’s failure were many and complex, very few people at this point would claim a lack of quality games - in fact the later success of much of the Wii U’s library on the Switch indicates the opposite! However, one factor I do often see cited is that the Wii U’s marketing failed to set it apart as something fresh and vital. Seeing Nintendo pitch, at great length, their brand new console’s ability to run a Zelda game from 2017 at a higher frame rate, and/or an expensive way to play games already announced for Switch 1, before they so much as pulled out a second exclusive Switch 2 title, did not fill me with confidence that the right lessons were learned.)

To be more positive for a moment, the major exclusive announcements all looked fab to me, especially DK Bonanza and The Duskbloods (!!). I think it’s fair to say I was expecting more exclusives, and that I’m surprised that the whole thing went by with no mention of a 3D Mario. It’s also worth noting that, of the major, not-on-Switch-1 exclusives (Mario Kart, DK, Hyrule Warriors 3, Duskbloods, Kirby Air Riders), only Mario Kart will be available at launch, which is a bit of a blow if like me, you were hoping for a big, single player experience at launch. Breath of the Wild sold Switch to me, not Mario Kart 8, and I know I’m not alone there.

My bigger problem with how they handled the exclusives within the presentation is that none of them received anything like a proper deep dive, even though these should be the system sellers were all getting hyped for.

I understand Mario Kart will be getting one in a couple of weeks, which is something, but considering how short the exclusives list was, it was a shame not to see a little more of each. Speaking subjectively, it felt to me like these big, important exclusives ended up getting less overall coverage in the presentation than the third-party lineup, all of which is or will be freely available (and likely much cheaper) elsewhere.

Overall, the problem is not one of content, but of emphasis. After all, third-party support and backwards compatibility is vital to the success of a modern console! But the decision to frontload the presentation with lukewarm demonstrations of the hardware, games which are also playable on Switch 1, and non-exclusives, while first-party and third-party exclusives received comparatively little emphasis and were often relegated to the tail end of the show, was baffling. It killed the momentum of the presentation, diluted the message that this is a must-have product, and dampened my enthusiasm quite a bit.

And yeah, I’m also sad that we only got 3 seconds of Silksong to confirm it still exists, but let’s face it, we did that to ourselves, didn’t we?

#yup this reads as very negative #but my feelings are a bit more complicate #I do genuinely believe there is so much to get excited for #but Nintendo didn’t play to their strengths or the usp of the console enough today #and as first impressions go this could have been a lot better with just a few minimal changes to the structure #Nintendo switch 2 spoilers #spoilers

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mapofsouthdakota · 6 days ago

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Plated IV

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 8600ish words (omg sorry). The Bear AU. Non MC! reader. 18+ harem drama. Sylus insisted on taking the day off—so, you’ll be getting to know Raf a little (okay, a lot) better. Consider this my dedicated Raf and Sylus chapter (so far), with bonus appearances from Xav the star and Zayne, the… umh no spoilers. It’s time to start climbing out of the mess. Expect slow-burn, banter, flirting, stress, kindness, and yes—some (adult) fluff. All part of the build-up for what’s coming next (next one is probably Zayne bonanza).

Chapters: Initial ramble, pilot, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three,

Tags: @gavin3469 @animegamerfox @beaconsxd

Character | Chapter four

You wake up aching.

Not in a bad way—nothing bruised but your pride, and honestly… not even that. Just a warm, bone-deep soreness that makes you stretch slow and smile to yourself before your brain catches up.

Xavier.

Last night.

… Last night.

You exhale, pressing your palms to your face, grinning into your fingers like a guilty little secret is trapped behind them. You turn your head slightly, half-expecting to still be in his bed—but you’re home. Tucked in. Hair still faintly smelling of his detergent.

You roll out of bed, tug on soft clothes, and do your best not to think about the one thing looming today.

Sylus.

Before you can overthink it, your fingers are already moving—typing fast, like if you don’t ask quickly, you’ll talk yourself out of it.

YOU: Hey. Just checking— Is it really okay if I take today off? Or… even a few days?

You hesitate. Thumb hovering. Then hit send.

The message feels too light for what you’re asking.

But it’s already gone.

Your phone buzzes just as you reach for coffee. You glance at the screen, half-dreading it.

SYLUS: You woke me. Bold move, chef.

You blink. Check the time. It’s nearly noon.

Another message pings, slower this time—smoother.

SYLUS: Still recovering from last night’s wine selection. And your taste in distractions.

You bite your lip. Your thumbs hover.

YOU: Wait…You really meant it? About me taking the day off?

Another message, quickly after:

YOU: I mean— Are you sure?

You hold your breath.

The reply takes a moment. Then—

SYLUS: Are you questioning my generosity? Or just afraid of what you’ll do with it?

You almost laugh. Almost.

And then the real message arrives:

SYLUS: You’re off the schedule. Zayne’s running the pass. I’ve deployed every favor, threat, and underpaid chef at my disposal to fill your spot. Take the day, chef.

A final ping, no flourish this time:

SYLUS: I’ll be at the restaurant after close. If you need to talk.

You stare at the screen. The weight of last night still blooming across your skin like fingerprints you don’t want to wash away.

Sylus always sees the storm coming.

And today?

He’s giving you shelter.

Even if it feels like warning.

You thumb open your messages again. Hesitate. Then type:

YOU: Sorry for being a mess. I swear it won’t affect the line.

The reply comes faster than expected.

SYLUS: It will. If you don’t take the time. Rest. Or I’ll make it mandatory.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

You stare at the blinking cursor.

One word typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted.

You shouldn’t ask. You don’t want to need the answer.

But the silence around it is louder than any service bell.

You think about his voice, the empty place on the line, how he looked at you like a future and a mistake at the same time.

Caleb.

You type the words.

YOU: Did you fire him?

And then you wait.

Not breathing. Not blinking.

Just waiting for the man who never answers anything directly to decide if this time—he will.

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears.

Appears again.

Then stops.

No answer.

Just silence.

Then, finally—

SYLUS: Caleb won’t be stepping into Plated anytime soon.

Another pause. The message hangs in the thread like condensation on cold glass.

SYLUS: He’s walking his own path. And I’ve stopped trying to reroute him.

A pause. Another bubble appears.

SYLUS: You don’t hold a kitchen by burning through it. Try not to scorch yourself, chef.

You sit with that for a moment, phone cradled loosely in your hands. For all the velvet menace, the sharp suits and sharper eyes—he’s kind.

Not gentle.

But kind.

And right now?

That’s enough to steady you.

The apartment is bathed in that rare, sun-drenched glow that only early spring can manage—warm but new, just on the edge of real heat. You pad barefoot through the kitchen, the wood floor pleasantly cool beneath your soles as you crunch into a perfectly ripe pear. Sweet. Sharp. Sticky juice gathers at the corners of your mouth—and that’s when you feel it. A faint throb, low and lingering at your lower lip. A bruise.

You wince, dabbing the corner of your mouth with your thumb as you pass the hallway mirror. The light catches just right, and yeah—there it is. Not awful, but visible. A soft, blooming smudge of a darker shade at the curve of your lip. You grab your gloss from the side table, swipe on a tinted coat—just enough shimmer to blur the edges. Camouflage by hydration. Nothing to see here.

You’re halfway to the door, sunglasses already perched atop your head, purse slung over your shoulder, tasting the day like something freshly opened. Your hoodie’s soft. Your jeans are worn just right. You feel loose for the first time in this day.

And there’s a whole day ahead.

You think about walking. About just… moving. Maybe down by the canal, where the cherry trees are starting to blush. Maybe you’ll stop by the new Asian market around the corner—see what treasures they’ve got. You could make something slow tonight. A proper meal. Braised fish with fermented black beans. Maybe something with lychee. Use the nice rice. Open the good oil…

The possibilities bloom as you move—small luxuries you’ve denied yourself for weeks, now suddenly right there. Yours. You earned this break. Sylus gave it like a command, but you’ve taken it like a gift.

You toss the pear core, then smooth out the gloss again in the mirror by the door. Just in case. The sunlight outside is warm enough to melt stress off your skin, and you smile—genuinely, softly, because it feels good to mean it.

And then—

Your phone buzzes.

RAFAYEL: hiii, flame. You busy?

You pause in the doorway, pear juice still glossing your fingertips. The message pulses against your palm, harmless—but knowing Raf?

There’s no such thing as casual.

You hesitate, thumb hovering.

Then, smudging the remains of juice from the corner of your mouth with the back of your wrist, you type:

YOU: Not really. Why?

It takes a few seconds. Then:

RAFAYEL: Feeling kinda bleh after yesterday. Everything was weird. Wanna be my pick-me-up?

You pause again, guilt tugging at your gut. Raf had been trying to host something nice, and the group chaos completely derailed it. You turn in the doorway and move to the sink, washing your hands in cool, running water. You dry them on a nearby towel, before you type:

YOU: Sure. What are we doing?

His response comes almost immediately.

RAFAYEL: Already signed us up. You’re gonna love it. Dress light. No heels. Bring curiosity and low expectations :*

YOU: What does that mean??

RAFAYEL: Chocolate studies. 12 PM. You’re my emotional support truffle taster now. You don’t get a say. See you there.

Chocolate studies.

Of course. Of course this is how Raf picks himself back up—by dragging you into a high-end, unnecessary, probably vaguely sensual workshop about cocoa. Yet—

YOU: Shouldn’t you be at work?

RAFAYEL: Shouldn’t you also be at work?

YOU: Touché.

RAFAYEL: Besides, I move on a more artistic schedule than the rest of you kitchen trolls. Also I had a hunch you’d be off today, so—guess what? It’s my day off too.

YOU: Did Sylus say it was fine?

RAFAYEL: Flame, puh-lease. I said it was fine. And he muttered something vague and terrifying in Latin, so I took that as a yes.

RAFAYEL: Anyway—it’s technically culinary research. It involves tasting. It’s chocolate. It’s extremely relevant to my line of genius.

YOU: This is you taking dessert way too seriously again.

RAFAYEL: Correction: this is me rescuing you from the spiral you were clearly about to dive into.

YOU: I spiral efficiently, thank you.

RAFAYEL: Oh, I know. You told me that the morning before the critic showed up. Remember?? Naturally, I’m dying to see your technique. So. Let’s spiral. Together. We’ll make it couture. With truffles.

You stare at your screen.

You check the time. You’ll just make it if you hustle.

And honestly? It’s exactly the kind of distraction you need.

Ten minutes later, you’re outside in the golden spring sunlight, walking toward the address Raf sent you—some absurdly bougie culinary studio nestled between boutique flower shops and quiet cafés. The sign on the door reads:

——————————————————————————

Private Class – Chocolate, Chemistry, Craving.

——————————————————————————

You pause.

The door swings open before you can knock, and Raf is standing there—wearing a linen shirt, sunglasses on his head, and that charming, slightly smug smile that screams I bought this class because I felt sad and rich.

“Perfect timing,” he says, stepping aside to let you in. “Our chocolate awaits.”

You blink at him.

“You okay?”

He shrugs, lips twitching like he doesn’t want to admit it. “Eh. We’ll talk. But first—let’s get a little messy.”

Then, unexpectedly, he pulls you into a hug.

Not dramatic. Not prolonged.

But real.

His arms loop around you like fabric meant to drape, not confine. Warm, grounding, floral-scented. He squeezes—just once—and murmurs near your ear, softer than usual:

“The real question is… are you okay, little flame?”

Before you can answer, he lets go like nothing happened, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle in your sleeve.

Then he catches your hand in his—elegant, confident, no hesitation—and tugs you toward the door.

“Come on. There’s chocolate that needs judging. Let’s earn our sugar crash.”

The space smells like heaven. Not the fake-sweet, candy-store kind—this is rich, warm, expensive. Notes of vanilla, toasted nuts, and something darker linger in the air, wrapping around you like a silk robe.

Raf leads you through the space like he’s been here a dozen times. You’re not even sure if he’s taken the class before or if his sheer confidence just wills doors open and people to nod.

“Tell me you didn’t bribe someone to get this spot,” you murmur, glancing around at the pristine marble counters and soft jazz playing in the background.

“I didn’t bribe anyone,” he says smoothly, then adds, “Just… implied I was going through something emotionally complex.”

“Ah,” you say. “Weaponized charm.”

“Correct.” He offers a small bow.

You’re handed aprons—black, minimalist, high quality. The kind of thing that says we’re learning… but glamorously. There’s a petite instructor named Lisette, who has the serene energy of someone who could build an entire tasting empire from her sheer passion for chocolate.

She gives a quick intro about the origins of cacao, the alchemy of heat and tempering, and how chocolate isn’t just a treat—it’s an experience.

Raf leans in, voice low like you’re co-conspirators. “Did you hear that, Flame? She gets it.”

You smirk. “Are we actually learning something, or are you planning to flirt with chocolate until your serotonin resets?”

He winks. “Both.”

Lisette sets you up with tempered slabs, bowls of molten ganache, and trays of infused truffles for scent testing. Raf rolls up his sleeves with unnecessary flair, like he’s preparing for an edible art installation.

He’s in his element. Bright-eyed, hands steady, focused in a way you rarely see when he’s surrounded by people. You realize—this isn’t just a distraction. It’s personal.

“You’re weirdly good at this,” you murmur as he pipes an elegant swirl onto a petit four. “Like, intimidatingly good.”

Raf glances at you, smile softening into something quieter. “Didn’t go to culinary school.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have the money. Or the patience. Or maybe I just didn’t believe I could do it.”

That throws you for a second. Raf? Doubting himself?

“I was working some low-end bakery gig,” he continues, attention back on the chocolate. “Decorating cupcakes in a strip mall with buttercream that came in buckets. And then one day Sylus just—showed up. Tried a raspberry truffle I’d been messing around with, didn’t say a word about it. Next day, he offered me a job.”

You stare at him.

His smile curves a little sharper, a little prouder.

“Sylus sent me to Copenhagen first. Said if I was going to be good, I had to learn where the best got weird. Then Paris. Then Switzerland, Austria, Naples… I apprenticed. Shadowed. Ate things that changed how I understood temperature.”

He flicks a chocolate crumb off his sleeve, casual as ever.

“All experience. All instinct. No degree. Just a few stamps in my passport and a terrifying ability to pair florals with acid.”

Your lips part, stunned by the imagery. Not just Raf’s quiet doubt, but Sylus stepping in—seeing something, doing something—without ever needing credit.

“He doesn’t show it,” Raf adds, more to the ganache than to you, “but he pays attention. Picks people up when they’re about to burn out.”

You’re quiet for a second. Processing. “I didn’t know that about either of you.”

Raf shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Wasn’t planning to share it. Chocolate makes me sentimental.”

You nudge his arm gently. “I like sentimental Raf.”

He smiles. “Don’t get used to it.”

But then… he hesitates. Just for a second. His hands still, the piping bag hovering mid-air like his brain forgot what it was doing.

“I mean—” he starts, then glances sideways at you, lips tugging like he’s trying to hold something back. “You’re kind of the reason I’m still doing this, you know.”

You blink. “What, chocolate?”

“Nooo,” he says, softer now. “This place. This job. The whole circus.”

He sets the piping bag down, more carefully than he needs to, and turns toward you. The light from the window catches on the gloss of melted cocoa across his wrist, but his eyes are what hold you—clear, impossible to misread.

“I’ve thought about leaving,” he says. “So many times. I have the name now. The attention. I could open a patisserie somewhere absurd and overpriced and live off tartlets and scandal.”

You laugh, quietly.

But he doesn’t.

“I stayed because of you, Flame.”

Your breath catches.

He shrugs, like it’s no big thing. But it is.

“You make it feel worth showing up. You remind me this doesn’t have to be soul-crushing. That it can still be… joy. Even in the madness.”

The words hit you like warmth straight from the oven. No dramatics. No winks. Just quiet truth, offered up in the middle of a chocolate-covered counter like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your throat tightens.

“Smell this one,” he says, holding a tiny square under your nose. “Cinnamon and yuzu. Bold, dramatic, slightly unhinged. A little like someone I know.”

You raise a brow. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“Absolutely.”

You throw a dusting of cocoa powder at him.

He gasps like you’ve mortally wounded him, flings a berry back at you, and just like that—things snap back into their usual rhythm. But that softness doesn’t leave the air.

And even as he laughs and flirts and swipes ganache across your nose with dramatic flair, the words stick.

I stayed because of you.

Soon you’re elbow-deep in the process, and for a while, it’s easy. Fun. You both laugh. Raf makes you rate every flavor on a made-up scale he calls “emotional resonance per melt second.”

But eventually, you catch the quiet shift.

The way Raf’s hands pause a beat longer over the molded chocolate. The way his gaze flickers toward the window, where sunlight spills over the countertops.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then he lets out a slow breath. “I wanted it to be a good night. That’s all.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say.

“I know,” he replies, too quickly. Then shrugs, looking off toward a tray of dark chocolate curls like they might offer wisdom. “But still. I like when we’re all… okay. Together.”

You hesitate, then murmur, “Might’ve been… umh… a little my fault.”

Raf turns, one perfectly shaped brow lifting. His eyes flick briefly to your lip—then back to your eyes, a slow smirk curling.

“Mm. I figured,” he says, voice all honey and trouble. “That doesn’t look like kitchen stress, Flame.”

You brace—but he just waves a hand, flicking imaginary dust into the air.

“I don’t pry,” he says. “Don’t care who’s sleeping with who, or not sleeping, or emotionally combusting in the dry storage.” Then, gentler: “Just want the vibe back. You know? I don’t need group therapy. I need group harmony. We’re artists. We fall apart together.”

He nudges your elbow lightly with his own. “So. Fix it. Elegantly. With frosting, if possible.”

You rest your hand on the edge of the table beside his, close but not quite touching.

“You’re a good glue person,” you say gently.

He gives a half-laugh. “Puh-lease, that sounds so unhealthy.”

“Only mildly,” you smile. “But also kind of beautiful.”

He looks over at you. His smile returns, softer this time. “Thanks for coming, Flame. I needed this.”

Raf leans in with another chocolate sample, holding it between two fingers like an offering.

“Try this,” he says. “I swear it tastes like hope.”

You take it. You bite.

He’s right.

The chocolate is warm. Rich. Melts the moment it touches your tongue.

But it’s nothing compared to the heat under your skin—the low hum of tension in your body that still hasn’t faded since last night. Not fully.

Because Xavier was… a lot. And no matter how much sleep or tea or luxurious ganache you drown yourself in, your body remembers. It’s still running on nerves and overstimulated afterglow, like every cell has forgotten how to relax.

And now Raf is here. Warm, charming, painfully pretty in the sunlight, making you laugh like nothing ever hurt. And your body—traitorous, sensitive, greedy—is trying to decide whether to melt or combust.

He doesn’t miss the way your breath catches when his hand brushes yours during a tasting. Or how you shift slightly away when he leans in a little too close. Not in rejection, just… overload. You’re full of feelings, and your skin is already singing.

His smile falters for half a second. Just a flicker.

But then he straightens, schooling it into something lighter.

“You know,” he says, gently swirling a spoon in a bowl of molten dark chocolate, “you’re really not one for affection in public, huh?”

You look up, guilt tightening in your chest.

“Raf, I’m—”

He lifts a hand, stopping you with a warm, quiet look. “It’s okay. I get it. Not your thing. That’s allowed.”

You feel the guilt shift. Morph into something tender. Grateful. But then—he does something stupid.

He steps in closer, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth—wiping away a tiny smear of chocolate you hadn’t noticed. The second he touches you, you feel it: the bruise, the tender throb, the warm pressure of his skin against yours.

His thumb lingers, dragging slow across your lip, pressing just enough to make the ache flare. Then, without a word, he brings that same thumb to his mouth. His lips close around the tip, his stare still locked with yours. Loaded. Hungry.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

Your breath stutters. Your entire nervous system flares like it just got rebooted. Because his thumb lingered for a second too long. Because he watched your face, and you know he saw it—the ripple under your skin. The goosebumps. The chaos.

He smirks softly. “That did something to you, didn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” He steps back, palms raised in mock surrender, but the warmth in his voice is unmistakable. “My little flame is absolutely forgiven now.”

You laugh. Quiet. Wrecked in a new way.

He doesn’t push it further. Just gives you a chocolate truffle shaped like a heart and walks away with a wink.

And your body?

Still doesn’t know what the hell to do with itself.

You pop the truffle in your mouth mostly to shut yourself up, but it doesn’t help. If anything, the rush of flavor—rich, bittersweet, stupidly sensual—makes everything worse.

Your skin still tingles where his thumb brushed. That easy charm of his—that smirk wrapped in silk—is suddenly quieter. Warmer. A little more dangerous.

And now Raf is looking at you like that.

Like you’re not just forgiven. Like you’re something sweet he’s been saving. Something decadent. Melting.

You glance at the truffles cooling behind him. Think about chocolate—how it’s long been called an aphrodisiac, how it opens blood vessels, stirs the pulse, wakes heat just beneath the skin.

And now his voice is echoing in your head.

My little flame is absolutely forgiven.

Maybe that’s what he’s tasting now. Not chocolate.

You.

You try to keep things light. Casual. But your brain short-circuits, and suddenly the words are leaving your mouth before you can stop them.

“Where can we make out?”

He blinks.

You stare at him, wide-eyed, mildly horrified, but also too far gone to take it back.

“I—sorry. I just…” You gesture vaguely toward the chocolate, your body, the entire room. “I need to get this out of my system. Now. Immediately. I don’t care if we’re in public. I’m—melting.”

Raf blinks again. Then grins.

He steps in close, too close, like he’s about to say yes and sweep you into a very well-lit corner of a very expensive chocolate studio. You feel his breath at your jaw. He leans in like he’s about to kiss you and—

Stops.

You blink at him, lips parted.

He looks at you gently, gaze suddenly clearer, softer, and much more dangerous. His hand lifts to rest lightly on your waist. Not pulling, just grounding.

“Not here,” he says, voice low. “Not with fluorescent lighting and Lisette judging our technique from three feet away.”

You exhale—half frustrated, half achingly grateful.

Raf pulls back just enough, lips quirking in that easy, infuriating way. “I’ll bring the chocolate. The good stuff. We’ll do this properly.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Properly…?”

He leans in—just enough for the soft scent of dark chocolate and spice to wrap around you.

“Slow,” he murmurs, voice like poured ganache. “Sweet. Possibly blindfolded. Definitely ruined.”

Then, with the barest shift, he straightens a little, curls falling forward as his mouth quirks up—less smirk, more promise.

“Or,” he continues, casually reaching for a truffle he doesn’t eat, “a sailboat. Secluded port. Copenhagen.”

His fingers trace idle circles on the countertop, like he’s drawing out the idea in real time.

“I’ll show you the markets. The coastline. Let you drive me mad somewhere between dessert and dusk.”

His eyes find yours again—cool rose-hued shadows beneath long lashes, masked but unmistakably knowing.

Then he leans in, lips a breath from yours, close enough that your pulse skips, but far enough that the kiss remains just a suggestion—one he clearly enjoys not giving.

“I know a bakery,” he says, voice soft like a stolen secret. “Hidden little place near a bridge. No menu. Just a chalkboard and a woman who bakes like it’s a love language.”

He grins then, slow and dangerous.

“I want to see you tear into something fresh from her oven. Crumbs on your lips. That look in your eyes.”

A pause, then quieter:

“Copenhagen’s lovely in spring...”

He doesn’t kiss you. He just lets the moment linger—warm and rich and aching—with that sinful smile of his. Like dessert served just out of reach.

“We’ll see who melts first,” he says, lower now. “But I’m betting on you, little flame.”

Your knees wobble.

He grins. “As soon as possible, then?”

And just like that, he turns back toward the truffle station, completely casual, humming to himself like he didn’t just derail your whole internal operating system.

Everything is a mess.

And it’s only noon.

——————————————————————————

You barely make it home before the scream escapes you.

Face down in your pillow, you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a laugh—feral, exhausted, done. Your body is vibrating with leftover tension, confusion, and whatever flavor of emotional whiplash comes from being flirted with by three completely different men in a 24-hour window.

You push yourself upright, hair a tousled halo, skin warm and flushed, and you swear—you smell like melted chocolate. Sweet and heady, clinging to your skin like memory. There’s a trace of it on your lips, in the corner of your mouth, and the heat of it still hums low in your chest. You mutter:

“I need eggs. And authority over something. Anything.”

You march to the kitchen and make yourself the fanciest omelette your dignity will allow. Gruyère, caramelized onions, fresh herbs, a sprinkle of flaky salt like a damn chef’s kiss. You fold it perfectly, plate it like you’re on a magazine cover, and eat it slowly—like it’ll save you. Like it might remind your body you still know how to nourish it.

But halfway through the third bite, you reach for your phone. Type quick, like sealing a pact with yourself.

YOU: Taking the day off. Officially.

The response is instant.

XAVIER: Figured. Did you find the chamomile tea yet?

You glance at your jacket, reach into the pocket, and pull out the tea bag—still there, slightly crumpled but intact.

You snap a quick selfie—hair tousled, eyes soft. You hold the tea bag up beside your cheek and kiss it with exaggerated tenderness, brows raised like you know exactly what you’re doing.

Send.

A beat.

Then your phone buzzes:

XAVIER: Cute 🐰🎀. Next time, pick something that kisses back.

You roll your eyes and shake your head, a soft laugh puffing out. Of course he would say that. Of course…

You try to shake it off—try to stay grounded in the scent of caramelized onion still in the air—but there’s a warmth curling in your chest now.

You take another bite.

Let yourself savor it. Slowly.

One golden forkful at a time.

Then, the spa begins.

Facial. Hair mask. Legs shaved like you’re preparing for a date with your soul. Candles lit. Lo-fi beats playing like you’re not desperately spiraling in a silk robe. You pour over your wine notes like you’re in sommelier school. Compare flavor profiles. Create a cheese pairing menu you’ll never serve anyone but yourself.

It works.

Almost.

For a few minutes, your brain lets go. It floats—lazy, soft—drifting somewhere imagined but vivid.

You start thinking about Raf.

Not under kitchen lights. Not muttering about desserts. But on a sailboat moored in some secluded inlet just off Copenhagen’s edge. The sky is clear, the sun low and golden.

He’s layered in sleek, Nordic couture—minimalist, elegant, unforgivingly expensive. A soft graphite turtleneck hugs his throat like it was spun from fog, disappearing beneath a sharply cut coat in ash-blue wool. The silhouette is precise, tailored within an inch of sin. A broad scarf—half rich ochre, half muted charcoal—is knotted with careless perfection, the plush wool thick and fringed, fluttering faintly in the wind like it knows it’s part of a look. Buttery-soft leather mittens—thin, elegant, unlined for spring—dangle from one hand, unused. And his hair, plum-dark and windswept, catch in the breeze like they were painted there.

He looks like a magazine ad that developed a soul.

There’s a paper bag between you on the sun-warmed deck. Pastries from a bakery he insisted on—delicate things with names you can’t pronounce. You break one in half. He watches you eat it, eyes tracking your mouth like it’s art he helped frame.

And then he says something ridiculous and perfect like, “You chew with such conviction, little flame. I’m in love.”

You almost laugh.

Almost stay there.

But then—

Xavier.

Caleb.

Sylus.

Too much.

Too many heat sources. Too many people who know exactly how to touch you and none who know what to do with you after.

You step into the shower.

Second time in two hours.

This time, it’s cold.

Ice cold.

You don’t flinch. Not at first. Then—you scream. Quietly. Once. Into the stream. Just to let it out.

Water pelts down your back like punishment, or maybe absolution. And as it numbs your skin, your thoughts begin to slow.

… Zayne.

Of course.

Zayne—cool, composed, annoyingly steady.

Zayne, with his clean knife work and colder words. The only one who hasn’t burned you lately. The only one who never tried to melt you in his hands. Back in school, it had been the same—Caleb loud and brilliant at the front, but it was Zayne beside you, calm and steady, who made you feel like you could hold the line. Like you already were.

Maybe… maybe that’s what you need.

Not heat. Not fire.

Cold.

Steady.

Something surgical.

You turn off the water. Step out, still dripping, and brace your palms on the sink. Your reflection looks flushed and exhausted and just barely stitched back together.

But your jaw sets.

“I need to work,” you whisper. “That’s all. Just work.”

You grab your towel. Move like muscle memory—wrapping, drying, dressing with mechanical calm. Kitchen pants. Tee. Jacket slung over your arm.

You pin your hair back in silence. Pull on your boots. Pocket your keys. Then you pause at the hallway mirror.

You stare yourself down.

The light catches the faint smear of pink rising at your collarbone, the ghost of a bruise just barely blooming at the corner of your mouth. You press your lips together, then let them part—checking the damage, checking the memory.

It looks like chaos. It looks like being wanted.

It looks like the kind of mess you only make when you’re trying to outrun yourself.

You breathe out. Slow.

You smooth your shirt. Adjust your jacket. Tilt your chin, just slightly.

Not perfect.

But here.

You stare yourself down, eyes locked in the glass.

“I’m a cook,” you whisper. “But I’m also human.” Your voice catches. But you don’t back down. “And I can fall apart. I can get messy. I can want too much. But I still belong in that kitchen.”

A beat. A breath. The smallest shake of your head.

“Sylus was wrong. I don’t need rest. I need rhythm. I need the line. I need the burn. I need the chaos to mean something.”

Your fingers curl at your sides, grounding.

“Because I’m not just built for this—I was made for this.”

You hold your own gaze a moment longer, throat tightening.

“I’m the anchor.”

The words fall out low, but sure.

“I keep the line steady. I hold when the rest of them start to slip. That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done.”

Your reflection doesn’t argue.

“And if I lose that—if I fall—this whole place sways.”

You swallow, straighten your spine.

“So I don’t get to fall.”

You exhale once, clean and hard.

“I don’t need Caleb to steady me.”

A breath.

“I hold,” you whisper.

Another beat.

Your gaze sharpens, quiet but solid.

“I can do this without him. I am the anchor.”

Then you nod to yourself. One sharp, final motion—like sealing a pact. And softer, with the weight of everything behind it:

“I believe in you.”

And you turn.

And open the door.

——————————————————————————

You walk through the service doors and the sound hits first:

Voices bounce off steel and tile—unfamiliar voices. Confident, but disconnected. The brigade feels doubled, maybe tripled, but there’s no cohesion. Just a flurry of sharp skills with dulled purpose.

Hired hands. One-night miracles. Sylus’s trick.

They fill the space like they’ve always belonged, but the energy’s off. There’s no rhythm. No real pulse. Just survival.

You give a silent nod to the expeditor, signaling you’ll take a backline role. Your station’s already prepped. You’re placed next to Xavier, whose eyes flick to you once—just once—and then back to his cutting.

Acknowledged. Nothing more.

Because Zayne is at the head. Holding the line with precision. Focus. Control.

But it’s slipping.

Zayne’s holding it together through sheer force, but it’s fraying. You see it in the clip of his voice, the way his orders punch the air instead of thread it. His jaw’s locked tight, unmoving. Focused, yes—but brittle. His body moves with memory, not ease.

He’s not blinking enough.

And he feels it.

You see it. Then—

A shift behind you. Quiet. Soft. Not footsteps, just presence.

You feel him before he speaks—a gentle graze of his fingers down your back. Just… a reminder. That he’s there. And that maybe you shouldn’t be.

“What are you doing here, Second set?” Xavier murmurs, low. “Besides making me nervous.”

You glance sideways. Blue eyes are soft but sharp. Studying you. Reading more than you’re ready to say.

You shrug. “Call it instinct.”

“Call it obsession,” he counters gently. “You shouldn’t—”

“But I’m here.”

His lips press together—just barely a smile, just barely frustration. “You always are.”

And then, like mist, he’s gone. Moving through the kitchen like a ghost made of quiet judgment. Not angry. Just… watchful.

You’re left with the heat of his touch still fading across your spine. And Zayne—still blinking too little. Still trying too hard. Still about to break.

And you?

You tighten your apron.

Because if it comes down to it—

You’ll catch the line before it falls.

You move in.

Quiet at first. A whisper here. A plate corrected there.

Until he misfires. An order goes out too early. Dishes backed up. Garnish misplaced. A server’s standing at the window too long and the tension fractures.

Zayne’s voice falters. Not loud, but audible. A sharp inhale. A clipped correction. His hand tightens around the pen like it betrayed him. You see it—the way his jaw sets, the way his eyes flick to the board and don’t move.

He doesn’t say it out loud. But the guilt is immediate. Immediate and deep. Like he’s already rerunning the mistake in his head, whispering that’s on me over and over, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

And you remember.

The way it happened in school, too—during those brutal service challenges. How Zayne, calm and surgical by nature, would start to fray at the edges when the pressure pinched too hard. The hand tightening, the stare that stuck too long to a single task, like he could will the chaos into stillness.

You’d seen it then.

And you see it now.

Same tells. Same internal storm.

And just like back then—you move.

“Hold the pass,” you say, louder. Firm. Yours. “Fire table twelve again. Plate clean. Timing reset.”

Zayne doesn’t argue. He nods. Not defeated. Just relieved. He steps back a breath, letting you take it. You slip in like you never left.

He exhales, just audible over the clang of the kitchen. “Feels like school all over again.”

You glance sideways as you start calling orders, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Then let’s pretend it is.”

And just like that—you’re both back where you started.

And you call. The kitchen answers.

“Fire table twelve. Two scallops, one lamb, walking in five.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Hokkaido purée on the pass. Silky—not soup.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Xavier moves beside you like a second breath, matching pace without ever needing direction. He swaps out a burnt towel before you ask. Nudges the microgreens closer when your focus narrows. His calm tempers your fire—barely.

Zayne hovers on your other side, responding to your calls with the precision of muscle memory. His voice never overlaps yours, just slides into the rhythm like it was always meant to be there. He doesn’t question. Doesn’t second-guess. You catch him watching once—just once—as if confirming this is real. That you’re holding the line. And for now? He lets you.

“Check sear on those scallops. If it’s not gold, it doesn’t go.”

“Yes, Chef.”

You pivot on instinct. Spoons flick. Plates land. The pass hums beneath your control—tight, precise, steady. For now.

But it’s close.

Your voice is sharp. Clear. Orders fly. Plates land. Timing locks.

You’re not just in control.

You’re dominating.

You don’t stop to think. You just anchor. But underneath it all, you feel it—the coil tightening in your chest. That fire Sylus warned you about. That Caleb carried like a curse.

And you realize you’re not anchoring. Not really. You’re burning. And everyone’s watching.

The line keeps moving. Service flows. But your lungs feels like acid. Your fingers cramp from the grip. And still—you don’t stop.

The final table setting is about to enter—twelve more plates, twelve more chances to either break or finish strong. You hear the soft murmur from the host stand, the shuffle of coats being removed, chairs pulled out. The room breathes in again, waiting for the last performance.

You tighten your grip on the tongs. Your apron’s soaked through. And the ache in your shoulders feels like a bell tolling just beneath your skin.

But you don’t stop. Because you’re still the anchor. And the last round is yours to hold.

Until Xavier nudges your arm.

“You’re stepping out. Five minutes.”

You hesitate. You shake your head.

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t budge. “You’re glowing like you’re about to detonate. Come on.”

You don’t have the energy to argue.

He pulls you out the back entrance—just for a moment. The night air hits like balm. Sharp. Honest.

You brace your hands on your knees.

Your shoulders shake once.

Xavier stands nearby, arms folded loosely. Watching. Guarding.

He doesn’t speak for a while.

Then:

“That bruise on your lip?” A slight smile. “Looks good on you.”

You roll your eyes, half-laughing. “Don’t start.”

His voice drops a little. “You’re not anchoring tonight, Second set. You’re burning.”

You stiffen.

“I’m fine.”

He gives you a look. Calm. Cutting. Kind.

“You’re doing great. I’m just saying… you’re starting to sound like him.”

You blink.

And you go quiet.

Because you know who he means.

And you know he’s not wrong.

But you’re not Caleb.

And this fire? You’ll carry it your way.

You push back into the kitchen—where Zayne’s waiting. Not commanding anymore, but moving cleanly in rhythm with yours. He falls into step. He thrives in it. Supporting. Not leading. Sous-chef again. And good at it.

There’s a moment, just as you hand off the next call, when your elbows bump. He doesn’t pull away.

He just says, low and even, “We still make a good team.”

Then, after a beat—his gaze steady on the pass, his hands mirroring your motion with clean precision—he adds, “Like always.”

The memory flickers between you like a shared heat. The long nights, the frantic prep, the quiet glances across the line when Caleb disappeared mid-service. The way Zayne would hold the station without ever asking, the way you would catch each other before either could drop.

“You’re on fire tonight,” he murmurs.

A pause. Measured. Meaningful.

“But careful, Ace. Fire doesn’t always choose what it takes down.”

He doesn’t look at you—but you hear it. The weight behind the warning. And the quiet, steady pride that still came with it.

You glance at him, but he’s already back to plating—like he didn’t say anything at all. But the corner of his mouth twitches. The smallest, briefest smile.

Your voices sync.

You call, he answers.

The brigade follows.

And the final plate? It sings.

——————————————————————————

The bench is cool beneath you, your posture folded in on itself—shoulders drawn, breath shallow, apron loosened like it’s the only thing still holding you together.

In the quiet hum of post-service cleanup, you think back to how Zayne left. No fuss. No lingering. Just a solid hand pressed briefly to your back—a rare gesture from him. “Thanks for taking the line,” he’d said, voice steady. And then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Think I need a drink.”

That part stuck. Not because it was dramatic—Zayne never is—but because he so rarely says things like that aloud. He doesn’t drink unless he’s trying to shut something off. And maybe you would’ve asked, would’ve caught it, if you weren’t so fried yourself. But your body was humming, your breath shallow, your skin still stung from the heat of the night. So you just nodded, too tired to chase the meaning behind it.

And by the time you looked up again, he was gone—coat slung over his shoulder, disappearing into the dark like the night owed him something.

You barely register the sound of approaching footsteps until a soft rustle at your side pulls you back.

Xavier.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t need to.

His sleeves are rolled neatly at the forearms, his hands clean, his movements efficient even now. He stands for a moment, eyes scanning your face like he’s reading tension by the line. Then—without a word—he settles beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you feel it. The choice. The weight of his presence.

From his pocket, he pulls a small, neatly wrapped candy—something sharp and citrusy from the color of the foil. He holds it between two fingers and offers it to you.

You take it with slow fingers.

He watches.

Still, nothing said.

His gaze flicks to your lip, the faint bruise just visible. He doesn’t react to it. Not directly. Just notices. Registers.

Then his hand moves again—light—and tips your chin gently toward him, thumb grazing along your jaw with no pressure, just contact.

Your eyes meet his.

You try to look away.

He doesn’t let you.

And then, with that same hand, he tugs his phone from his back pocket, flicks it open, types something—quick, precise—and turns the screen toward you.

One word glows across the screen:

Careful.

You stare at it.

When you look up again, Xavier’s already slipping the phone back into his pocket.

He leans in.

Not to kiss your lips.

Just your forehead.

A soft press. The barest pause. Like a seal. A tether.

And then—

He’s gone

And you sit alone.

Burning.

And then—presence.

A pause.

A figure settling beside you on the bench.

You don’t have to look to know who it is. The scent hits first—amber and spice, smoky and clean, like heat tucked into silk. Sylus is unmistakable. Towering.

Black blazer draped elegantly over his shoulders like it was made to fall just that way. He doesn’t sit so much as occupy the space—one knee crossed over the other, posture relaxed, hands folded loosely in his lap like he’s got all the time in the world and none of it belongs to anyone else.

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just breathes in, tasting the moment.

Then—

“I was going to ask how you’re holding up,” he murmurs, voice warm and rough like velvet brushed the wrong way. “But I think I already know.”

He doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t smirk.

Just… exists beside you.

For a while, that’s all you get. Just silence.

Then—

His fingers tap lightly once against his knee.

And he offers his hand.

Palm up.

You hesitate.

Then slide yours into his.

His skin is warm. Unshaken. Like nothing in this world could move him unless he lets it.

He stands. Brings you up with him. Wordless.

The kitchen is empty behind you. The front of house?

Even emptier.

He leads you there—quiet footsteps across worn floors—and gestures toward the bar like it’s a stage you forgot belonged to you.

The lights are low. The champagne is on ice. And Sylus moves behind the bar. He pours. Just enough. A glass for you. One for him.

Then, finally—

“Could’ve been worth celebrating,” he says softly, swirling his own glass. He doesn’t look at you. “Shame you’re too tired to raise one.”

You try to sit on the stool. You miss. Just a little. You land—but barely. Your elbow hits the bar. Your breath’s shallow. You blink down at the bubbles like they’re moving too fast.

Sylus notices. But he doesn’t reach for you again. He watches. Closely. Quietly.

Then—

“My generosity,” he murmurs, voice dipped in silk, “wasn’t wrong, was it?”

He leans against the bar, eyes unreadable. “That day off. That moment to breathe.”

You try to answer.

You really do.

Maybe to ask if Caleb’s ever coming back. If he’s still part of Plated. What Sylus knows. What he meant in his texts this morning.

What happened after they walked away?

What was said when the doors closed?

But all that comes out is air.

Just a breath that doesn’t carry words.

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite. But something close.

You drain your champagne with a sigh, heart still fluttering too fast for your liking.

“You can drink more later,” he says. “I’ll keep it cold.”

Then, with the same fluid elegance he brings to service, he tops off his own glass again. The bottle hisses softly as the champagne meets crystal—bubbles rising like a secret just uncorked.

And then—he reaches for you.

Just his hand again—open, waiting—offered like a question with no pressure behind it.

His other hand still holds the glass. But this one?

This one is for you.

You blink. “What—?”

“Come on,” he says, low and smooth. “You look like you’ve been carrying the whole brigade on your spine. We’ll sit somewhere that doesn’t require posture.”

You hesitate only a moment before placing your hand in his. His grip is steady, warm, solid. He leads you through the quiet restaurant, into the tucked-away lounge—the kind of space reserved for VIPs, where the lighting is soft, the walls listen, and the real decisions get made.

The room itself is exhaling.

Sylus sits first, settling into the couch with all the ease of someone who’s used to owning a room without ever raising his voice. He gestures lightly for you to sit beside him.

You do.

And for a while, he says nothing.

The only sound in the room is the slow, decadent fizz of champagne in his glass—like wealth whispering. It fills the silence between you without crowding it, soft and luxurious, like even the bubbles know better than to interrupt him when he’s thinking.

Then, without looking at you, he speaks. His voice quieter now, like he’s sharing something meant to live in the hush of this room only.

“I was sixteen when I learned how to make stock properly. The chef didn’t teach me. He threw a pot at my head and told me to stop being useless.”

“I dodged,” Sylus says, not unkindly. “Mostly. Caught the edge of the pot.”

You wince. “Jesus.”

His fingers lift, slow, tracing the slope of his own nose with a featherlight touch—absent, almost amused. “That’s why it’s arched. Clean break. Didn’t heal back straight.”

You stare a second too long.

“It suits you,” you murmur, before you can stop yourself.

His eyes flick to yours. Something unreadable lingers in them—quiet and crimson. Then the corner of his mouth curves, just faintly.

“Character,” he says smoothly.

You lift an eyebrow. “You mean menace.”

That earns you a sound—a low, amused hum. He leans back just enough to sip his wine. “Same thing.”

You catch it again, the way his mouth twitches like he’s tamping something down. Like compliments—especially from you—hit different.

“You really don’t hide it well,” you say, casually, like it’s not a loaded weapon. “When you like being told you’re handsome.”

Sylus doesn’t blink. Just tilts his glass toward you, the wine catching the light. “Only when it’s earned,” he says. “And only when it’s you.”

The words settle like warmth in your ribs. Then, quieter, as if he’s giving you something rarer than praise:

“After that, I read. Everything I could find. Stayed late. Burned through pans. Learned the line from the bottom up. Didn’t have a mentor. Didn’t need one. What I wanted didn’t come with help.”

You’re quiet now. Not because you’re unsure what to say, but because his voice is hypnotic. Low and warm, like a blanket thrown over your shoulders.

“I started saving,” he says. “Opened my first place at twenty-six. It bombed. The second got press. The third got stars.”

He leans back, one arm draped casually over the back of the couch, like this is just another story, just another night. But his eyes are fixed on you—steadier than before, like he’s weighing something far more valuable than his past.

“I want that for you,” he adds, voice softer now, but no less sure. “The stars. The legacy. The press, if you want it.”

A pause.

“But not the pot to the face. That’s why I’m giving you the kitchen—mine. Safe. Fierce. Yours to ruin or raise. I didn’t have that. But you can.”

And then, like it’s nothing:

“You just have to want it hard enough not to flinch.”

You glance at him—jaw relaxed, sleeves still rolled, collar undone. Not a single hair out of place. And yet there’s something in the way he’s telling you this. Like it’s not a resume. It’s a confession.

“You make it sound easy,” you murmur.

“It wasn’t,” he says at last, voice quiet but edged. Then, after a pause, he turns to you. “And it won’t be for you either. But as I said…” His gaze holds yours, steady. “It will be safe. That much, I’ll make sure of.”

You blink at that. The weight of it. The truth behind it. You shift slightly. “Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs, his eyes still on you. “You need to cool down. And you won’t do it unless someone slows your brain for you.”

You exhale—because he’s right.

Somewhere between the champagne, the tone of his voice, and the way the room feels like a cocoon—you soften. Shoulders relax. Muscles unwind.

And then, before you can stop it, you’re leaning sideways. Your head finds its way to his lap.

He stills. You wait for a quip. A comment. A dismissive joke.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, you feel his fingers—slow and impossibly gentle—brushing against your hair. And his voice, low and patient, murmurs something soft you can’t fully catch.

But it’s enough.

You fall asleep like that. Warm. Safe.

On the lap of a man who knows how to hold silence like an art form.

——————————————————————————

You wake slowly.

The kind of slow that feels like floating—like your body forgot it had weight. There’s a soft warmth draped over you: smooth fabric, expensive, faintly scented with bergamot and something darker beneath. Amber. Sandalwood. Not yours.

You blink against the low light and realize: it’s Sylus’s blazer. Draped over you like a blanket.

You shift slightly—and only then do you register the hand resting gently against your arm. Warm. Still.

Sylus is still there. Seated. Silent.

You glance up, expecting him to be reading, on his phone, doing anything other than this. But he’s just… watching. Calmly. Like you falling asleep on him was an inevitability, not an inconvenience.

His eyes meet yours. No smirk. No teasing. Just a steady, unreadable gaze that softens—barely—when he sees you waking.

“You… covered me.”

He nods once, like it’s the most mundane observation in the world. “You were cold,” he says. Then, after a beat—his voice softer, a flicker of dry amusement—

“Unusual, for someone who burns so bright.”

He waits just long enough for it to sink in before adding, almost offhand:

“And you talk in your sleep, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just once,” he murmurs, lifting the empty glass to the light, watching how it catches nothing. “Said my name.”

You gape at him. “I did not.”

He rotates the glass without looking at you. “You did. Sounded… convincing.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I—… I’m never sleeping again.”

“That would be unfortunate,” he says, entirely unfazed. “You looked good like that.”

Your heart squeezes. Not because he says it with feeling—but because he doesn’t. Because it’s just a fact to him. Obvious. You were cold, so he fixed it. Of course.

You shift beside him on the couch, trying not to look as emotionally compromised as you feel. “That was… really kind of you, Sylus.”

He tilts his head. “Kindness isn’t performative. It’s practical, chef.”

You huff a laugh, still sleepy. “God, even your softness is intimidating.”

That earns you the smallest of smiles. Not smug. Just… real.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you say, half-apologetic, half-overwhelmed.

“I know,” he replies. “If I’d thought you planned it, I wouldn’t have let it happen.”

You stare at him. “You trust me that much?”

“I read people,” he says simply. “You’re honest. Even when it’s inconvenient.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just sit there, wrapped in his blazer, warm from head to toe in ways that have nothing to do with body heat.

Eventually, he checks the time, glancing at the window, where the city lights are beginning to dim with the promise of dawn.

“I’ll call you a car,” he says, standing. “You’re not walking home like that.”

You nod, rising slowly. He straightens the blazer around your shoulders before pulling his hand away.

Then, as he turns to leave, he pauses—one hand on the doorframe, head angled just enough for his voice to carry back.

“Next time,” Sylus says, calm as ever, “tell me when you’re about to burn out.”

A beat. No glance over his shoulder. Just a final addendum, velvet-wrapped and absolute:

“If you insist on working—inventory. With Xavier. Nothing else.”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

A shadow slipping into the quiet spaces of his kingdom, still somehow managing to hold the room even in absence. The door closes with a hush, and you’re left there, wrapped in the weight of something that might’ve been a blazer—but felt like protection. Like a shield.

Like someone saw you cracking.

And chose to cover the break before it splintered deeper.

You remember what Raf said this noon, fingers dusted in cocoa and truth:

He doesn’t show it, but he pays attention.

Picks people up when they’re about to burn out.

And maybe now…

You see it.

You exhale, letting your head fall back, surrendering to the stillness around you.

It lingers, wrapping itself around you, as smooth and soft as the velvet drapes in the next room. It’s a calm that comes with age, with patience, with knowing exactly what should be heard and what never needs to be.

It’s Sylus’s silence.

Curated. Controlled. The kind that doesn’t demand attention, but commands it anyway.

And then—your phone buzzes.

A single text.

CALEB: Can we talk now? Please. I’m outside Plated.

——————————————————————————

Chapter five (tbc)

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Geez, peepz—I’m having way too much fun. Writing Raf is like mainlining serotonin—he’s just pure joy in character form. I may have gone a bit overboard with his arc (sorry not sorry), but aaaa I love where it’s going. At this point, I don’t just want to write him—I want to book a trip to Copenhagen with him and vibe.

That said… yeah, we definitely needed that nap on Sylus’s lap. Reset button: activated. But I wanted to keep things strictly professional with Sylus in this chapter—because let’s be real, he’s not the type to take advantage. He’s kind. He’s patient. He’s the greenest flag in the entire game (imo). And yes, I absolutely made up my own nose lore for him.

All in all, I’m just really happy with where everyone’s arcs are going—and I seriously can’t wait to write more Zayne in the upcoming chapters. Things are definitely cooking, and I’m just the chaotic chef trying to keep up and take notes. What am I cooking now? Oh, just you wait. There are at least two more chapters simmering in this brain already.

And thank you—seriously—for the support. I’m kinda at a loss for words over how kind you’ve been about this AU. I’m so happy you’re enjoying it—you have no idea how much that means to me. My heart is doing backflips. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

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a-bad-case-of-the-stephs · 3 months ago

Note

What're some Steph Brown moments you think should be talked about more?

Thank you sm for asking me this…

This one is actually really hard for me to answer because I think society should be talking about every stephanie brown moment all of the time. Additionally, I genuinely don’t think I can tell what moments w her are underrated anymore.

That being said I have made a list:

1. This Scene w Crystal in cataclysm

Robin #54

Really shows some extremely interesting parts of their relationship. This is like one of our first indications Crystal and Steph’s relationship might be on the mend. We get a look into how close they are despite their many issues. We have a minute where Steph jokes about Crystal blaming herself for the quake “too” implying Crystal often blames herself for things out of her control, which as I’m always discussing is a Stephanie Brown classic trait. The idea that this is something Crystal might do as well is so compelling to me. And throughout it all, we have Steph trying to protect Crystal, taking care of her, even tucking her in like a parent would their child. (Cough Stephanie brown parentification cough cough)

2. This panel from GK37. The way Batmans silhouette steps forward while Steph’s silhouette stands starkly still. The purple overcast sky with the flakes of snow (the whole weather/environment in gk37 kills me). The emphasis on ‘go to hell’ as after a comic of bargaining Steph finally comes to terms with the fact that she can’t rely on anyone else, that Batman going to her and telling her she could be something, that she could be good meant absolutely nothing to him. Amazing. Imprinted into my brain.

4. Steph’s conversation with Natalia about the stars in Robin 104. Gorgeous panel with an interesting look into Steph’s brain.

5. The Riddle scene in Robin 113, because I’m not smart enough to break down the Riddlers riddles and put together the implications which I assume are there and I want someone else to do it for me. Additionally, the lighting is absolutely gorgeous as we get to see Steph at this low point.

6. Robin #92, the scene where Bruce talks to Steph about the future, deeply unsettling her to the point that months and months later at the very start of war games she’s still thinking about it

7. The moment after Tim Drake’s birthday gaslighting bonanza where he commiserates with Steph abt getting tested by Batman. I’m imagining that he feels guilty for his role in her own test. For the record I’m hallucinating that guilt. I think it’s possible Lewis straight up didn’t know how Tim lied to Steph in Batman Family. But on the other hand the parallels to GK37 are insane and clearly there for a reason. Thinking about this lots. The repetition of “I know” vs “go to hell”. Their reversal of roles…I’ve already blabbed abt this on my blog but I’m still putting it here also bc I’m thinking abt it always.

Robin #120

8. All of GK22 as a reflection of how Batman’s loneliness post officer down is actually inextricably connected with his decision to sanction Steph as Spoiler. But specifically this scene because it makes me sick and ill and because it’s my header. Love the decapitated head side eyeing Batman.

9. Okay last one. One moment I’ve been thinking about a lot recently is Stephanie’s first interaction with Batman post War Games. Like the first thing she says to him after returning from her faked death is her essentially asking permission to patrol in Gotham.

Robin #174

Which is so fucking insane. She was unironically and genuinely spiritually broken by the events of war games. One of the very core tenets of her characterization, her willingness to be Spoiler no matter what regardless of the consequences, is fractured and entirely reversed. I have a lot of thoughts about this, and in general how post war games pre bg2009 Steph has healed physically but something big has clearly changed in her and not for the better. If you ask me, that period of time is stephanie brown at her lowest point. Will be posting abt this more eventually because writing this out has given me worse brain worms than normal.

Thank you so much for the ask again, sorry this took me a second I kept writing out way too much. I’m unfortunately a rambler at heart. Would love to hear anyone’s thoughts on any of these moments or other moments I missed.

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allmannerofmalady · 5 months ago

Text

In continuation of my clownery, I started a new DATV playthrough because my beloved Inquisitor looked so jarring I had to remake her and replay like 20 hours of the game. But hey, I made peace with the fact that I am playing DATV to wrap up Inquisition and get an ending scene at this point, I'm not currently foreseeing a second playthrough, so I gotta do it right, y'know?

Spoilers, and me complaining at extreme length, yet again, about my own personal expectations vs reality into the void. Please ignore if DATV negativity is something you prefer to stay away from, protect your peace & what you enjoy.

So I replay HOURS. I'm having fun killing everything as fast as I can - I don't know what it is about playing as a rogue in this game that has tickled my ADHD brain so much, but I'm surprisingly really good at the arrow bonanza and relentless enemy aggro?! This turn based bitch? I digress.

I see my bb Inquisitor Lavellan - she still doesn't look like herself, but I can live with it. She got some ill-advised fillers in Tevinter, she's been through a lot, let her LIVE.

This time around my strategy is pure lore hunting. I'm getting every codex, I'm SQUEEZING this playthrough for whatever lore/easter eggs I can get because idk if I'm going to play again. I got all of Solas' murals early on, got Mythal's essence before Weisshaupt even, I think. BUT WAIT! I have one more treat! The locked room in the Lighthouse! Solas' study! There must be something juicy for all the effort, right? RIGHT? :'D

I know it's been beaten to death, but PERSONALLY, the game still feels incredibly flat to me, jarringly so. If I'm in the Dreadwolf's home, I want to snoop. I want Rook to look through his library, his books, his garbage bin. I even remember the devs saying they wanted being in the Lighthouse to feel an old friends house, or something? I could be wrong, my brain is fried. It's not just a Solas thing - I'm playing this game because I'm desperate for info about the characters I love, but as Rook, we are IN Solas' HQ and I want to rip open the floorboards. I'm trying to RP as much as I can RP in this G.

Anyway, I was so thirsty for something more, something deeper than just these lovely environments I cant do much with, and notes on how Solas hoards raisins - so I collected the wisps and did all the things to unlock the second door in the Lighthouse, forever booboo the fool, thinking I would get some juicy content or something. Trying to stay positive.

No. NO. I got some gear, another empty room Rook has no comments on, and fine, some of Solas' observations on the anchor. It does seem to confirm he kept the Inquisitor’s arm aaaand I love him your honour.

Back to backflipping and shooting arrows in the air, and wanting to grab Emmrich by the beautiful lapels to shake him and ask about the Pentaghast family. Where's my WIFE --

On to the Weisshaupt mission, which was actually ridiculously fun to play - until I was told Weisshaupt is gone haha wow great love that at least the Inquisitor & gang are keeping Southern Thedas safe *subtle foreshadowing* 😃🤞 weeee

I was SO MAD at myself for expecting more like the clown that I am, it was something dumb but just annoyed me all over again and got me all… opinionated 🫠

So, I'm mad again. I cannot begin to articulate my feelings about the incredible amount of storylines and lore we've lost with the decisions made in DATV's writing - they've already been written so eloquently by much greater minds than myself. SO I'm just laughing my way through the pain 🤡

People pleaser that I am, I see other creators I've followed and loved for ages defend the game's choices, tell others they lack media literacy, that your criticisms mean you have rose tinted glasses about the previous games - whatever, your opinion can be valid without tearing others down. So, I genuinely thought something was wrong with me for being so hung up on details. But I can't even engage in fan theories anymore because I'm so jaded at this point. When I see new deep dives into lore-based theories on the game, 99% of the time my mind goes "There is no deeper meaning. They just wanted to wrap it up." Why do you think this thing happened? What do you think that thing is hinting? Nothing. And this is coming from someone who played all the games, owns all the novels, art books, World of Thedas I and II, the bloody Inquisitor lamp from the BioWare store LOL, I was primed and ready to engage in these conversations, but I can't. I have nothing to say that won't end in a cynical answer, and maybe that's because I'm also jaded by working in the game-adjacent VFX industry.

The factions are, yet again, fun but shallow, the logic confusing, and lack much of a backstory for Rook (I think Grey Wardens and Mourn Watchers seem to be the best developed from other reviews and playthroughs, I've only played extensively as a Shadow Dragon, to be fair). Why are you a mage in this one faction? Why are you a rogue in another when it doesn't make sense without a story to support it? It's all this beautiful candy floss that melts away the minute I stop and think about it. And then the cynic in me thinks - these are probably vestiges of the live service part of the game that EA was pushing for. I have to slap myself and stop looking for deeper meaning within corporate decisionsssss there is no swimming pool behind that closed door you needed 7 wisps for 😃

I desperately did not want this to be the case. I was hyped. I preordered the game and organized vacation around it, I'm too old and dealing with way too many crappy personal things to just be a hater for the sake of being a hater. Gaming and Dragon Age are my comfort spaces. But for the LIFE of me, I can't imagine playing DATV again once I finish, let alone more times than I can count like the previous games. Or imagine listening to 4 hours of Youtube videos of party banter to analyze, or even imagine how companions would react to certain things because they feel so stiff. Everything is beautiful, but sterile.

I do love Emmrich - I'm enjoying his storyline and romance, it's like the loveliest most whimsical Vincent Price Pixar romance, but still, something is always missing with the characters even as some do grow on me. I can't imagine anything close to just the party banter ALONE between Solas and Iron Bull. Cole. Fenris and Anders. And to be clear - the whole DA was GRITTY and DARK, DAO supremacy - NOT ME. I love all the games but they have always been whimsical and silly, cringey at times, and did not take themselves seriously. I remember doing the quest where Hawke is running around trying to keep Aveline's date with Donnic from going south, cracking up at how ridiculous it was, and just thinking - gods I LOVE this game.

Speaking of romance, while I'm enjoying how sweet the romance with Emmrich is, when I see others complaining about lack of spice... ahem. I still cannot get over the art style when it comes to characters. This is subjective, and a me problem - I still find it jarring. I don't like the proportions, the bloom, how smooth everyone looks. They still mostly look like cartoons to me, with no body hair and the big heads, and I find everyone's hands so distracting because they look like plasticine. I'm ok with no spice between these characters with their current designs lol let me leave it at that. Ok, except for Felassan and Solas, chef's kiss, no notes.

Solas and story elements directly around him still mostly hold the familiar weight, for the most part. I think credit goes to his amazing VA and the strength of what was likely written for his arc from the very start, before the rewrites and dev hell the game went through. I still have opinions, obviously, but even as a ride or die Solavellan I don't like having the Solavellan angle hijack conversations, so I'm not going to go there. If I'm going to criticize stuff I'll do it as a gamer/DA fan first, egg lover and apologist second.

As I reach the end of Act 2, the game continues to makes me feel like I'm stripped of all agency after a lifetime of playing choice-based games. I talk to companions when it allows me to, then they are relegated to set dressing. My conversation choices all feel the same, or don't match what I'm choosing sometimes. The Lighthouse does not feel like the vibrant hub it was sold as. I am on quests I mostly cannot accept or reject. I cannot interact with my surroundings unless it is gameified (light a candle, move a crystal). The companions abilities are all just - platforming? I know I sound hyperbolic, but it's all I can see currently.

I played Persona 5 from end to end, twice. I played FFXVI. I loved both, had no issues with their linear storytelling, and how the game led you to their end points. Those games are not DA, they did not have the expectations you would have from a BioWare title 10 years in the making. You were not lured in by tales of an incredible character creator, teased about what might be coming from previous games, told this was a sequel to an immersive fantasy RPG series in a beloved fantasy world where the defining studio mechanic was CHOICES MATTER, even when they changed a lot of other things from title to title. In P5/FFXVI you were Clive, you were Joker, you were playing out their story. They were not direct sequels to anything. I'm loathe to be seen as a mindless critic who just wants to shit on things, but a part of me does feel emotionally manipulated for $$$. I still resent how much hype was built for the game by maligning the previous ones (we're fixing Inquisition's mistakes!!).

I'm back to my mission of finishing the game I paid for, enjoy what I can, and get my Solavellan ending scene cause I'm down BAD for literally the only ship I have ever shipped🧍🏻‍♀️I appreciate that it was included. But also - wow does it exacerbate what wasn't included for everyone else's choices.

Something I hate is how everyone immediately jumped on the Baldur's Gate 3 comparisons - BG3 was a life changing game for me, but it's not perfect, and the comparisons are not fair. The one thing I will say is that when I first played BG3, despite its issues and the later criticisms of how Larian reacted to pressure from fans, I remember my earliest impression was - it feels good to be respected as a player. I didn't feel the game was talking down to me, and I got SO much for what I paid for (700 hours baybeee). Jaheira and Minsc were included as companions in homage to the previous games. Yes, they did Viconia dirty, nothing is perfect - but for example, Jaheira would tell you about her husband Khalid from the original games, which came out in 1998 and 2000. There was a lot of world building/easter eggs that not everyone was familiar with or even noticed, because not every player played BG1 and 2, or were familiar with DND 5e - but it was included. Drizzt Do’urden was mentioned ffs, they didn’t overthink about who read those books or not. I’m aware of my biases and I may very well be looking through rose tinted glasses, but I did not feel like the information was presented like I was dumb, or "ah they'll never understand this - SCRAP IT". It just feels like it’s there to honour the past and out of love for the world Larian were playing in.

—> edit to say that I do notice and enjoy the codex entries, callbacks to Tevinter Nights, Masked Empire, the older games. I wish that care and detail was woven into the main story and overall end product and not just background fluff. I know others are satisfied with those additions, wish that were me. I saw a tweet saying that every callback to a previous game or storyline actually pissed them off even more lol, I relate.

I don't feel that respect for the player in DATV, I'm sorry. There is love there, but as hard as I try, it feels like it's there despite of the overall design of the game, not part of it. I keep remembering interviews before the game was released and things that were promised, and I don't see it. At all. No more meaningless fetch quests!! Most companion-focused game! The quests are largely boring or formulaic, but addictive and fun because they are so packed with mindless combat that my brain enjoys. Sometimes it feels like filler - we didn't know what to add here, FIGHT! You unlocked a poignantly named gate in the Crossroads? NO STORY MORE FIGHT! And I'm eating it up, let me not be a hypocrite, I have 80 hours in the game. But personally, it feels designed to pad out this beautiful, sometimes fun, but bitterly shallow game. I can't even go into companion specifics because I have nothing to say, no story I want to analyze. Some have grown on me, but there is no bite or nuance to the writing that compels me and I have no urge to know more. In the previous DA games I would take the long route wherever I went just to get more banter from my companions, and I was instantly interested in them, even if I disliked them. I've seen the comments, I tried, I don't think it's because "I haven't spent enough time" with the DATV companions.

The level design of long narrow corridors, which do remind me of DA2 and FFXVI, has become so predictable to me that I almost always know exactly where I'm going to find loot. So it becomes this admittedly satisfying run of grabbing and fighting to the end point, getting the dopamine hits of collecting pointless stuff, but not really taking in the environments and enjoying the adventure. The level design is not immersive. These do not feel like real cities or real people, and that was intentional. It feels like “levels”, not a World. No one reacts to a single thing you do. Even in the ultra minimalist style of Zelda BOTW, townspeople would react to things you did. Sometimes I walk up to yet another obvious fight arena where the enemies are just chilling, waiting for me while standing still - almost like they're on shift at a haunted house LOL. I can imagine the Venatori stubbing out a cigarette, "C'mon guys, she's here, showtime". The funny part is this has all been seen before in older games, and it never bothered me. My own expectations and overhype might be to blame, but it feels like a big step back when so many games are stepping forward. Me = clown

I keep going back to my first reaction when the disappointment hit me. It feels like being given Persona 5 Strikers or Hyrule Warriors, and told that it's the sequel to the actual RPG. It's fun, it wears the skin of the thing you like that makes you happy, but stops there.

Other things I shake my fist at

Cheap ass The 6th Sense ass Varric death. Yes, yes, Solas villain arc whatever - it was cheap. Way to honour a multi-game beloved character and the player, even if the time had come for him to die in the story.

No, I cannot find a single redeeming reaction from a companion that makes Varric dying make sense in hindsight, except that they are all made of cardboard. I saw comments saying on a second playthrough it's clear Harding is in mourning - sorry, I don't see it.

So. Dorian, the Inquisitor, Charter, Harding, your party, Maevaris, Isabella, list goes on - not a single one of them asks about Varric or mentions his death? Expresses condolences? Nothing? Cheap. Even if Solas was playing with your mind, doesn't it make the overall characters in the game seem even more wooden and unrealistic to the player? It was not the gotcha they seem to think it is.

When the novelty of the cameos and the emotion associated wore off, they were just flat and felt random. Cassandra should have been there, doing Seeker shit (my WIFE). Ok no cameo? Casual dialogue with Emmrich about having a Nevarran in the Inquisition (or as the Divine?!) Lucanis info dumping about Josephine as an Antivan, Zevran as a Crow, nvm, time for a coffee joke. Merrill, eluvian queen, how is she a nonentity? Habibi Fenris should have been in the Shadow Dragons, spitting on the ground after being approached by Solas to join his uprising (lol what uprising amirite). Ok I'm cooking hire me Bioware 🍳 but at least they can remain untainted by the Isabella Treatment (tm)

This leads into the yeeting of the Keep, world states, choices, and hypocrisy around claiming to want to level the playing field for new players. No, all I can see is - it was treated as a buffet that they picked from as it suited. This is the one disappointment I will never let go of. Facsimile's of beloved character cameos were tossed in, you could not really talk to them outside of what limited dialogue you were allowed. Certain world states are now canon apparently - Dorian being recruited in the Inquisition, Morrigan drinking from the Well etc. You want a reboot and you've committed to tossing the choices and burning down Thedas (literally)? Go down with GLORY! Have all the previous main characters/companions alive. Have them all mentioned, even in passing. A portrait on a wall. Say goodbye to them, get your reboot. Honour what you built your business on. But yeah, Emmrich and Harding get to have their picnic in Fereldan fml bye

The argument of: well, the games are old now, it shouldn't matter. Ah - not too old to capitalize on the IP and DA name? Not too old to use some cameos to lure old players? The argument of - it was too many choices to track. Ok cut them down, but don't go scorched earth? 3 choices, mostly irrelevant to those who don't care about Solas (could never be me), and then literally telling you everything else in the South and Weisshaupt is now razed to the ground. But also the illuminati did everything.

FINALLY - the Inquisition should have been in charge of the hunt for Solas, hill I will die on. Fine, have Rook, but Inquisitor should have been the other protagonist. The people... who knew Solas best and betrayed by him... who were in an organization to save the world... Why did we have that cunty dagger stabbed into the map of Tevinter cliffhanger to have the Inquisitor reduced to a pyjama wearing husk BIOWAAAAAAAARE

It's this stuff that builds up, and makes me think - does this game hate its fanbase and source material that much? I very obviously need to go touch some grass 🤠

I keep engaging with Reddit, Tumblr, Twitter - all to my detriment because it makes me feel like there's something wrong with me for not loving it, all over again. I also desperately have a fic in me I would love to write, an ode to the story in my head from years of loving the world of Thedas, a love letter to my Lavellan and others - but idk what to do with the post-DATV world atp. I just want to get through Act 2/3, get my Solavellan smooch, ignore the ~secret Illuminati ending, and be grateful I'm not a Mass Effect fan so I don't have to go through this again 🐣

#bioware critical #dragon age critical #i scream here to function out there #trust me i want to get over it #came to fix solas now he needs to fix me #veilguard critical

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