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mapofthesea · 1 year

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forward!jimin x social media manager!fem!reader

hockey!au

genre: smut, fluff, porn with a hint of plot!

word count: 5.8k

summary: star forward Park Jimin is not only good at the game of hockey, but the game of life. He’s rarely faced with adversity and enjoys the perks of being admired by millions of fans between his sporting and modeling endeavors. To you, he’s nothing but a massive thorn in your side: a reminder of your past life as a puck bunny and your biggest challenge in landing your next promotion. He’s damn lucky he’s handsome.

warnings: arguing, tension from past relationship (they were never Together but they did fuck), swearing, jimin is a smug little shit, jimin with a lip piercing (!!!), hockey talk but no actual game time action, they have Feelings for each other, kind of enemies to lovers but lowkey, specific smut warnings include: penetrative unprotected sex (don’t do this irl!), dom!jimin x sub!reader, slightly bratty reader, degradation (he calls her a slut, she likes it though) and praise, making out/sloppy kissing, fingering (f receiving) oral (f receiving), handjob, hair pulling, hickeys/marking, multiple orgasms, coming inside, slight overstimulation, aftercare ofc

a/n: as always my work is not proof read or edited so there may be some mistakes! Also this is clearly smut so please do not go below the cut if you’re under 18 or uncomfortable with the content noted above. Happy reading!

The warmth of the hotel sheets engulfs you, the expensive feeling silk rubbing gently against your freshly washed skin. You barely know what time it is, but the sleep weighing down your eyelids negates any logic.

An involuntary sigh passes your lips as you feel your spine decompress from the cramped position you had to assume on the plane ride here. Your phone vibrates on the beside table but you skillfully ignore it, snuggling further into the comforter. A sweet lull of sleep starts to envelope you- and then your phone vibrates again. Once, twice, three times, and then the barrage of texts turns into a full blown call, rattling your phone violently.

"Fuck, what?" You yell, throwing the covers off and snatch the phone off of the bedside table. The brightness makes you squint, answering the call without seeing who it is.

"Hello?"

"Oh Thank God, Y/N. I need you to-" the sound of your boss's voice sends anger through your veins. It was his idea for you to travel to this tournament, and now he has the audacity to call you after working hours?

"No, please, Ken. It's late and I'm tired. Whatever the issue is it can wait until the morning."

"It really can't, Y/N. I need you to go talk to Park. Now." You still, heart hammering at the name. You can't imagine what the fuck he would need at this hour, but you're not a babysitter and you certainly aren't giving up your rest for him.

"No, I'm just here to do media for the games. It's not my problem if he needs a handler tonight." Ken sighs and the tension is palpable through the phone line. The silence buzzes through you like a live wire.

"If you don't go talk to him now, your job is gonna be a lot harder than it needs to be in the morning. Please, Y/N. I need someone with boots on the ground to help me. If you get it solved I'll fast track your application for the promotion." Ken's offer hangs over your head. Fuck this capitalist system and the fact that whoever takes the promotion is based more on connection than talent. As much as you despise having to continue to climb the ladder after years of hard work in college and the office, the perks of better health insurance glimmer in your mind.

"Okay, fine. I'm going." Anxiety spikes in your chest as Ken thanks you and hangs up. You vividly remember the last time you were one on one with Park Jimin, and the thought makes your cheeks flame. Suddenly your breezy pajamas feel too warm, and the slightly damp strands of your hair at the nape of your neck itch.

When you started your career in sports media, you never saw yourself working for the same hockey team he plays for. You always saw it as a near impossibility when you moved away from your hometown for the degree- but the universe works in weird and cruel ways that happen to force you into close quarters with a whole gaggle of professional hockey players. You really tried your very hardest to avoid interacting with any of the players on the team outside of working hours, not just Jimin. Although several of them had also flew in today and settled in the same hotel, you made sure to book with a separate airline and get a hotel room on a separate floor. You had no interest in mixing your business with your personal life; it’s nothing but an irresponsible risk.

But here you are now, embarrassing yourself by applying a fresh layer of deodorant before you leave your hotel room. The lavish hallways are luckily empty, and the cool elevator shaft eases the heat crawling up your neck. It’s incredibly nerve-wracking to imagine why you needed to have this intervention, and the idea of how he may answer the door makes you dizzy.

Maybe he’d injured himself? But surely you wouldn’t be the one called to his room in that case. There was always the possibility that he did something to cause a media storm- got into a fight, was spotted robbing a store, maybe it was reported that he did cocaine in a bathroom- but it had only been a few hours since their plane landed, so would he have had time for any of that? And wouldn't covering up a personal blunder be up to his personal manager, not you? Your palms slick with sweat at the possibilities of the mess you’re going to find behind his door.

You hover outside it, staring at the gold plated numbers illuminated by the nearby sconces. It's oddly intimidating to know he's just on the other side of the door; living and breathing and simply existing- perhaps making some kind of erroneous mistake that could ruin his career or basking in the aftermath of that. The wood of the door feels thick and expensive under your fingers as you knock, and it’s so feeble that you can almost guarantee he didn’t hear it. You swear and try again, knocking harder despite your shaking knuckles.

“Coming!” His voice sounds light and airy but it makes lead drop through your stomach. The urge to run away overtakes you and just as you make the decision that no, this isn’t worth the possibility of a promotion, the door swings open.

Park Jimin has no right looking this handsome at whatever ungodly hour you had knocked on his door. His black hair is mussed at the back of his head as if he had just been laying in bed. The softness of his hair is almost enough to weaken you, but the familiar narrowed cut of his eyes runs ice through you. Heat blooms in your cheeks as you blush and internally chastise yourself for the stupid reaction; you were here for a professional reason, so why the fuck was your heart hammering in your chest at a million miles an hour?

"What can I do for you, Y/N?" Jimin's silky voice filters through your hazy mind and you startle, shaking your head to clear the suffocation surrounding you. Alarm bells ring at the familiar cadence of his voice, the way he perfectly crafts the syllables that make up your name.

"Um, I-" your eyes flit around his face; the tempting golden sheen of his skin under the gold casted hallway lighting, the fullness of his cheeks and his pretty lashes and the silver gleam of his lip-ring...

"What the fuck is that?" You practically yell, pulled out of your reverence at his handsomeness as the lip ring registers. It's a bold silver curve, resting temptingly in the middle of his plush bottom lip. It shines as if tempting you to look closer, to touch it, to feel it. Your stomach stirs at the fleeting thought of how the cold metal would pull an addicting contrast between the heated press of his lips.

"This?" He licks at the metal with his tongue and you suddenly feel the need to take a seat. "Got it a while ago, honestly. Off season stuff." He waves his hand nonchalantly as if you'd asked him if he wanted chocolate or vanilla cake. "You like it?" He arches a perfectly shaped brow and leans casually on the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He's small and lithe for a hockey player, but you know that he has intimidating strength corded through his arms and the stamina to match.

Dumbly, you nod at his question. You like it a lot. Jimin lets out a heady laugh and you can only imagine how fucking stupid you look right now; slightly damp hair and a flushed bare face, mismatched sleep socks and these stupid lamb pajamas your mom got you for Christmas. Your face blanches at the sudden realization that the shorts were certainly too small for standing in a hotel hallway under Park Jimin's gaze.

"Wait, no, I'm here because Ken told me to come down and talk to you!" You backtrack quickly, pulling at the bottom hem of your t-shirt.

"Awe, come on Y/N, you mean you didn't want to come visit me for old times sake?" His electric eyes travel your bare legs. You grit your teeth and try to find the fire of anger in your stomach-the shield that's allowed you to ward off your feelings for him for so many years- but it's been replaced by the quivering attraction that never quite left.

"N-no, Jimin." You plant your hands on your hips; hoping to instill some of the social media manager persona back into your conversation. "That thing is a liability for you, and for me, it sounds like, because Ken sent me down here to take care of it. You'll have to get rid of it. It's out of regulations for the games." Jimin blinks owlishly, as if he had never considered that the piercing would be out of regulations.

"Really?" He licks the damn piercing again and your greedy eyes soak up every part; the perfect pinkness of his tongue and the way he maneuvers it around the metal in a tantalizing circle that's much too familiar. Your stomach simmers with arousal.

"Fuck, Jimin, yes. It really is out of regulations, and I would assume Ken saw some picture of you with it, and he's pissed and made it my problem because he isn't here yet. So please, for me, take it out for the games." When is this guy ever going to give you a break? You spent your entire teenage years pining for him and half of your college visits home tangled in his bedsheets, and now as a full fledged adult you're begging him to get his shit together so you can get considered for a promotion. "Please, Jimin, can you just do this one thing for me?" The exasperation of the night makes your voice whiny even to your own ears, and you can practically see Jimin's ears perk at the sound. A cheeky grin overtakes his features.

"If I remember correctly, I've done lots of things for you." You don't miss the shift in his voice; the darkened tone that haunted your dreams for months after you vowed to never speak to him again. Suddenly your throat feels dry and you choke on your rebuttal as he takes a confident stride into the hallway. You can smell the clean linen of his cologne and you instinctively close your eyes and take an inhale. Your nose flares and you swallow your impure thoughts.

"Listen." You poke a finger into his chest and immediately regret it; the firmness of his well toned muscles rejecting your jab. "Come on, Jimin. I'm begging you."

His chest shudders under your finger, and he's so close you can feel the exhale of his breath against your hair. You're frozen as he moves, clasping one of your shoulders with strong fingers. His grip makes your skin tingle as he lowers himself to match your stare.

"I seem to remember you being much better at begging, Y/N. Hmm? Want to try that again?"

Arousal lights your veins and your brain whirs into overdrive, screaming at you to follow the animal instinct clawing inside your gut. Unbidden flashes of your past with Jimin run through your mind: the grip of his hands on your plush hips as he drives himself into you, the paths of bruised kisses he left on your tits after hours of teasing them, the reddened claw marks you left on the bronzed skin of his back.

The current of dominance in his words sparks something dormant inside of you; the slumbering brattiness that you had converted into tenacity reborn. You surge up against him, closing the gap with a bruising kiss. He stumbles slightly in surprise but easily recovers, capturing you around the waist as you devour his mouth. The cool metal of the lip ring is just as addicting as you imagined it to be, wedged between the unending warmth of his plush lips. It's fucking addicting to be kissing him again as he pulls you against the hard planes of his body. There's no hesitation in his actions as he shoves his tongue into your mouth and you nipples pebble in response to the liquid heat he elicits in you.

Oxygen becomes useless to you the longer you kiss him. All that matters is the connection of your bodies, the slip of your tongues against one another. Your heart stutters with yearning as Jimin helps himself to a handful of your ass cheeks and you nip at his piercing playfully. A moan reverberates through him and he uses his grip on you to pull you impossibly closer, walking your bodies backward into his hotel room.

The change of scenery shocks you enough that you finally break from the kiss, panting from the exertion. The heavy door slams shut behind you as Jimin pushes it, perhaps a bit too hard. To your wild satisfaction Jimin looks just as winded as you feel. “Fuck,” he croaks the word and you smile, unable to hold back anymore. Something in your mind loosens, and you surge forward to fumble with the tie of his sweatpants. A beautiful moan falls from his lips and for a second you’re sure that the control he never gave you had become yours: that in the years you’d been apart he had shifted into a man who let you take. After so long of playing the sexy and mysterious playboy, Jimin had finally unraveled for you.

But his sudden strength re-emerges just as you begin to wiggle the fabric down his hips, and he captures your wrists under his palm. Forcing your wandering hands away, a familiar gleam of delight at your pliancy shadows his eyes.

“Oh, little girl, you know better than that, don’t you? Or did you forget how this goes for us?” He tuts dismissively but the passion on his face makes your knees weak. “You-“ he shuffles you closer to the king sized bed, “do what I want you to, isn’t that right, Y/N?” Arrogance colors his tone, and you have half a mind to tell him to shove it, but he guides your hands back to his cock and your brain shorts.

He’s hard, twitching under your touch as he holds your hands there, controlling the pressure of your touch. From your seated position on the bed you get a glorious view of the vein in his neck throbbing, and you regret not plastering any bruises onto his neck earlier. “You always were so good with your hands, Y/N. Fuck. Used to drive me crazy thinking about your hands on my dick.” The husk of his voice makes wetness pool between your thighs. It had been so long since you heard him like this but it was just as delicious as before. The pressure he holds on your hands relinquishes but it’s clear what he expects of you so you snake your hands under the layers of fabric dutifully.

You can’t help but tease him a bit, tracing the curve of his balls through the fabric of his expensive boxers. His hips jump forward and he bites out a warning that has you eager to feel the firm hotness of his bare cock in your hand. You shift forward to pull him free, and you keen at the sight of his cock.

A thatch of welcoming dark hair at the base, the length that puts your last boyfriend to shame, the pretty red-tinged head pulsing with a pearlescent shine of precum. Suddenly, you feel extremely empty.

The seam of your pajama shorts presses right where you need it, so you settle for rubbing your thighs together subtly for now. Your hand encases his length, starting with small gentle strokes that you know are doing nothing but driving him crazy. His stomach clenches and trembles as you start pumping him faster, relishing in the little jumps of his cock as your grip gets firmer.

“Feels so good,” the praise falls from him without thought and strikes a hot iron in your stomach, thighs rubbing together without much thought. “Pretty little hand on me like that, fuckin missed that.” The haze of arousal occupies you enough that you don’t allow yourself to overthink anything: instead taking the liberty to rub your thumb firmly over the tip of his cock. The precum aids your glide but you feel a devious idea sneak up on you and you promptly lean forward to spit directly onto his cock. The sound he makes is inhumane and you adore it, gobbling up the strained whimper of your name as he grasps your hair, hard.

Pleasure shoots down your spine at his grip and he grins slyly, calculating eyes shooting down to the quivering of your thighs. You don’t cease your hands, only adding the second to cup at his balls again while he appraises you. “My pretty little slut, spitting on my cock without me even asking.” He holds your hair harder, cocking your head just enough that you can’t look away from his smoldering eyes. “Are you my pretty little slut?”

You were expecting the question: a relic of your college aged trysts, but it still bowls you over like a semi truck.

“Y-yes, Jimin. ‘M your pretty little slut.” He grins so hard that his eyes scrunch and an approving sound rolls out of him. Your pussy throbs at that, hips canting forward as you mindlessly work your hands over his cock. “Do you need some help?” The grip on your hair disappears and you immediately miss it, the sting of your scalp serving as a beautiful reminder. It takes you a minute to decipher what he means, but the way his penetrating stare flickers between your eyes and your center clues you in. The seam of your shorts had been consistently stimulating you but not nearly enough for any kind of relief: you had soaked through them and your panties while Jimin spoke to you.

You pout at him and nod even though he really didn't need more persuasion. Jimin's quick to cup your pussy in his hand, rubbing his palm over the soaked fabric. Your grip on his cock tightens at his touch and he hisses approvingly, pressing harder against your pussy. You grind your hips upward in a bid to get him closer to your clit. The dull pressure of him cupping you entirely only heightens the neediness in your veins.

"Please, Jimin," you whine and petulantly drop your hands from him when he doesn't get the hint fast enough. Jimin arches a brow at you.

"Is this the game you wanna play, Y/N?" Only now do you realize that his hand has stilled as well, the heat of his palm radiating against your wetness. You shake your head, unable to bear the idea of being denied his touch any longer. "That's what I thought," he tuts. "Now be a good girl and keep touching me, and maybe I'll return the favor."

You immediately grasp for him again, making quick work of thumbing the vein running on the underside of his cock. Jimin returns the favor by honing in on your clit through the fabric of your shorts. You work each other in a lustful tandem, sharing moans until Jimin slips his fingers underneath the soaked layers of fabric on you. The feeling of his fingers on your bare pussy sends you reeling, hands doubling their work on him as he circles your clit with a nimble index finger.

"Fuck, Y/N, you're gonna make me fucking cum," his hips stutter wildly under your grip and you smile, dopey on the satisfaction and the energy building in your core.

"Wanna make you cum," you supply, squeezing the head of his cock lightly. Jimin grunts heartily, head tipping back against his shoulders and you know you have him right there. Triumph squeezes your heart as you make quick deliberate strokes across his cock.

You hear him cum before you feel it, the beautiful tone of his voice husked with arousal. His hips stutter and buck against your hand as his cum paints your top and your palm, the sticky wetness oddly satisfying to your lust addled brain. A laugh of disbelief leaves him as your hand finally loosens. His own hand comes back to life and you gasp; surprised by his renewed energy so soon after coming.

His chest heaves as he bares down over you, leaning your body back onto the plush mattress. His eyes skate down to the mess he made of your shirt and a devious smirk decorates his face.

"Hmm, maybe we should get you out of this messy shirt?" His voice is invariably playful again and you can't help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

"Oh, I guess if you insist..." you bat your eyes playfully as he dislodges his hand from your pussy. It leaves you feeling oddly cold, but the gentle tug at the bottom of your shirt distracts you.

"Can I?" The sheepish look on his face stuns you. After everything that had happened tonight, and all of the times he had taken the liberty of stripping you naked before, you're surprised to see the hesitation on his face.

"Yes, Jimin, if you're sure." You cup his face gently, thumbing the delicate metal of his lip ring. He nips at your fingertip and laves at the spot with his sinful tongue. The flush that stains your face is blocked by the fabric of your shirt as he shucks it off; and Jimin's gaze finds your tits immediately.

"So pretty," he pinches a nipple in reverence. "I missed these tits, Y/N. Missed you." You can't be sure if he meant to admit the last part, but hope strikes your heart regardless. He squishes your tits together and jiggles them, and for a second he's transformed back to the boyish college freshman he was when you first started to hook up; high on his new career as an athlete and the fame that came with it.

His tongue laves across the curves of your breasts, biting a bruise into the supple flesh right above your nipple. The pain transforms into arousal in a second, and your hips buck against him in silent question.

"Oh, can't have just half the outfit on, can we?" He dances his calloused fingers along the waistband of your tiny shorts before yanking them clean off, underwear easily going along with them. The rush of cool air that meets your pussy raises goosebumps along your skin.

"Don't worry, baby. I'll get you nice and warmed up again." Jimin cracks a feline smile and settles comfortably on his knees before parting your thighs. Wetness slicks between them and he hums in satisfaction.

His long hair tickles your legs and you already feel so overwhelmed that by the time he puts his mouth on you, your back is arching toward the ceiling. He presses a kiss to your pussy and the cold sting of his lip ring brings tears to your eyes. Jimin parts your lips with his fingers and allows himself to feast, licking you so thoroughly that you think this must be a holy experience.

Surely this is what divine intervention feels like: Park Jimin feasting on your pussy like a man starved, circling your clit with his tongue and teasing your throbbing entrance with his deft fingers. Your body is honed into every move he makes, and each twitch of his tongue and push of his fingers brings you closer to the sweet, blinding edge. Your hips squirm at the overwhelming sensations and Jimin nips at your clit in retaliation, throwing a strong arm over your lower stomach. Effectively holding you in place, he redoubles his efforts and slides two fingers home, stretching your walls at the same time he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks.

The hot wetness of your arousal, his mouth, the slip of his tongue against you, and the shockingly chilled press of that god damn lip ring send you into happy oblivion. An inhumane string of noises rips from your throat as you come, writhing against the sheets as white heat flashes behind your eyelids. You vaguely register Jimin's fingers pushing you through the high as he laps the last bits of arousal out of you.

"There's my pretty little slut," he purrs as you settle. Your thighs twitch as he pulls his hand away to smooth down the hairs sticking to your face. It takes you a few blinks to register the pretty grin on his face, but you return it with ease.

"Never get rid of that thing." You gesture vaguely to his mouth and a puff of laughter runs across your face. He tongues at it thoughtfully, and even though you had just come, your pussy throbs again.

"Funny, about an hour ago you were begging me to take it out."

You slap his chest noncommittally, still weakened from your explosive orgasm. Jimin pecks your forehead and you keen. A softness appears around his edges as he looks down on you; and even in your bare faced, sweaty state you feel adored.

"I missed you too," the words burst forward before you can rethink it. It'd been swimming around in your mind since you accepted your job offer and caught sight of him for the first time in years. Although neither of you were ever bold enough to make it official, there was no denying the magnetic attraction you shared.

"Fuck, I'm so glad you said that. I have so much I wanna talk to you about-" he presses another delicate kiss to the corner of your lips and you grin. "But I am so hard right now, can we please talk later?" He rolls his hips against you and the evidence is clear. Your brain blanks, replacing the fuzzy adoration with sharp, demanding need.

"Uh huh, talk later. Need you now." Jimin makes short work of his shirt at your approval. His instagram modeling presence has made you no stranger to the sight of his bared chest; but the toned muscles of his pecs and abs scramble your mind. His skin nearly twinkles under the light, and whether its a trick of your mind or the evidence of a very fancy moisturizer, you're just happy to be in his presence.

"Flip," he orders, voice devoid of the sweetness it held just moments before. A shiver wracks your spine as you follow his instructions, flipping onto your hands and knees and obediently curving your back. Jimin hums in praise and you feel renewed energy course through your veins.

He traces the curve of your ass, ghosting his touch around the sensitive skin. You can't see him but you can picture the self satisfied grin on his face as he relishes in the smooth skin. The touch of his lips against your full cheek shocks you and you rock forward into the bed. Jimin bites into the flesh firmly and you moan at the feeling of his sharp canines. You can imagine the blooming bruise that will be there by the morning, and the mere idea of the sore reminder of this night makes your core throb.

"Do you-" Jimin's words die in this throat. "Do you have any condoms?" The punch of reality has you sagging into the sheets. Of course you didn't. The last thing you expected was for this night to unfold like it did. Heavy disappointment weighs your heart.

"I didn't bring any, I haven't..." he trails off again and you wait a few breathless seconds for his words before you twist your upper body so you can see his face. His cheeks are flushed a rosy red that's so endearing your heart squeezes. If it weren't for his evident arousal you would think he had just woken up from a long, restful sleep.

"I haven't been with anyone in a while." He gives you a sheepish smile and you nod in understanding.

"Me either." The admission passes between the two of you like calm water, cooling the tension until a storm whips up in Jimin's eyes. His cocky grin returns as he palms himself.

"I'm clean, are you?" You nod, body reacting to his insinuation before your mind can fully catch up.

"I'm on the pill," you breathe the words as if you can't believe them, and Jimin looks absolutely ravenous. He runs two thick fingers up your pussy, gathering the heady arousal that already has you slippery and stretched for him.

"Gonna let me get in you raw, huh?" He shuffles forward until you can feel the tip of his cock pressed against your folds. He holds his cock against you with his thumb as he glides, careful not to enter you prematurely.

"If I woulda known all it took was a few years apart..." you huff a rueful laugh that transforms into a moan as he slips the head of his cock into you.

"Oh fuck-" Jimin wastes no time in sliding in until he is seated fully inside of you. Your walls pulse around him and you can feel drool pooling in your mouth. He takes a handful of each of your asscheeks and pulls your body against his own, a little experiment to see just how greedy your pussy is for him.

An obscene squelch sounds between your bodies and it only spurs Jimin into further action.

"Fucking perfect little ass and pussy swallowing me up." Jimin moves impossibly fast, taking care to sheath his entire cock inside of you hard before pulling out. Your finger nails rake through the comforter as the waves of pleasure ripple through you. Jimin's body encases your own, trapping you under the strength of his muscles and heat of his sweaty skin. With his chest pressed to your back, his cock drives into you at a brand new angle that makes your toes curl with delight. Jimin's sinful lips find a home at the juncture of your neck and he seems more than happy to decorate you with hickeys to match the one on your ass. The addicting drag of his cock pairs with the tickling cold of his lip ring each time his mouth lands on you, and the sensory overload has your stomach clenching.

You have completely lost control of your mouth and allowed the animalistic sector of your brain to take over as Jimin fucks you stupid. His own incoherent grunts vibrate against your neck in fragments. "Pretty...good little slut...fuck..."

Your eyes roll as he slows his thrusts, aiming for the perfect spot that makes your legs jelly. It only takes him a few moments to find it, and the world quickly becomes washed with tears.

You hiccup his name as he steadies a hand around your abdomen, sneakily playing with your clit.

"You gonna come for me, Y/N? Get my cock all nice and wet just like you're supposed to?" He braces his unoccupied hand overtop of you, clutching the headboard with flexing muscles. His presence is suffocating in the best possible way and you feel like you're drowning in Jimin.

"Such a perfect little pussy. So hot and wet for me all the time." His voice wavers and his thumb catches your clit just right. A dark chuckle graces your senses just as you tip into oblivion.

Your entire body contracts and shivers under him as you cum, Jimin's hips driving you forward until you collapse into the comforter in a fit of cries. It feels like you come forever, leaking waves of arousal around Jimin as his hips slap against your own.

"Good job, baby. I-I'm gonna come, you feel so good." You whine and plead for him, ready for the electric feeling of him filling you with his cum. You're still feeling shaky when he comes, driving his hips as far forward as possible as he fills you. Beautiful airy moans leave him as he grinds against you, relishing in the sloppy warmth of your mixed cum.

His hips slow their movement but his mouth never ceases, spilling praise and planting kisses along your back until he's spent. When he pulls out you instantly feel empty, whining as his cum slides out with him. Both of you are too spent to do anything about it, but Jimin watches with hooded eyes from beside you as it leaks onto the comforter. It's scary how suddenly the sleepiness hits you, and you reach near blindly for the man next to you.

You must look exhausted because he coos and pecks a kiss over your nose. "You can sleep here." You giggle and crack your eyes open and find him so close that you can see the irregularities of his teeth as he grins.

"Good, cause I'm not walkin' back to my room now. Even if I could walk, my clothes are ruined." His face flushes at the reminder of your debauchery. He licks his lips and your eyes catch on that damned lip ring again.

"You really will have to take that out for the games," you run your thumb across it again, obsessed with the feeling.

"I know," he whispers, and then his lips are ghosting over your own for permission. This kiss is nothing like the one you shared at the top of the night. It's gentle and slow and punctuated with a deep connection that runs years deep. Despite how much you had done tonight, this kiss feels the most intimate of all.

No more words need to be exchanged as he helps you sit up and walks you to the bathroom with some pajamas from his bag. He patiently waits outside as you pee-both of you agreeing that you weren't quite ready to be that available with one another- and he lends you a bit of his face wash in earnest.

The comforter is stripped from the bed by the time you're back, and he's pulled the extra pillows from the linen closet to accommodate for you. You shuffle under the sheets and are happy to find them just as silky as your own were. Jimin slips in next to you, fully clothed again, and promptly kills the bedside lamp.

Sleepiness overtakes you almost instantly then, and it's so dark that you rely on the pattern of his breath to gauge if Jimin is still awake.

"I'm sorry if I made things weird for all that time, I- I was just scared that I would say the wrong thing." You speak to the surrounding darkness, and for a minute you think that maybe you missed the short window of opportunity. But then Jimin gives a thoughtful hum, shuffling so that he can tuck your body against his chest. His response is muffled by your hair.

"It's okay. We were young and stupid last time. I hope you'll let us try again." Your heart swells and you hum in affirmation and snuggle back against him. "Tomorrow?" You offer, the hazy edge of sleep just seconds away.

"Tomorrow." Jimin agrees before your consciousness drops easily into dreamland.

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amhrosina · 1 year

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The Way of the Water (Namor x Reader)

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A/N: Y'all thought I wouldn't immediately write a Namor fic as soon as I saw Wakanda Forever??? Anyways, this ended up being over 3k words lol enjoy! Also, I did my very best to translate from English to the Yucatec Maya language that Namor speaks. If I messed any translations up, please let me know! I will fix them asap if necessary.

Summary: You meet Namor on the beach one evening, and what follows is a whirlwind friendship that quickly develops into more, but what happens when the real world comes crashing down around you?

(Warnings: minor character death (off page), angst, grief, mutual pining, flashbacks??, allusions of smut, but no actual smut)

Translations:

jats'uts lool – pretty flower

in ch'ujuk – my sweet

in yakunaj – my love

Rain pelted the windows of your apartment, and the increasingly loud rumble of thunder reminded you of him. It always did. Even the sound of the shower running sent you spiraling into your memories of him. He had completely and irrevocably taken hold of you, and even though it had been over a year since you’d seen him last, you couldn’t shake the grasp he had on you, on your heart.

You had always loved the water as a child; spent hours frolicking up and down the beach, playing a never-ending game of tag with the tide. As you got older, the games eventually evolved into hours of sitting in contemplation, watching the tide inch closer to you until it finally washed over your toes. By the time the brisk water found its way to you, you had figured out exactly what your next steps would be. There was never a problem you couldn’t solve by sitting near the waves, breathing with the sea.

The beach near your mother’s house is where you’d first met him. It was dusk, and a storm was brewing on the coast, so the beach was empty of tourists and surfers. It was just you and the waves, until it wasn’t.

You watched as the water began to behave strangely, gently crawling up the beach towards you in an unnatural fashion. The tide was still hours away from being at its full height, and you struggled to make sense of it. Your mother’s voice was screaming at you in your head, telling you to run away from the beach and never look back, but as you stood, the water enveloped your feet, caressing your skin with so much gentleness that you were rooted to the spot.

“Don’t be afraid, jats'uts lool.”

His voice echoed in your head, taking over your body and soothing every fear building inside of you. It was a kiss to each eyelid, a brush across your cheek, a comforting hug around your waist. It echoed safety and warmth, and you felt your anxiety wash away as he breached the surface ahead of you.

You took a step forward and faltered. His presence was God-like, but not scary, you decided. You could tell how much power he held just in the way he stepped onto the beach, covered in beautiful hand-carved makings. He stopped a few feet in front of you, watching you for any signs of fear, but you had none. Pure curiosity lit your face, and he couldn’t help but smile a little bit.

“Hello.” You breathed, unable to take your eyes off the ethereal being in front of you. He was strong, yes, and likely very powerful, but he was also beautiful. You couldn’t move, still rooted to the spot on the beach.

“Hello.” He responded. “I am K’uk’ulkan, but you may call me Namor, if it suits you.”

There was a gleam in his eyes, one that you couldn’t read, but you continued to stare in awe at him.

“Are you a God?” You asked, voice light and wispy. “My mother always warned me not to meddle with Gods, but you are not here to hurt me.”

His smile grew into a wide grin at your comment about your mother, but he didn’t laugh.

“I am a type of God, I suppose. I am not here to hurt you, but your mother is right, jats'uts lool. Meddling with the Gods is a foolish endeavor.”

He turned to the sea and sat down in the sand, patting the space next to him.

“Sit. I will tell you about my people, and you can decide if you want to continue playing with a God.”

His voice allowed room for disagreement – he was giving you the choice to sit with him or leave – but you lurched forward to sit with him, the decision already made.

“My people,” he started, searching the sea in front of you, “belong to the sea. As do I. We are a formidable presence, which is why we are still a secret from the world. Anyone who dares disturb my people learns rather quickly that we are not a force to be reckoned with. So, if I tell you this, jats'uts lool, you must not repeat it to anyone. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.” You breathed. Your body had subconsciously leaned towards him, drawn in by his melodic voice. “Why are you trusting me with this, K’uk-,” you struggled to pronounce the name he had given you but tried anyways. He turned to you, smiling as you tried again to say his name.

“I have seen you here, sitting with the sea, many times before, even though you couldn’t see me. You are alone, jats'uts lool, sharing your secrets with the tide. That is why I trust you. Because you trust her.” He nodded towards the water.

He began his tale, describing his journey to you with overwhelming passion. When he spoke about his mother, his eyes hardened, but softened when he looked back at you. You sat with him for hours, in awe of his story and his people. When he finished, he gazed at you in question, watching as you processed the information he had shared with you. Day had fallen to night long ago, but the dark felt trustworthy, like everything being spoken would be held within it for the rest of eternity.

“This feels like a dream.” You finally said, shaking your head. “Am I dreaming?”

“This is no dream, jats'uts lool. But I must return to my people tonight.”

He stood, holding his hand out towards you. You rested your hand in his as he pulled you to your feet, refusing to let go, even though you were both balanced in the sand.

“Will you come back?” You asked, searching his gaze.

He brought his hand to your cheek, gently cupping your face. You leaned into his hold, breathing in the scent of salt and sea.

“I will come back if that is what you wish, jats'uts lool.”

“What does that mean?” You call after him as he makes his way back into the sea.

“I will tell you when I see you again.” He smiled as the sea washed over him, pulling him down into the dark depths of it and out of your sight. You watched the sea for a few minutes, trying to convince yourself that he wasn’t a figment of your imagination, and then finally turned and headed back to your mother’s house.

A loud clash of thunder brought you back into the present, in your apartment where you had lost yourself, yet again, in thoughts of him. It had been like this since that first night with him, and only got worse after every visit. Your heart panged with guilt over leaving the coast without saying goodbye to him, but you had to go, had to get away from the town that had taken everything from you, and he hadn’t come on the night you needed him most. The storm would leave eventually, but he would stay with you forever.

It had been almost a full year since you’d left your small coastal town, and you eyed your car keys as the desire to return overwhelmed you. It was only a few hours away, still close enough to be reached by car, but not so close that you would be reminded of your childhood at every hour of the day. Before you could convince yourself it was a bad idea, you grabbed your car keys and bolted out the door.

Namor visited again two weeks after the first night. You were sitting on the beach one night, later than you usually stayed, half-convinced that you had made him up, when the ocean began to stir. Your heart leaped into your throat as he made his way out of the water.

You met him halfway up the beach, enveloping him in your arms. The sudden reminder that he was a literal God, and that hugging him probably broke all kinds of rules, had you stiffening against him. The thought quickly washed away as he wrapped his arms around you, tightening your body against his. He was unexpectedly warm, even though the sea was cold, and your skin broke out in goose bumps where it touched his.

“You are real.” You mumbled into his skin.

He chuckled, leaning his head back to look at you.

“I am real, jats'uts lool.”

This is how every reunion went. You’d hug him, he’d swing you around in the sand, and you’d spend hours talking about everything. He told you about his home, a place you dreamed about. You told him about your childhood, how alone you had been for most of your life and how he was probably your only true friend, even though he was a literal God. He talked about bringing the sun to his people, and you were so overwhelmed with something in your heart that you had to remind yourself that God’s don’t love humans the way humans love Gods.

One night, he finally asked you what he’d been wondering about all along as you both sat in the sand, watching the tide make its way up the beach.

“Why do you spend so much time alone, jats'uts lool? You speak of your mother, but I never see her here with you.”

“I’m waiting for you, Namor.” You tried to brush his question off by flattering him, but he had never been stupid, and you sighed as he refused to let it go.

“No, even before you knew of my existence, you would spend many hours here. Don’t think I haven’t seen you crying. What bothers you, jats'uts lool?”

You couldn’t fight the tears welling up in your eyes. Namor waited patiently as you worked up the courage to respond.

“It’s my mom.” You finally murmured, roughly wiping the tears from your cheeks. “She’s sick, Namor, and I can’t do anything to stop it. The doctors say it’s terminal. All there is to do is wait, now, for the inevitable. She will die, and I will truly be alone.”

Namor watched you, carefully constructing his response. You couldn’t look at him as you tried and failed to stop the tears flowing down your face. He gently grasped your chin, tilting your head to look at him.

“I am sorry, in ch'ujuk, for your sorrow. I understand the grief of losing one’s mother. It never leaves you, and for that, I’m sorry. But you will never be alone, jats'uts lool. You will have me.”

He leaned in, planting two soft kisses on your eyelids and wiping away the tears from your cheeks. You couldn’t stop yourself from capturing his lips with your own. You didn’t think about the consequences, or how many rules you were definitely breaking by doing it. He didn’t seem to mind, though. He grasped your waist, roughly pulling your body towards his.

He laid back on the sand, pulling you on top of him as his tongue explored every inch of your mouth. You rested your knees on either side of his waist, grinding into him. His hands couldn’t figure out where to rest, running up and down your body, cupping your head, and squeezing your thighs as you grinded into him again.

The previous conversation finally caught up to his thoughts, and he gently pushed your body a few inches away from his. Your lust slowly warped into confusion at his abrupt stoppage.

“Not tonight, in ch'ujuk, when you are vulnerable and sad.” He closed his eyes, tightening his hold on your waist. “When I take you, I want it to be because you want it, not because you are sad and in need of comfort.”

“I’m not-,” the look he sent you buried any attempt of continuing what had transpired. Namor was right, and you couldn’t deny his assumption that you needed comfort more than anything.

You sighed, resting your head on his chest. He held you tightly as another round of tears engulfed you, racking your body with ugly and guttural sobs.

“It will all be okay, in ch'ujuk. You will always have me.” He murmured, running his hand over your hair in a soothing gesture.

When it was time to part ways, you walked him into the water, clutching his hand in yours. The tide, usually violent by this time of the night, was peaceful around you. It always was, nowadays. He cradled your face, kissing your nose lightly.

“I have something for you.” He murmured, gently grabbing your hand. He began to tie what was probably the most beautiful piece of jewelry you had ever seen around your wrist. “It was my mother's, and now it is yours. It is a beacon of strength and persistence. My people wouldn’t exist without it. Whenever you are feeling weak, let it guide you towards peace.”

A wave of emotions overwhelmed you, and you couldn’t breathe. The significance of him gifting you something so special to him was so incredibly generous that you couldn’t stop yourself from crashing your lips into his. He kissed you in sweet, unhurried motions, letting you push every emotion you were feeling onto him. He would take all the hurt away if he could. Carry it on his shoulders so that you could breathe easier. It wasn’t just a connection with you, it would always be something more, something galactic, something intangible but never missing from his being.

When he finally slid back into the water, you clutched the braceleted wrist to your chest and swore to never let go of it.

The sight of the sea after so long calmed your nerves, as it always did. You had parked in front of the house that had belonged to your mother for so many years and headed towards the beach where it had all started. The house belonged to you now, but you hadn’t stepped foot in it since the awful night that had sent you scurrying for dry land, far away from the world you’d grown comfortable in.

When you stepped onto the beach, your nerves resumed their anxious drumming. The last time you’d been here, you had been so angry at the world, so incredibly grief-stricken and so sad. Your mother had gotten pneumonia, a curse that had taken many sick people before her, but you were convinced she would pull through. When she didn’t, and you had to watch as EMT’s rolled her body out on a stretcher, you had stormed to the beach, intent on burning the world around you.

You had called to Namor, begging him to take you away from here. You prayed and cursed and screamed, pounding at the sand with your fists, but he didn’t come. You sat with the anger until it finally warped into an incredible sadness, swallowing you whole. When dawn finally cusped the horizon, and you had finally accepted that he wasn’t coming, you had turned from the beach, climbed into your car, and driven far away. You hadn’t come back, until now.

The storm had followed you back to the coast, where it was brewing something heavy in the skies above you. A light rain had drenched through your clothes on your walk from your house to the beach. It was dangerous to be so close to the water when the skies looked like this, but you didn’t care anymore. You needed to be with the sea, with him, even if he hated you for leaving.

You sat on the beach, watching as the rain grew heavier around you. The tide was violent and angry, whirling and crashing hard onto the sand in front of you. That’s fine. You shrugged. Let it be angry with you.

A stirring in the sea had you bolting to your feet, running towards the turbulent water. Namor stalked onto the beach, head swiveling back and forth until he saw you. You couldn’t help the sobs coming from your chest. You fell to your knees in front of him, clutching the bracelet you had never removed from your wrist to your chest.

“Namor.” You mumbled, voice strangled and weak. “Please forgive me.” You sobbed into your hands, dropping your head. You couldn’t look at him, but you would accept anything he gave you, even if it was anger.

You felt his presence before you felt his touch. He slowly wrapped his hands around your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from your face. He was kneeling in front of you, concern written on his face.

“In yakunaj, where have you been? The sea has been missing your presence for a year now. Why did you leave? Why did you go somewhere I couldn’t follow? Why did you hide from me?”

“Namor,” you breathed, voice breaking. “My mom. She-”

You couldn’t say it. You hadn’t been able to since that fateful night a year ago. But Namor knew, sympathetic expression dawning on his face as you spoke.

“Oh, my love.” He murmured, pulling you into his chest. You wound your arms around his neck, holding him tightly. You squeezed your eyes shut, relishing his warmth. “I am sorry you have been dealing with this alone. The sea called to me, told me you were hurt and angry, but I was far away, and by the time I got here, you had left. I’ve come every night since, but the sea no longer held your presence. I could not find you, in yakunaj.”

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled into his skin. “I’m sorry for leaving. I've hated myself since I left, but I couldn’t face what I’d left behind.”

“Do not apologize for your grief, in ch'ujuk. I am glad you are here. I am glad you are safe. I’m sorry I could not protect you from this.”

You pressed your lips against his, something you’d dreamt about doing every night since you’d left. After all this time apart, you finally felt like you could breathe again. He was here, and he didn’t hate you.

“In yakunaj, my people have been working on a way for me to bring you home with me, so we can rule the seas together. It could be your home, with me. Is that something you would want?”

You gasped at his proposal, mind whirring. “Do you mean it, Namor?” You murmured, searching his eyes for false promises.

“Of course, jats'uts lool. They took notice of my absences after we met, and I could not lie about falling in love with a human from the surface. Some were weary, understandably so, but the sea whispered to them about your gentle heart, and the sea does not lie. They have already begun constructing a throne for you.”

“Take me home, Namor. Your home.” You whispered, heart aching at the thought of Namor telling his people about you, at the thought of them accepting his love for you.

“I love you, in ch'ujuk.” He murmured, capturing your lips with his.

“I love you, my king.” You responded against his lips.

The surface world had never really felt like home to you. The sea had been your home long before Namor had stepped onto the beach that fateful evening so long ago, but now it beckoned you into its warmth. It called to you, and you would be a fool to ignore it. Yes, meddling with Gods was a foolish endeavor, but Namor was your home, and there wasn’t a chance in the world of you turning away from him now. You took a step into the water.

Home.

Tag List:

@alexxavicry @hallecarey1 @km-ffluv @chiaraxtargaryen

This is my first Namor fic, so I'm only tagging those who asked to be tagged in every Marvel fic I post. If you'd like to join Namor's taglist or you want to alter your form, click here <3.

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sirenjose · 5 months

Note

Your thoughts on the Identity Switch

Thanks to you…. I now really like Norton. I used to hate him because I have a vendetta against people taller than my 4’11 self but now I love him.

on another note, what are your thoughts on the Identity switch system? Looking more into Norton’s background specifically makes me wonder why Norton gets a hunter form. What does this represent? I know that there’s a lot of drugs involved but I always interpreted it as them unlocking a new personality or smth, one more attune to following the manor’s games and supervising it (hunter) and like the other just trying to leave (survivor). I’ve been so interested in Norton’s lore lately that now I’m in an existential rabbit hole in how survivors get hunter forms, why that is, and if it’s like some sort of curse or punishment. Why are these survivors getting hunter forms?

soooo many questions, IK. But like reading your theories and analysis at 3Am is my serotonin. As a new player purely interested in the game for its lore I am just excited to know more but can’t wrap my head around all these weird concepts cause, again, I’m new. Also if I spend the next hour reading more of your analysis I will not sleep so therefore I need to preface my curiosity with a timed endeavor. My question probably do3snt make sense but like uhhh yeaaaaa. You should totally make something on your thoughts on identity switch (especially for the survivors gone hunters) cause I am too far in deep into the Norton-Campbell-Fool’s-Gold-Alternate-personality rabbit hole.

I’ve never done the questioning thingy before so sorry if this is not how it works. G’day!

Ah, it makes me happy to think a nobody like me can turn your thinking around on someone. Especially Norton since he was 1 of the main reasons I got started with the lore at all. I'm someone who usually plays a game based on how interesting the story or characters are, so I was interested in learning about idv's lore soon after I joined (had to take quite awhile to figure out the basics of the game and what all the various buttons were, then take some more time to get used to it before I could even get started with the lore). Was the main reason why I went looking to join places like Discord or Reddit, just so I could find people talking about the story.

Started by just understanding what I could about what people said, but then I eventually moved on to trying to understand at least the basics of everyone's backstories (once again, took me awhile to do that ^_^; Especially as I joined before we were getting all that much story at all). While I was doin this, I heard a lot of people saying bad stuff about some character named Norton. Have to admit I didn't know who he was for quite awhile. Wasn't in my radar. Can't even say I cared much for him. But I eventually got to the point where I basically decided I wanted to see if I could determine if Norton really was that bad or not (maybe as a challenge to myself, maybe because I wanted to find out myself rather than just hearing other's opinions, or maybe because I failed to find anything really in-depth about him).

That analysis took a ridiculous amount of time. In part because I ask too many questions, because I'm a perfectionist and wanted to look at every bit of info on him and detail on him, but also somewhat because I ended up writing this like a persuasion piece, and felt the only way to do that was by going through everything to back up my conclusion (whatever my research turned up). Which was also why I analyzed every single essence he had a skin in, as well as any skins not in an essence, his accessories, emotes, etc... It was during that process I actually got attached to Norton. Probably because of how long I spent going through him (no one needs to know how long it took... only the immense joy and desire to collapse I had when I finally finished).

Since then, I've rewritten his analysis... 3 times now I think? Counting after hunter norton's release? Though I've taken down that 1st version due to issues, and haven't reposted my essence analyses as they're old (they were pretty much the 1st analyses I wrote, and I'd like to think I've improved since then) as well as because they're based on the 1st version of my norton analysis... and because they're probably a bit needlessly long and thus embarrassing... Maybe I'll repost them once I get around to rewriting them. I definitely will eventually at least for Soul Catcher's and Magic Item Keeper's essence because I have to say they took longer than almost any other part of that original (complete) norton analysis (i can never forget the trouble they caused me over how long it took to understand them).

ANYWAYS! Ignoring my stupid rambling because who cares about any of that.

I was going to include my answer to your question about Identity Switches but it’s starting to become a little silly in length ^_^; (seriously, for those who know me well enough, I have a bad habit of writing more than I initially intended to once I get started) so I’ll make that a separate post for you, and you can let me know if it answers your questions (once I post it). If not, feel free to ask any more of your questions.

Honestly, the lore is confusing even to those who aren’t new players, so don’t be too hard on yourself if you can’t wrap your head around a lot of this ^_^;

It’s hard for me to imagine my stuff is so good people are willing to read it, much less re-read it. Especially as I know people tend to prefer… shorter things, but I have tendency to be lengthy. I can’t help it though ;’) But thank you so much for the compliment.

And please, I’m still pretty new to Tumblr, so I’m still figuring all this out myself.

Anyways, don’t feel nervous talking to me or asking me any questions you have. I enjoy being helpful! So please, ask whatever you like. Or even if you don’t have a question, that’s ok too. I enjoy rambling about a subject I get started on, as long as the other person can bear with me ;’)

It’s always nice to know people besides me, myself, and I are reading this stuff.

(Apologies for any errors or nonsense in this post, as I decided to write it without double checking it for errors cuz I felt like being lazy, and I'm still busy writing out my thoughts about Identity Switches for you)

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dark-elf-writes · 1 year

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Tokodeku would also work really well in your king of Thieves AU. Not only would Izuku be teased for having the same type as Dabi (birds), I think they would really work well together being real outcasts. Maybe they even meet as children?

!!!!!

The first time they meet Izuku steals one of Fumi’s bully’s wallets because that’s what they do. Like Fumikage is fully committed to getting his ass kicked again while clinging to his control of Dark Shadow so he doesn’t end up arrested for her trying to protect him and then all of the sudden there’s this stick thin kid in patchwork clothes tripping into the leader with bright red cheeks and stuttered apologies.

“So sorry I’m late meeting up with my siblings! See there they are!” And they point to a slight girl flashing her fangs in a scary smile, a boy who’s a massive with six arms all crossed over his muscled chest, and a teenager with scars covering his skin and blue fire dancing on his fingertips.

The bullies run.

Fumikage pushes himself to his feet and brushes off the dirt straightening just in time to catch an Endeavor wallet tossed from the other kid who looks different now. Slouched, confident, grinning.

“He keeps it in his front left jacket pocket. If you bump into him on the right he won’t notice if you lift it next time.”

He falls in love then before he even knows what love is supposed to mean with this wild kid with intelligence and mischief in their green eyes. Dark Shadow teases him about it for years.

Then he looks up to see three familiar faces in the doorway of his new classroom all in UA uniforms and huddled close together.

A blond boy storms up to scream at his savior, and Fumikage is having none of that.

He bumps into the boy’s side hard enough that he stumbles, pretending not to see him as he turns back to his savior and nods his greeting.

“Your advice was correct. I suppose I owe you a thank you. A coffee some time perhaps? On an… old friend of course.” He lost count of how much he took form his bullies over the years. Never the full wallet like Izuku had but enough to make up for their cruel words and harsh hands. Dark shadow was incredibly helpful as a partner in his little game bit as accomplice and distraction.

They blinked at him, flushed a bright pink. “I, Um, I”

“They say yes,” He girl agrees for them tossing an arm around their shoulders and ruffling their green curls. “I’m telling nii-chan you inherited his bird thing.”

(Fumikage doesn’t understand that comment until he’s in his work study watching a familiar scarred man roll his eyes and walk as Hawks hovers next to him dropping pickup like after pickup line. He doesn’t even seem to notice when the man unlatches his watch before leaving.)

#king of thieves au #the elf talks #mha #bnha #both Touya and Izuku flirt with their birds through pickpocketing but Touya in the Keigo is his favorite mark way #and Izuku in the ‘do you want me to steal that guy’s wedding Turing he was mean to you’ kinda way

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iantimony · 29 days

Text

tuez

yayyy

listening: release radar: i get it now (sammy rae) (wauuughhhh. emo. i miss my partner) come over (cat's pajamas) stuck (scene queen) nerima (raspberry pie) never me (penelope) beirut (rob blivion) rule #34 (fish in a birdcage) bourgeoisieses (conan grey) milk town/mr carter (nep) doppelganger - lullaby (ethan bortnick) my baby loves to dance (kenya grace) horror night (starcourt) (@delta-orionis, you will like this one)

some from last week that i forgor to note down: tiny human (elohim), some type of skin (aurora), chukotka (otyken), training season (dua lipa, chloe caillet mix), georgian spirit (equbeats), online (twrp), someone else (kenya grace)

aaaand formentera/formentera ii again.

podcasts: wtyp on the francis scott key bridge collapse, and jim gordon must die podcast of all time

reading: i started reading 'bunny' by mona awad because it came up as a recommendation in libby when i was returning mdzs. i am going to be valiant and give it one more chapter but i do not like it. it feels like its trying very hard to emulate a certain type of vibe that i already don't find super appealing in fiction so the trying-vibe of it makes it even more uninteresting to me. the premise is a girl at a mfa program in nebulous New England Private Liberal Arts School(tm) which like, fine, dark academia or whatever; there are four (five?? i literally cannot remember which, lol) other girls in her cohort who are a weird clique and call each other 'bunny' and are rich and sheltered but harboring a Dark Secret Club. sure. the first few chapters ooze 'not like other girls'-ism, the 'bunny' characters themselves feel flat and like caricatures in an unappealing way, main character's other friend ava also is a caricature in a boring way, just very uninspiring. like i said i will give it another chapter or two but if it continues to bore me i will return it.

i finished the scum villain extras! very charming.

watching: keeping up to date with dunmeshi, yay, and also been continuing to watch endeavor with a friend. it's good! i love a mystery show! it is impossible to watch without subtitles though because they are So British. relatedly i am going to terf island for two weeks in june (london and then edinburgh) so if you know any recs for food, places, etc i am all ears!

playing: this weekend was going to be 3 dnd games in a row ... then monday was postponed to next monday ... but my sunday group, which is normally every other week, has decided to play next sunday as well bc we skipped a few weeks ... so Next weekend is the 3 day dnd combo lmfao. i don't mind too bad.

making: pottery!!! some bisque came out and i am soooo chuffed (<- endeaver tv show britishism rubbing off on me) this will be its own post with more images because i want to @ the inspiring artist, jbbartram-illu on tumblr (shop); i am obsessed with the cave painting mugs from a few months ago that immediately sold out so i was like fuck it i wanna make my own. and i am obsessed with my lil fat horses. i put amaco ancient jasper on the inside and just a matte clear on the outside. hopefully it is matte enough. i also put little hands on the handles and now i want to make some more cave painting mugs that are just the hands, i could cut out some templates to sponge underglaze around maybe...

my beautiful cracked-the-code bowls and two maybe teacups, post-trimming:

and also trying a new glaze technique: bisqued underglaze and then liquid latex over top! that way you can slather a background on and just peel it off after without painting around the details. im ngl peeling off the latex was soooo satisfying. background is laguna celadon froth.

i've also glazed my citrus juicer, just a plain warm yellow color, looking forward to that :3

glaze: mother's day gift (planter, it's. fine. idk. she'll like it i hope), and also some fixed stuff! didn't bother taking pics, the black eye bowl from feb 6 tuesdaypost is now food safe on the inside because i sanded down the kiln medium bit that got stuck in there and re-glazed it. i also tried to fix the bowl from march 12 tuesdaypost by just lightly sanding the inside and slapping some laguna celadon froth over it...it looks exactly the same now, just with some sort of float-like blue splotches lol. no pictures of it but eh. might give it away, we'll see.

eating: Spicy Clam Pasta With Bacon, Peas and Basil Recipe (NYT): tasty. idk about 'spicy' but definitely yummy.

misc: definitely in a weird spot brain-wise...the anxiety and tummyache link/feedback loop is very real for me now, so i am going back on an extremely low dose of ssri about it, and even though i have been on this med before in much larger amount i am still experiencing aaa about it. i keep going between "going back on this is a good idea" and "or i could just keep taking ~10mg of cbd every other day bc that felt like it was doing something, even if it was just placebo i had a noticeable difference in mood" so like. bluh. idk. i wish i could just Know what the best course of action is instead of having to fuck around and find out. such is life. i am literally taking the world's babiest dose rn (breaking the starter pill in half) so it will be fine. as long as i dont get bad side effects im willing to do a few weeks on it and see what happens.

#tuesdayposting

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letomills · 11 months

Text

Sims tag

Thank you @kalux-sims and @mrs-mquve for tagging me! Answers below the cut.

1. What’s your favourite sims death?

Old age on platinum aspiration. It’s always sweet to see your sim move on peacefully.

2. Alpha CC or Maxis Match?

More on the Maxis match side (TS2 match that is, not TS4 match). In hindsight and on seeing other people’s answers, “semi-realistic” probably fits best.

3. Do you cheat when your sims gain weight?

Haha wtf no.

4. Do you use move objects?

Yes.

5. Favorite mod?

Hard to choose. I’ll just say Simler90 and @midgethetree are my favorite modders.

6. First expansion/game/stuff pack you got?

Nightlife. I never played the TS2 base game only, I started after Nightlife’s release, when my grandmother gifted my cousin and me the Deluxe Edition. I’m so thankful that she did.

7. Do you pronounce “live mode” like aLIVE or LIVing?

Like living.

8. Who’s your favorite sim that you’ve made?

There isn’t a single one but I have many favorites among the sims I use for CC modeling.

9. Have you made a simself?

Sort of, recently. That would be one of the TF sims I use for CC modeling, the nearly bald one with skin 1 and dark eyes. Their face features are not a match to mine really, I’m not good at recreating faces, but that would be the closest I’ve made (and also my first time actually using some of the facial asymmetry sliders I have in my folder). The sim I use as an avatar on my socials doesn’t look like me at all.

10. What sim traits do you give yourself?

Loner, brooding, clumsy, shy, vegetarian, eco-friendly, frugal.

11. Which is your favorite EA hair color?

The mohawks have pretty good custom gradients.

12. Favorite EA hair?

Maybe getfabulous? The name is swaying me for sure. I gave that hair to the deceased founder of my custom neighborhood Oaken Valley, so it does have a special place in my heart.

13. Favorite life stage?

I like them all and how different they feel to one another. I like the slightly crouched posture of elders, the young adult walk, or how kids materialize a stool to step on when something is out of their reach. And toddlers and babies are adorable.

14. Are you a builder or are you in it for the gameplay?

I do both, depending on what I feel like in the moment.

15. Are you a CC creator?

Yes.

16. Do you have any simblr friends/a sim squad?

I have positive interactions with people from the community but I don’t have a definite circle.

17. What’s your favorite game? (1, 2, 3, or 4)

18. Do you have any sims merch?

No.

19. Do you have a YouTube for sims?

Yes: https://www.youtube.com/@letomills. I said I would upload more and I fail at that every day 😅 I have a 2/3 completed script in my Google Docs that I need to get back to.

20. How has your “sim style” changed throughout your years of playing?

I started playing TS2 when I was like 9, and for the longest time I didn’t know that CC was a thing. I was partial to faces 1 and 2 and all of my sims kind of looked the same. I even gave cosmetic surgery to some of the premades with the career reward station once I learned the “unlockcareerrewards” cheat. I remember giving Goneril Capp face 1 (one of the most contempt-worthy decisions I’ve ever made, to be sure). I am now appalled by this and my game has become more diverse, although there is still much work to be done. These days I’m in the process of making plenty of CC for custom body shapes so I can overhaul my CC folder once again and make a custom neighborhood with the best sims ever, it’s gonna be great.

21. What’s your Origin ID?

N/A

22. Who’s your favorite CC creator?

So many great creators out there. My favorites are the ones whose work I tend to use for my own CC endeavors.

23. How long have you had a simblr?

Since April 2022.

24. How do you edit your pictures?

I don’t except for cropping.

25. What expansion/game/stuff pack do you want next?

N/A (I assume this question is for TS4 players. Can’t believe they’re doing a whole expansion pack on horses btw.)

26. What expansion/game/stuff pack is your favorite so far?

Hard to choose between FT and OFB.

I tag @profesionalpartyguest, @spell-bloom, @mourky, @potentialfate-sims, @mrs-mquve (looks like we cross-tagged each other) and anyone else who wants to participate. (Feel free to ignore of course.)

#sims #tag game

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ifihadtopickadad · 3 months

Text

Whoops! You Were Just Adopted!

10 points to whoever figures out what fairy tale Nessa's reading. Nessa's birthday is October 13th 2002. Bonus points to whoever figures out Greg's birthdate. Also, who's the old guy.

Nessa hummed as she feigned reading her mom's diary. Taylor Swift's 1989 album played on shuffle, the current song Wonderland blasting at full volume. She didn't have the 1989 album, at least not a physical copy, but she did have Spotify, so there's that.

The place where Nessa was meeting her half-brother and his mom was a peaceful little place that doubled as a cat cafe and a bookshop. Nessa set the diary down, eyeing the bookshelves. So far, she hadn't seen anyone pick up one of the books to read, so she didn't know if she could read them. Were you expected to buy a book if you picked it up and read it? Or was it okay to read one while you were here so long as you didn't leave with it?

"You can read them while you're here." Nessa jerked, eyes locking onto the person who spoke to her. She softened. He was an old man, in his 70s. He was stout but lean and hunched over on a cane with burn scars.

"What?" Nessa asked.

The man smiled, "I saw you eyeing the books." He was sporting an old, dull, yellow plaid shirt with overalls. "You seemed apprehensive about reading the books. I've been here before, and I felt it would make you feel better to know you could read them while you're here. You don't have to buy one. As long as you're not leaving with it."

"Oh", Nessa smiled. "Thanks." The man nodded, then went to sit in a quieter, more out-the-way spot.

*⋆*❀❁❀*⋆*❀❁❀*⋆*❀❁❀*⋆*❀❁❀

But what did she see when she went in? A great bloody basin stood in the middle of the room, and therein lay human beings, dead and hewn to pieces, and hard by was a block of wood, and a gleaming axe lay upon it.

Nessa hummed as she read. The fairytale in question would likely be her favorite for a good long while. "Vanessa, right?" Nessa looked up and was suddenly very glad that she'd chosen to take off her headphones while she read. Susan Miller was striking in appearance, more so than in photos. Her hair was long, lustrous, and snow white. Her skin was ghostly, and her eyes blue. She was smiling softly. Next to her, holding one of the kittens taken in by the cafe, was a little boy Nessa could only assume was Gregory.

He was a lot more miniature than his age would indicate. She would have thought he was 5 or 6 rather than 8. He didn't look underfed, and Susan did seem short, so maybe it was genetics.

"Yeah, that's me," Nessa forced a grin. "I prefer Nessa, though."

Susan slid into the seat across from her, "It's lovely to meet you, Nessa. I'm Susan."

"I know," Nessa said, then panicked. "Uh- I mean-"

Susan held up a hand, "It's alright, I know what you mean. Now, why don't we spend time getting to know each other?"

"Okay," Nessa quieted, setting her book down.

*⋆*❀❁❀*⋆*❀❁❀*⋆*❀❁❀*⋆*❀❁❀

"I want to be you-"

The music shut off as Nessa smacked her hand on her phone. She raised her head to check the time. 5:30. What the fuck was she thinking!? Screw beta-testing the VR game!!! Who cares if it's a paying job and the credits go on her school papers?! This is bullshit!!!

20 minutes and a quick shower later, Nessa was sitting at the dining room table as her mom made Eggs Benedict for breakfast. She lifted the coffee to her mouth. The beverage might as well be liquid gold for how tenderly she did. Nessa would've made her own breakfast. But after the three times she nearly burned the house down, it was determined that she wasn't allowed to cook in the mornings.

"Nessa?" her mom said. "Could you wake Gregory?"

Nessa looked up, "I'll endeavor to wake the demon. If I die, have the bridge to Taylor Swift's 'This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things' inscribed on my monument."

Her mom snorted, "Will do, Ness."

The walk to Gregory's room was short and sweet. Short because the hallway was short, and sweet because Gregory was already exiting his room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Morning, Half-pint. Mom's got breakfast cooking. We're having Eggs Benedict."

Gregory jabbed her in the side on the way past her, "Morning to you too, Savage. Why does it feel like the universe is laughing at us for eating Eggs Benedict for breakfast?"

"It isn't, you're just delusional."

#fnaf security breach #fazbear entertainment #fnaf au #fnaf gregory #fnaf sb #fnaf vanessa #gregory afton #heir and a spare au #michael afton #vanessa afton #gregory's mom #fnaf oc #susan miller

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dorics · 2 years

Note

I have fought and fought hard and I should have died!

this is my mags flanagan fic that is like.... meant to be like, akin to the enobaria or cashmere or wiress ones i did where it spans, like, their whole life, and that's like. such an endeavor. it's so much to take on. so i do not have a lot of it and i have been writing it when the mood strikes me on and off for like. a solid year and a half.

anyway general thg tws for like. finnick's whole deal and also child murder below the cut but. this scene makes me feel so many things

when finnick wins, mags doesn't celebrate. how can she? she knows. she fucking knows. she should've never let it get this far. she was his mentor, she should've stopped this. should've told him. should've given him an honest choice, or made sure he died in the arena. she feels more guilt for letting him win than she does for killing [death count?] kids in the arena.

as she sits next to his sleeping body, she sobs quietly, and contemplates smothering him with a pillow. it would be over quick and easy, and he'd never have to live through it. he'd never have to suffer. and, god, does she want to make sure he doesn't have to suffer.

she hadn't thought it would get this far, but that's not an excuse. no, when she saw what angle their escort was taking, when she saw the way the capitolite girls — and women, she thinks darkly — fawn over him, she should've sat him down. taken him to orion's and told him honest, showed him what happens, showed him what being a victor really means. but she'd assumed, stupidly, that he was too young. that the older careers would take him out, or he'd get caught by a mutt, or any number of things that kill tributes, especially the young ones. especially the young, popular ones. he had double the targets on his back, and he still came home, and mags has seen caesar fawn over his victory, saying how lucky he is, but she knows better.

goddamnit, she knew better.

mags stares for a long moment at the boy in the bed, all golden sea-tossed curls and skin the color of dark sand, and for a moment all she can think is, ‘god, he's just a baby.’

in the end, she doesn't kill him. what can she say? she's selfish, and she knows that if she kills him, she'll die too. and mags is selfish. she always has been. all victors are — no one selfless ever wins the hunger games.

#thg tag #fic tag #ask tag

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d4rkpluto · 2 years

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Hello, I'd love to join your game! My initials - SM(sag sun and rising, aquarius moon) my questions are what's coming to me and my next romantic partner

Your exchange :

What is coming to you soon : the fool and the emprres - well this is a lovely energy. It reminds me of summer vacation, not in a literal sense but becouse u can have fun and just enjoy and relax /splurge. Anyway, what's coming to you is freedom I feel like, a period od carelessnes and fun moments, space and time for you to explore yourself more, possibly new endeavors and starting new projects. With the emtpess, i think money and elevated status, recognition are on the way. Seems like you'll be having a hot girl summer dear.

Your next partner - the judgment, queen of Wands and king of swords. If astro placements are important to you thees3 cards signify - aquarius, aries energy and pluto. God this is some powerful person. So your fp is very strong willed, someone who has a strong mind and sharp logic, someone confident af who knows what he wants and how to bet it. Big dick energy not gonna lie. I think he has been brought a bit rough and has some deep past that he won't share easily, it's like the sharpness od the world had taught him to act more so with his logic rather emotion, yet he is mature and i believe you will grow a lot with this man. He's gonna be protective of you, and match your vibe. Idk how dominant you consider yourself, but this person will take the lead in the relationship, not in a bad way. He's the type of person to freeze the room and turn heads, to challenge people and see thru their biullshit. Probably older then you. For physical features, - tall and muscular /lean, strong facial features, lighter eyes and thick, hair with lots of volumen. His stule can be profesional or street style with mostly black, blue Grey tones

Hope it resonates ❣️❣️

thank you so much for your patience @regaliadivina and thank you for the exchange!

normally i allow only one question, but since it is my last game i'll allow two! and my summer vacation has started since i graduated college! but the hot girl summer is something i am very, very open to!

and with the future partner thing, that is basically my energy i might as well date myself. i can be a dominant person but i can allow someone to take the lead but if they're over-bearing i wont be able to do that. it's the aries venus in me. thank you so much for the exchange!

question one - what is coming to you

my answer - what i first got that you might reconcile with an ex? you might have an erotic era with that person. it might not even be an ex but i just got a very familiar feeling with you and this person. it could even be someone you're talking to currently. and for this next thing, it could go down two ways, you could get a job that'll give you so much money or even get a sugar dad; or just someone who gives you money. though this could come in this month or the current months that will be coming soon.

question two - your next future partner

my answer - im getting much positive vibes from this person, or this future partner of yours could be a partier. they are someone who definitely likes to be in a positive place, they could've been someone who was a nihilist before but now they view life in a more better outlook. on the other hand, they could be foreign? they could belong to a country that likes to party. they might like to dance a lot and like lift the mood if people feel negative or down. there is something bimbo/himbo-ish about them, but that part of themselves could make you laugh. there's big sag/jupiter/9h energy from this person. but im also getting mercury/gemini and not that much of a 3h placement because their energy is so hyper and giddy. im also getting a certain dance they do to make you laugh and they could like the colour orange/yellow? they could have tanned skin and dark hair. they look like they could come from a country like mexico or brazil. countries like that. when you first meet them you might think their personality is very dimensional like there's nothing else but jokester energy to them. but their proper solid side, they dont show it to everyone.

make sure to leave feedback in the comment section or reblogs!

#plutogames

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icyschreviews · 1 year

Text

A Review of Dragon Age 2

Sweet Home Kirkwall

Disclaimer: This review is colossal. Why don’t you put on a kettle in the background so it’ll stop you from trying to read this whole thing at once. Enjoy.

What is it with niche games trying to become more mainstream? I get why developers want more people to play their games. Game development is a rocky industry and building up a large fan base can cushion any bumps you might encounter down the road. However niches exist for a reason and going mainstream comes at a cost. A niche caters to some specific need of some specific audience and is tailor-made to deliver that experience. Usually when you try making a game for everyone, you end up with a game for no one.

This is a subject that comes up often with expanding franchises. Developers who steer into more mainstream waters quickly realize that it’s a polarizing endeavor. Your core audience will be pissed that you desecrated the original experience, while the general public will glance over your efforts with mild indifference. Specificity is what gets people hooked on things and mainstream games are only able to peek interest by flaunting fancy graphics or over-promising open-world shenanigans.

Somehow in the early 2010s, sequels to two franchises made this mistake: The Witcher 2 and Dragon Age 2. It’s eerie how many things these two games have in common. Both of their predecessors were old school RPGs. Both were trying to make themselves more approachable to a wider audience. And, most prominently, both yielded questionable results.

The comparisons end with the way these games went about achieving their goals. The Witcher 2 scrapped everything from the first game and re-envisioned itself as an action orientated Assassin’s Creed lookalike, while Dragon Age 2 tried to improve on the old formula. I.e. The Witcher 2 had the liberty of being bad on its own terms, while DA2 got crushed under the weight of its predecessor.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way, Dragon Age: Origins is a cult classic. Despite its limited resources, this was a game of enormous scope which delivered on absolutely everything it set out to do. It presented the peek of its genre at the time of its release. You don’t just follow up on something like that. You need time and space to flesh out were you want to take the franchise next.

In comes the Bioware magic. You say we’ve got only two years to develop a sequel to a genre defining game? Don’t worry, we’ll just crunch the developers’ bones a little harder this time. Everything wrong with DA2 starts and ends with this bullshit. This is a game that reaches some incredible heights while simultaneously being jam-packed with blank spaces where the devs just threw their hands up and collapsed under their desks.

Now, where do we being?

Why don’t we start at the same place the game does - the character creator.

The character creator in Origins was never mind blowing, but somehow seeing the exact same one in DA2 made it disappointing. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe because it offers the same hair cuts which are recognizable from prominent NPCs in Origins. Maybe because the interface tries (and fails) to be all slick and modern. Maybe because it’s been a few years and you’d expect so see some improvements.

Either way, I imported a hipster haircut (blessed be the mods) and chose a slightly darker skin tone. I knew from previous playthroughs that your family’s appearance changes to match yours. However when the game booted up, I was greeted to the default chalk white family preset. Maybe the mods confused it. I pondered whether I should start over, but then decided to roll with it.

My head cannon for the rest of the playthrough was that mama Hawk had an illegitimate firstborn. To my amusement, the game kept throwing me bones to support this theory. When I wondered how my character would have inherited the magic DNA if she didn’t share the same daddy as Bethany, mama Hawk told me that her side of the family was also plagued with mages. On one occasion, Aveline remarked to Carver: “I guess there’s a resemblance between the two of you after all.” When Carver told her that of course there’d be since I was his sister, Aveline was quick to correct him: “No, silly, I meant you uncle.” Splendid. Now if anyone asks, Varric made up the events of the Legacy DLC.

If you look at our family portrait, you’ll realize that mom had a thing for the mailman.

Once the prologue ends, the game excitedly drops you in the middle of Kirkwall, only for you to find… Nothing. The town is comprised of a bunch of rectangular squares that all look alike. Other than merchants, who aren’t selling anything thrilling, there are no NPCs to talk to, nothing in this entire maze of reshuffled assets that could tell you the story of the town you just entered. You walk into a stuffed brothel house and none of the patrons have anything interesting to say. Forget interesting, they don’t have anything to say at all! It’s a prime example of an empty game world if there ever was one.

Back in Origins, there were so many interesting people you could meet. Like the dwarf who wanted to study at the Circle. Or the lyrium smuggling mage who was hiding in a closet. Or the Dalish who needed help hooking up with his girlfriend. Or that one sister in the Denerim market who couldn’t get her chants right. Or Wade! God, just give me more Wade. In DA2, I have Hubert and… And?

Once you’ve spent your first hour wandering around empty hallways, you’ll realize how the game wants you to approach it - by following quest markers. At first I was glad I didn’t have to circle around desolate levels. I could spot a marker on the world map and jump straight there without being reminded of how boring Kirkwall is.

Even though the markers were helpful at first, I soon realized that click, click, clicking from one objective to another became a chore. Since I didn’t have to keep track of where quests were, I had no idea what I was signing up for whenever I selected a location with a marker on it. I stopped engaging with the world directly and started interacting with it solely through the UI. This kind of design defeats the whole exploratory nature of RPGs. Worst of all, the markers don’t even show up for some side quest. I had to look at the wiki to know where to go.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss the chance encounters from Origins. It made the illusion of traveling so much more compelling. You couldn’t just hop from one location to another, you had to prepare accordingly. What if bandits ambushed you? Or a pack of rabid wolves? Or a handsome assassin? My, I have to prepare for that one especially. Bodahn, fetch my finest piece of lingerie, quick! The encounters even changed to reflect the state of the world. As the darkspawn horde approached, you stumbled upon your allies defending the side of the rode. In DA2 you get intercepted only ones with Fenris. I completely forgot it was feature until then.

The most miserable failure at trying to populate this world with content are the automatic fetch quests. Every once in a while, you’ll loot a random sack and find someone’s dirty knickers. The game will add a new quest to your journal asking you to return the unmentionables to their rightful owner. You’ll immediately be told who the owner is and where to find them. There is absolutely no additional context to any of these. The NPC in question will spew out one of three stock lines thanking you for your kindness and then reward you with some gold and XP. They could have just lowered the XP requirements instead of padding the game with this nonsense.

I have no idea what half of these are referring to.

I’d argue that the locations themselves don’t look half bad (aside from the awful wet paper textures which are plastered all over the under city). This game clearly had some strong art direction. For all its faults, DA2 is the most visually striking out of all of the Dragon Age games. The cut scenes frequently frame the action from cinematic camera angles, the loading screens are beautifully stylized and you could take a bunch of selfies at Kirkwall’s more prominent locations.

I also love the design of your companions, so much so that I don’t mind that you can’t change their attire. Each one of them has a unique look which immediately sets them apart from the rest of the cast. The armor sets you get with the DLCs are impeccably designed and once put on justify Hawk’s MC status.

Where the art falls short is not its quality, but rather its quantity. Care and attention has been put into each of the game’s main actors, be that character or location, but not much else received the same treatment. Regular NPCs have a hard time matching the flare brought on by your companions and Kirkwall barely changes after the time skips. As far as I can tell, the only thing that differs across acts is the time of day - progressing from early morning to late afternoon. Do they want to put me asleep? They don’t even switch the textures to make the buildings look more weathered.

Origins had similar limitations with its assets, but it handled them much more gracefully. Yes, everyone and their grandmother wore the same pair of rogue skirts, but it didn’t catch the eye much since none of your companions was standing out in a flashy leotard. Similarly everyone in Ferelden was shopping at the same Ikea, but the designers cleverly offset this by crafting uniquely shaped levels and decorating them in different ways. Origins showed that reused assets don’t have to be a setback if you apply them in creative ways.

Contrary to that, DA2 is such a painfully obvious copypasta that it’s hard not to get aggravated. Its locations have been significantly scaled back compared to Origins, yet it somehow manages to accomplish even less with more assets at hand. Even when you are treated to one of its finer pieces of art, it’s like stumbling upon a flower in a desert.

If only the entire game was as stylish as its loading screens.

The most prominent rash which speaks of DA2’s condition are the codex entries. It might sound petty to complain about them, but they’re a perfect indication of unhealthy world design. In Origins, codex entries were used as optional bits of information that could boost the knowledge you already possessed. They were evenly distributed, as not to overwhelm you, and always relevant to the topic at hand. If I was heading into Orzammar for the first time, you bet an entry about the town’s history would wait for me in a convenient spot.

If Origins handled its codex entries like icing carefully spread across a cake, DA2 just splotched that icing onto an empty plate. You enter Kirkwall for the first time and it’s nothing but codex entries shoveled in your face. Instead of using them to enhance the experience, DA2 is leaning on its codex entries like a crutch to hold up the rest of the world building. It’s not enough that they’re still well written. Most of them are copy-pasted from Origins and once I realized that, I stopped paying them any attention.

Most often, you’ll find codex entries where they have no business being in the first place. I once stumbled upon a book about Orlesian court drama in a Tal-Vashoth camp. If the game wanted to make a point out of this, they could have turned it into a fun little NPC encounter. Imagine a Qunari who just became an outcast and wanted to learn more about the outside world. He gets his hands on this weird book about the French Game of Thrones and is completely enamored by it. He might even be into shoes if I could just get Leliana here.

So, what did Lady Cecilie do next?

Sadly the game’s troubles with exposition don’t stop there. Everyone trusts you way too easily in Act I. In Origins you were a Grey Warden and that title carried some weight. People were familiar with your mission and its importance and thus were more likely to entrust you with their problems.

In DA2 Hawk’s a mercenary who makes a living doing other people’s dirty work. However people don’t just hire you - they dump their entire psychiatrist’s report in your lap. It’s the most jarring with some of the companions’ introductions. Isabela doesn’t even finish flapping her little skirts, while remarking that she’s never met you, before she starts telling you about her naval accident. Similarly, Anders opens up to you about Justice before you’ve had the chance to properly introduce yourself. Like maybe wait a sec before telling me all about your nasty STD.

I wish the game took a little bit more time to built Hawk up. It’s all fine and dandy once you get to Act II, but your future status as a celebrity doesn’t justify the mental gymnastics you have to perform in the beginning. You can’t shoehorn Hawk into every situation and hope their MC status will justify them being there. What’s the point of having a story about building yourself up from the dirt if people are going to treat you as special right off the bat?

A good example of this is an incredibly stupid quest I stumbled upon along Kirkwall’s coastline. Do you remember Zathrian and the werewolves from Origins? Well, an elf from his clan was arguing with an ex-werewolf. The elf wanted to kill the human and the human was trying to come to a peacefully resolution. The game asked me to resolve the conflict. I beg your pardon? You want Hawk to do what? This is not the Warden we’re talking about. Who are these people to Hawk anyway? To stay in character, I let them both go without coming to a decision. Usually my companions react to these sort of things, but even they were confused.

Who could say no to this dashing face?

It all gets incredibly frustrating if you’re playing as a mage. You’re supposed to be this lifelong apostate who’s always been careful about concealing their magic, but the game has you doing fetch quests for the Templars like it’s no big deal. I know the game wants to build up the conflict between the mages and the Templars early on, but why on earth would an armed organization like the Templars entrust highly confidential matters to a Lowtown nobody?

Generally the game takes your magic into account very sparingly. One of the few good examples is during Fenris’ initialization. He confronts you about being a mage after seeing you in combat. This comes off very naturally since he’s just met you and you really were swirling your staff around like crazy. Sadly in most cases, your magic will go unnoticed as if everyone in the vicinity was having a seizure or thinking it’s just fireworks. At the peek of its absurdity, the game had me showing off in front of freaking knight commander Cullen. I even rubbed some Anders in his face, but sure enough he didn’t notice.

The worst example by far is when you meet Meredith for the first time. She walks over to you and whispers in your ear how she knows that you are a mage. The game drops this bombshell like it’s nothing. What do you mean she knows? How long has she known? How did she find out? Why has she been tolerating Hawk? Is she overlooking any other mages in town as well? How does this clash with her religious beliefs? What is she gaining out of this?

The game never answers any of these questions. It’s pretty obvious that these omissions are the result of trying to equalize the story across all 3 playable classes. I wish they only let you play as a mage as they did with restricting your race to human. In a story that’s already centered around mages and Templars, this would have allowed them to go into a lot more detail.

Yes, tell me all your dirty little Templar secrets.

Most of the aforementioned issues kinda fix themselves once you make it to Act II. I hate that phrase: get X hours into a game and it becomes good, but it’s really true in case of DA2. For all its emptiness, Kirkwall starts feeling like home and it only takes a few magic tricks to do it. Recurrence is key here.

Events keep moving forward and everyone’s issues escalate over time creating the feeling of an interconnected world which was missing from the start. Most quests you were doing in Act I extend themselves across the other two acts. Helping some random kid with his nightmares in Act I is fine, but seeing a letter from him in Act II immediately gets me invested. Although, callbacks would have been even grander if half of the NPCs were actually memorable.

E.g. the Bone Pit was a good quest on its own. It served to show what Kirkwall had in store for Hawk’s fellow Fereldens. Sure, slavery hasn’t been a thing in a while, but does it really matter if you still have to toil away under a rich prick? They could have ended it there, but my exploitative business partner and our unfortunate mine became like a sitcom plot. Which monster is plaguing my poor workers this week? Not to mention the moral conundrum of being an upstart amongst overworked and underpaid refugees.

Hawk might not yet be a hero in Act II (pardon me, Champion), but they are wealthy enough to engage in the town’s politics. Believably, might I add. At this point you’ve completed a major expedition, invested in a mine and possibly taken over from your old mercenary boss, to name a few. I can now enter the viscount’s office and talk business without it being awkward. Yeah, I just moved uptown, next to you. Don’t you know who I am?

Started from the bottom, now we’re here.

It’s also in Act II that DA2’s story finally starts taking shape. Most fantasy and sci-fi stories fall back on the tropes of their respective genres, one way or another. DA2 manages to swerve around them like cones on a racing track and it owes that debt to its predecessor. Despite being a story about saving the world from monsters, Origins was still superbly written, even compared to standards outside of games media. Instead of trying to one-up it with some greater crisis of worldly importance, DA2 decided to pick what Origins already planted in the backyard. This is a game that tackles some incredibly complex issues and none of its points feel outdated.

You have a widely spread religion which justifies imprisoning a group of people because, according to their holy text, they were born with a cardinal sin. But what if that group of people posed an actual threat? How would you mitigate that danger? Is the church really wrong for wanting to build a system to control that?

What about the system itself? How would you keep tabs on it? What would you do if those in power started abusing it? Could you really blame those subjected to it for rebelling against their oppressors? What it the oppressed went to extreme measures to gain their freedom? Would you judge them? What if in doing so they caused the exact harm the church wanted to prevent in the first place? Would that prove the church right? Were they correct in subduing this group of people or were the limitations set upon them the ones that caused them to lash out? How would you break that cycle?

What about class inequality? If you could snap your fingers and abolish slavery, would everyone’s lives be better in the morning? You might be a free man according to the law, but what is freedom if you don’t have the means to survive? How is living in poverty and not being able to escape from it any different from being a slave? The rich are still rich and, at the end of the day, you’re forced to work for the same people you were calling your masters yesterday.

Let’s not forget about the xenophobia. Where do you draw the line between being racist and fighting back against indoctrination? Were the people who accepted a new religion brainwashed or did they do it on their own volition? Should you value a more orderly society at the expense of individuality? Can a single person really be trusted to make decision which are in everyone’s best interest or do we all eventually fall prey to our own desires?

... No.

On top of that, there are family matters to attend to. You are the oldest sibling in a family that recently lost its father figure. You are entrusted with that role which would be a great responsibility on its own, but wait, here comes the war! How do you keep your family safe in such circumstances? How do you handle the inevitable failures? Do you blame yourself for not being able to protect your siblings? What do you do if your own brother becomes an extremist? Do you cave under the judgement in your mother’s eyes? Do you look at your alcoholic uncle and see a picture of yourself in the future?

This is a lot and I’m not even sure I covered half of it. I can’t decide if the game explored these topics in enough detail. It certainly could have, but maybe trying to come up with the moral of the story would have undermined the effect. None of its questions have simple answers and this is reflected in the myriad of conflicts which spring across the game. DA2 certainly left me thinking, which is much more than I can say for most games.

It does miss the landing in some of the more emotional scenes. Your other sibling’s departure is a prominent moment in the story, no matter how it plays out. For me Carver joined the Wardens. He shows up out of nowhere at the end of Act II and scurries off before you’ve had the chance to talk to him. Hawk’s trying to have this heart to heart conversation, but Carver’s like: I’m busy, TTL. It makes your final reconciliation with him in Act III quite hollow when it could have been one of the story’s more impactful scenes.

When it really rolls up its sleeves, the game can deliver some incredible moments. Aveline treats you to a story about her father after you try gifting her a shield, prompting you both to reminisce on the loss of your parents. Merrill’s entire quest line is a heartbreak and do I even need to bring up Anders?

Oh, sweet baby, it’s only going to get worse from here.

The framing device used to hold everything together is a brilliant little narrative technique that perfectly fits the kind of story DA2 is trying to tell. You play as a war refugee who slowly rises to power and gains influence within the city of Kirkwall. As your characters becomes famous, so are your achievements told and retold until its hard to distinguish fact from fiction. DA2 capitalizes on this by letting Varric, the person who brought most of the stories about Hawk to life, retell the events of the game.

This works great on so many levels. As Hawk, you stumble upon Varric multiple times during the game as he’s making stuff up on the fly in front of an engrossed crowd. You get to watch as Hawk’s public persona takes shape and then later as it spins out of control and becomes an entity of its own. You loose ownership of your won ethos just as you’re swept away by the ever more volatile situation in Kirkwall.

With Varric being such a professional liar, you can’t tell how many of the game’s events are free from embellishment. DA2 plants this seed of doubt before you’ve even had the chance to craft your own character, as Varric tries to serve his best rendition of the Champion of Kirkwall to an exasperated Cassandra. The game breaks the 4th wall like this a few more times, delivering some good gags and letting Varric remind you who’s telling this story.

Besides keeping you on your toes, the framing device also serves as a great hook. There’s no better way to engage your audience than giving them a riddle to solve. DA2 starts by telling you that something of importance has happened in the world and then proceeds to do its own thing while you wonder how the pieces fit together.

Oh, but none of that hard work would have been worth it if it weren’t for that ending. Lots of stories that wager the fate of the entire world end with a dud, but DA2 obliterates the status quo just as it does with one of Kirkwall’s landmarks. I absolutely love an ending that’s not afraid to rain havoc. If Origins left the world of Thedas mended and at peace, then DA2 slashed it open and let it bleed out on the floor.

Don’t mind us, Grand Cleric. We’re just setting up the fireworks for the festivities.

There are a lot of weird design decisions in this game, but the most bizarre one is without a doubt the appropriation of Mass Effect’s dialogue wheel. I have no idea what the creative leads at Bioware were smoking at the time. I guess a silent protagonist is not very appealing if you’re trying to edit a fancy trailer for E3. Either way, it meshes with the rest of Dragon Age’s mechanics like oil with water.

Origins’ dialogue system might not have been the most cinematic, but it was diverse, versatile and most of all precise. DA2’s dialogue wheel fails to deliver any of that. Your responses now come in strictly 3 categories: paragon, renegade and jokester (I’ll continue using Mass Effect’s lingo if you don’t mind). Unlike Origins, your responses are bucketed into these categories and there’s no way of escaping it. Sometimes one of the options will be redundant; sometimes none of the options will be able to convey what you want to say. By not bucketing its responses, Origins was able to fine tune every conversation for much greater effect.

What’s an even graver sin is that you can’t reliably predict what your character is going to say. Two previous Mass Effect games already had this issue, so I don’t understand why it was ignored in DA2 as well. Sometimes the response will match the blurb, sometimes you’ll come off as meek or ignorant and sometimes Hawk will spew out an incredibly stupid joke. For better or for worse, NPCs will correctly react to Hawk’s actual response which will leave you quite bewildered if you had something else in mind.

I tried out a mod which replaces the dialogue wheel with Origins’ numbered list, but that didn’t really work out for me. I had a couple of issues with it. First, it’s not always clear which option fits into which bucket. It’s even harder to distinguish the optional responses which appear on the left side of the wheel from those on the right. Also, reading out what your character is going to say and then having to listen to the entire thing again gets tiresome pretty quickly.

Where’s the option to tell Meredith to “go back to the Gallows like a good girl”?

If I had to compliment one aspect of the dialogue system, I’d tentatively go for the new personality mechanics. Each time you pick a response, the game keeps tracks of how many responses of that type you already chose. If you stack enough responses of a certain type, Hawk’s personality will change to match it. Meaning that if you were being consistently nice, Hawk will continue being nice on autopilot for pieces of the conversation you are not in direct control of.

This is a more nuanced system than Mass Effect’s paragon/renegade scheme, although not by much. I’d love to see a more fleshed out version of it, but not necessarily in a Dragon Age game. Combined with the dialogue wheel, the system is not transparent nor flexible enough to allow for precise role-playing.

As for the personalities themselves, I have to commend the renegade one. In Mass Effect renegade options were either cartoonishly evil or needlessly cruel. Most people went with that route on second playthroughs just for the lolz. In DA2 a renegade Hawk is determined, consistent and brutally honest if need be. They never came off as a closet psychopath, but someone with unwavering convictions who is prepared to make tough decisions.

The personality I disliked the most ended up being the jokester, although this was my preferred play style in Origins. The jokes veered on the funny side, but the personality itself was mostly useless. The dialogue options rarely advanced the conversation and only benefited you if you were stacking friendship points with Varric or Isabela. I mostly used it as the neutral response (and neutrality in DA2 is the devil) or when I felt particularly cheeky. It felt wildly out of place in dire situations and is also the hardest one to predict since humor is so subjective.

Yeah, you tell them, Hawk.

Together with the 3 types of responses, additional options are offered on the left side of the wheel similar to how it was done in Mass Effect. Besides inquiring further, you’ll occasionally be given a special dialogue choice depending on your personality, à la let the renegade throw someone out the window. These special choices are great and usually lead to more beneficial outcomes. Alas, after glancing at the wiki, I realized that they are few and far between. What a complete waste of a promising system.

You’re also able to call on one of your companions if the situation at hand is somehow related to them. From what I can tell, this is a completely new feature and I absolutely love it. It lends itself to some of the best interactions. Aveline can help you shake up some of her unruly deputies in the Hanged Man, Fenris lends you his knowledge about the Qunari while speaking with the Arishok and Anders is absolutely essential if you’re bringing your sibling into the Deep Roads.

Other than that, the dialogue wheel’s sufficiency varies greatly from scene to scene. E.g. at the end of Act II, you get the option to storm the Qunari held up in the Keep or to make a distraction in order to save the hostages. Pardon me, but what? Hasn’t anyone been paying attention? Qunari don’t take hostages. If they thought someone was useless, they would have killed them by now. Otherwise they wouldn’t hold potential converts as bargaining chips. Wasteful thinking is against their creed. If I have been mindful of their religion, why not give me a third dialogue option? Forget me, Fenris is standing right there in the background. Let him overrule this.

Best dialogue option in the entire game, hands down.

I’m not sure how I feel about the companion’s friendship and rivalry system. It’s basically the same one from Origins just beefed up a bit. Since the companions are well fleshed out, it’s easy to guess how they’d react to a certain situation making the system very transparent. This never comes at the expense of the writing and the mechanic never feels gamified.

The writers did a great job of distributing your companions beliefs. Most conflicts offer binary solutions (for better or for worse) and your companions tend to be split 50-50. No matter how they may be divided in a certain situation, each companion ends up being a different combination of things. You can’t possibly make friends or rivals with everyone, so you have to pick and choose who to align with. This keeps the tension in your party high from start to finish. Companions also have topics they are indifferent to, which is a touch I greatly appreciate.

Besides talking to them directly, you can also find out about a companion’s beliefs from their inputs in group conversations. They never butt in, rather engage in a way that feels natural and that keeps the conversation flowing. I’m reminded of Carver gritting through his teeth whenever I provoked the Templars or Isabela just being a savage on Aveline’s date. I always felt like I was fully informed about my companions’ preferences and that I could guess their reaction with near perfect certainty.

Only these two can manage disagreeing while agreeing on something at the same time.

The companions’ preferences might be transparent, but the quests themselves sure as hell aren’t. It’s not always apparent from a quest’s introduction what it’ll be about. Therefore you can’t reliably tell which companion’s points will be up for grabs, i.e. which one of them to take along. There are a limited number of opportunities to get these points and the companions’ personal quests are walled off behind certain thresholds. I found myself skimming the wiki before each quest so I could maximize my profits by choosing the best party layout. This is not the ideal way to play, especially if you don’t want to get spoiled.

It’s also harder to progress your relationship with some companions than with others. Let me whip up my cheat sheet real quick cause where in god’s name are you supposed to get points for Isabela? From my time perusing the wiki, I could barely find anything miss pirate has a reaction to. Begging for coin in Lowtown yields more profit then fishing for her affection. For comparison’s sake, you can get an easy 50 points with Merrill from evil tomes alone.

To add insult to injury, Isabela is the one companion you really don’t want to stay neutral with. I remember being able to scrounge 50% friendship on my first ever playthrough before knowing the twist. I guess ignorance is bliss because this time around I barely got some rivalry points in. I decided to give her a gift, hoping it would drive the scale further to the right, only for the game to apply friendship points instead. Gee, thanks DA2.

If I was hostile to someone, I wouldn’t expect them to be likelier to stick around than if I was neutral instead. I wish the game made that clearer from the start. Having to meet a quota to unlock further interactions with a companion really knocks the subtlety out of the system. What if I think Isabela is a genuinely fun and accepting person, but would also like if she stopped acting so selfish and started taking responsibility for her actions? If you go by your instincts, you’ll only swing around the scale and won’t ever leave ground zero. Similarly, I want to condemn Merrill’s clan for ostracizing her, but that comes packaged with support for her blood magic. It’s like the writers created these compelling people, but the designers couldn’t come up with a system that let you interact with them naturally.

Do try to explain yourself, Isabela.

While we’re on the subject of companions, was there ever a minefield as deadly as the romances in DA2? The devs must have known that a lot of fans played Origins like it was a dating sim. Origins’ romanceable characters were perfectly divided into categories you could find on any fan fiction website: the sweet attentive guy, the sarcastic not-like-other-girls goth, the flamboyant ladies man and the weird chick. The game was comfortable with letting you live out your fantasies while never compromising the quality of its writing in any way.

Conversely, DA2 is here to fuck with you.

Now, I’m not implying that the romances in DA2 are bad. Quite the opposite - I think they’re brilliant. The characters are just as well written and not a sliver less compelling than their Origins’ counterparts. Sure, you could still squeeze them into recognizable tropes, but the main difference comes from how DA2 lets you interact with them.

In most RPGs, selecting a romantic dialogue option leads to a favorable outcome. This is purely contextual in DA2. Try flirting with someone while they are distraught and witness the outcome. You might be fooled into drooling over one of your companions, but you’ll only miss the fact that these people have issues. They’re in no emotional state to date you, yet date them you shall.

Watch the bad boy with the anime hair as he walks in to ruin your life. It’s like seeing a car crash in slow motion. I told myself I wasn’t going to fall for it again, but oopsie-daisy. You know what they say: trick me ones, shame on you, trick me twice, shame on Isabela for making moves in my territory. If Sebastian doesn’t come in quickly to swoop me off my feet, we might have a problem on our hands.

Say you stop deluding yourself into thinking you could fix Fenris and actually go for Seb. What’s that like? Well, my choir boy is as sweet as sugar cane, but he gets more and more bewildered with each decision you make contradicting the Bible. If you try to get up and personal with him, he’ll wave his hand and throw you a Beyonce. You better put a ring on it before you get any filthy thoughts in your head.

Maybe you can’t wait for Bioware to release Sebastian’s honeymoon DLC. Then a bite of the cherry perhaps? Why not try Isabela if you’re missing some of Zevran’s laid back energy? She’s completely chill, not someone that would freak out and leave you hanging. Right, Isabela? Isabela?

Ok, ok, then you could take out the shy girl and show her around town. I’m sure she doesn’t have any dangerous hobbies. Or what about the sweet guy with the sad puppy dog eyes? I’m sure nothing could go wrong if you just… No, Anders, what are you doing? Stop!

You get the idea. DA2 doesn’t give a damn about your feelings. It’s not here to cater to your fantasies. It’ll trample all over your emotions and I love it for it. It knows you can’t be lovey-dovey with broken people and it doesn’t shy away from letting things get very messy. For all the satisfaction it denies you, it makes your companions even more believable and your ties to them even stronger.

Stop trying to seduce me!

Most of the heavy lifting needed to bring this world to life is done by your companions. Their interactions are wonderfully diverse and they behave as if they’ve built relationships free of Hawk’s involvement. They don’t just comment on each other’s current situation, but also visit one another at their homes. Varric will try to get favors from Aveline as soon as she moves into her new office. Aveline will complain to Fenris about having to change patrols around his house. Fenris will be burning through his wine collection with Isabela and she will be teaching Merrill some of her dirty card tricks. This makes your companions feel like an interwoven group of people rather than a bunch of isolated individuals who are just tagging along. If Hawk went away tomorrow, they’d continue frolicking uninterrupted.

The banter continues the tradition of being absolutely amazing. There are so many brilliant moments, I don’t know which one I’d rather quote. Although, if I were to make a top ten, Isabela would be featured in all of them. As hilarious as it is, the banter is more than just witty one-liners. It’s about how Aveline and Isabela turn from rivals to best friends. It’s how Sebastian helps Fenris rediscover his faith. It’s how Varric breaks his back to get Merrill home safely every night and so much more.

On a side note, can we just acknowledge what an absolute boss Aveline is? The woman gets skyrocketed into a position of power and doesn’t even bat an eyelid. She knows she’s gonna own it, so why bother being humble about it? If you try to come on to her, she’ll shoot you down like a bucket of ice water. You, the player character! This woman’s not gonna be just another notch on Hawk’s bed. She’s got her own line of suitors to worry about.

So, Donnic, what’s your take on redheads?

Wow, we’ve covered so much, we should be proud of ourselves! Lets see, did we miss anything? World design - check. Story - check. Art style -check. Companions - check. Co— Oh… Oh, no.

The combat was one of the main highlights in Origins despite being far from perfect. Stun-locking was a serious problem if you entered a room full of archers or golems. Enemies could perform melee attacks from across the room if they managed to successfully lock on to you (to be fair, this worked vice versa). Parts of the skill tree were severely bloated, especially for mages. By the end of the game, you couldn’t fit your entire arsenal into the quick bar, let alone keep it in mind in combat.

If you start DA2 right after Origins, it might feel like a palette cleanser. You’ll find only one ability waiting for you in the quick bar. What a relief! Once you get your first level up, you’ll see that the skill trees have been extensively groomed. Superfluous abilities have been removed and everything’s been repackaged to make a little bit more sense. This could have been a perfect place to start, expect it doesn’t ever build to much.

Difficulty in Origins didn’t just come from how much health enemies had and how much damage they dealt. It also varied based on the type of enemies you encountered. No room was ever randomly populated with foes. Each enemy was placed strategically, so you’d have to think about your positioning too. Where to put my warrior, where to put my mage? What if I have a rouge in my party? What if the enemy also has rogues? What if there are ranged units with a clear line of sight? All of this and more had to be taken into account.

DA2 throws any semblance of strategy out the window. Sure, you could still see enemies waiting for you as you entered a room (most of the time), but that’s where your power of foresight ends. Once you beat the first batch of enemies, at least one more will spawn out of tin air. Sometimes it’ll be only a few more chumps. Sometimes it’ll be an elite enemy. Sometimes two. Sometimes it’ll be a whole load of mother fuckers. I once watched as 10 shades spawned in front of me in a space no bigger than a broom closet.

How you’re supposed to plan ahead is beyond me. You have no idea of knowing what might come next. How should you manage your health and stamina? Should you hold off on using a potion? Will it be too late if you do? Will it be a waste if you don’t? What about firing abilities with a long cooldown?

There they come again, descending from the ceiling.

The enemy variety has also been desecrated. In Origins any enemy you encountered could have any combination of abilities found in your skill trees. This rewarded players who were familiar with their arsenal and who experimented with different builds. In DA2 all mages have the same two punch combination - magic barrier plus long ranged AOE. For some reason, the vanishing ability which was previously only available to rogues is now unlocked for every single class. Warriors can use it. Mages can use it. Rage demons can use it. Rage demons?!

To make matters worse, on harder difficulties everyone’s a bullet sponge. The only tactic you need to master is holding out longer than the other guy. Some mages have constitutions of tanks. Did they forget what the point of a mage was? In Origins if you saw a pack of blood mages coming at you from a distance, you’d soil your pants, but if you managed to close that gap the tides could turn very quickly. In DA2 not only do blood mages drain your health, they also have gigantic health bars of their own.

Starting from Act II, you’ll frequently stumble upon more challenging enemy encounters. They’re all optional, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re absolutely dreadful. It’s endless arcane horrors, upon golems, upon shadow warriors. I started despising Sundermount because of this. It all just reminds me of Amgarrak. Ugh, don’t remind me of Amgarrak.

Each act also has nightly gangs you need to wipe out. They’re not even challenging, just the same boring rinse and repeat. You have to visit the same area multiple times in order to weed them out completely. Even so, they keep reappearing in each subsequent act. The game just switches up the names of the gangs. It’s the bloodthirsty sisters or the super shady dragon cult or the yet more generic slave drivers.

DA2 is one of those games where I don’t mind turning down the difficulty. Victory in combat isn’t given out to the smartest opponent, but to the one who manages to grit their teeth longer. I like my teeth just fine, so no thank you. Maybe the tactics screen could’ve sufficiently automated things for me, but the UI is so dreadful that I really couldn’t be bothered to fine tune it. Oh, did I mention that the UI is garbage? There you go, don’t say I forgot about it.

Yeah, you’re getting nerfed.

Oh, did you think I was done with the combat? Here’s a bullet list with a bunch more grievances:

Friendly fire is not a thing any more. When a Walking Bomb explodes, it annihilates all of the opponents in the vicinity, but doesn’t even scratch my comrades.

The camera has been ridiculously clipped. The maximum zoom is barely useful. Why can’t we have a top-down view like before?

Manual target selection is broken. It doesn’t reliably work if the target is at a different elevation than you. Shades are impossible to select while they are moving.

Likewise, AOE abilities are incredibly finicky to use when elevation enters the equation.

I like that they let you chain abilities. If my character is busy pulling off a more demanding spell, I can issue the next command without it being lost. Would have been nice if they also let me cancel animations. I’m a sitting duck for blood mages each time I want to conjure a storm.

They scrapped trap making, which was quite useless to begin with, but still let enemies set traps for you. This wouldn’t be a problem if the rogues in my party were kind enough to warn me in advance. Varric’s usually pretty chatty, but he barely opens his mouth before my foot steps down on a pressure plate.

Why can’t I control Britney? I mean my mabari. Couldn’t you control summons in Origins?

If you have your summon activated, it will disappear and go on cooldown as soon as you enter a new map. What’s the points of this? Each time I have to stand around and stare at the tapestries until it becomes available again.

Your summon can sometimes get locked out of boss rooms.

Does taunting even work? I couldn’t seem to get people off my fragile little mage ass.

Golems can still slam me from across the room. God forbid they removed that feature.

Is there any status effect that can be successfully applied to the god damn shadow warriors? I swear, not even the Maker’s wrath could touch them. Their barrier ability emits this horrible sound - the first time I heard it, I was convinced the game was glitching.

Not really a combat thing, but why can’t I see how many potions I have in my inventory when crafting new ones? I can’t even craft multiple potions at once, I have to click for every single one.

What’s the point of injury kits? In Origins once you embarked on a mission, you couldn’t back away from it easily. Therefore you had to prepare accordingly. In DA2 quests are short, so you can easily hop back home and heal your injuries. The kits only make sense in the DLCs where you can’t make a pit stop anytime you want.

What use is Mythal’s Favor if I can’t see exactly where my companions fell? I wasted a bunch of these trying to spot Fenris in a pile of corpses on the floor.

To go further into the matter, are Mythal’s Favors glitched or what? They just don’t work in some fights. Is there an ability that cancels them? Anders was able to revive companions just fine.

Sometimes when you tell your character to throw a grenade, they won’t reposition themselves for a clear shot. Instead, they’ll lob the damn thing at a wall. If I loose one more Mythal’s Favor like this, I swear to god…

To be fair, the bones for a good combat system are still here. DA2 becomes a lot more interesting once you’ve unlocked enough abilities to create your own combos. The brand new skill trees offer a bunch of interesting stuff and the companions’ unique abilities were the once I always invested in first. For example, the Force Mage skill tree is a blast. Its Pull of the Abyss ability knocks down enemies in a specified range and drags them all to one spot. This should be illegal. The skill trees are overflowing with abilities that blast your enemies away, but I haven’t found another one which lets you to pull them together. You can follow that up with anything you like: Cyclone, Walking Bomb, Chain Lighting, take your pick.

It’s a shame that the combos get stale pretty quickly. Since enemy encounters follow the same pattern throughout the entire game, you’ll be applying the same tactics over and over and over again. Just like Origins, DA2’s combat peaks around mid-game, but where Origins burned itself out from excessiveness, DA2 met its end by sheer monotony.

On to the dog pile with you.

DA2 has two DLCs which offer a couple more hours of quality content to break up the main story. They represent what the game could have been on a micro scale. Funnily enough, they excel at completely different things.

The Legacy DLC is where the combat really clicked into place. It introduces a variety of new enemy types mixed up with the old. The enemies are placed purposefully and combined in different ways across different arenas. The highlight goes to the big boys with the shields. They are only vulnerable from behind and they move around constantly, so you have to keep track of them along with all the other foes. The game also lets you utilize traps, giving you one more incentive to think about your positioning. It’s almost a miracle how the same combat system can feel completely different when dropped into hand-crafted dungeons. Even the boss is half decent, if not a bit gimmicky.

Likewise, the Warden’s Prison is an excellently crafted level which soothes the eyes after Kirkwall’s drabness. I especially like how they handled the codex entries. When you find one, your companions comment on it as if it was an actual piece of paper lying around in the world. It made me want to read them just so I could be part of the conversation.

This DLC is a bit thin when it comes to the story. The lore implications are huge, but Legacy never goes much into detail. I would have appreciated more interactions between my companions. I brought Anders and a Warden Carver with me and, despite them having more ties to the dilemma at hand than most, they rarely ever provided any additional thoughts.

Oh, hey there, little bro. The new uniform looks good on you.

Contrary to that, Mark of the Assassin doesn’t have much to add in terms of combat. It suffers from the same gameplay nuisances as the main game. There are a couple of annoying bullet sponge bosses - the Sky Horror being the first to come to mind. It’s one of those fights where I just laughed and dialed back the difficulty to Casual. Yes, give me all of the loot with none of the hair pulling.

The DLC even tries to sneak in a stealth section (pun intended). I appreciate the diversity, but Dragon Age please don’t. It’s half baked at best. It’s not entirely clear how easily the guards can spot you and they don’t react to simple things like opened doors.

You won’t be playing Mark of the Assassin for the combat anyway. No, this DLC is having itself a blast with the story alone. Hawk has never been this hilarious before. It’s like whoever was writing the companions’ banter finally realized the main character could join in on the fun. From imitating the Orlesian accent to going elbow deep in a dung pile, it never ends.

The newcomer Tallis is like Merrill if she got invited to more parties. When you’re done gossiping with servants and trying out the canapés, you��ll realize that she’s an excellent addition to the franchise. Besides covering herself with blood and squealing like a madman, she also provides a much needed perspective into the Qunari way of life.

And don’t think I didn’t notice my girl Leliana chilling in the corner. You can kick a bard out of Orlais, but you can’t ever kick the Orlesian court drama out of the bard, amirite? We were even treated to a little bit of “Teagan!” Chef’s kiss, mwah!

Just look at how much fun we’re having.

If I could circle back to The Witcher 2 again, there’s one more aspect where these two games differ entirely. You could take a hatchet and cleanly cut off the rotten flesh of The Witcher 2’s gameplay, while preserving the absolute jewel of its story. I have no conflicting feelings about that game, I know exactly what’s good and what’s not.

Contrary to that, DA2 is such a tangled mess, it’s impossible to sort it out. Some of the franchise’s best moments sit right around the corner from some of its worst. Whenever the writers blew me away with their social commentary, the dialogue system would box me into black and white decisions. Whenever I got giddy at the thought of slamming people into the ground, I’d stumble upon a hastily thrown together dungeon. Whenever I got excited by an act’s finale, the tedious side quests which surround the game’s few bright moments like a hungry void would lull me back into apathy. It’s enough to drive a person mad or make them write a 10k word review.

The game pours salt over my wounds each time it makes me think of Origins. So many of DA2’s design decision are in direct conflict with how old-school RPGs are meant to be played. Sure, there are lite RPGs out there and you could argue that DA2 falls into this category, but this is not a change I’m willing to accept easily. Origins was all about tweaking every little aspect of the game and watching as the dominoes fall into place. Not only does DA2 cut you short on that end, it doesn’t even commit to being a proper action RPG. It’s not nearly pompous enough to carry Mass Effect’s loose RPG framework, so it sits in this weird limbo of not really being anything definitive.

I shudder thinking what could have been had this game been given just one more year in development. Or two. Or, if I could be so bold, three. There’s so much passion on display here, but the artists’ feathers got plucked way too early. Origins might have taken a long time to complete, but the results can speak for themselves. Games with flashier graphics and huger levels will keep coming out, but none of them will be able to take the shine out of Origins. Contrary to that, DA2 doesn’t need any help tripping itself up and falling on its face.

Oh well, on to Inquisition, I guess. I’m sure none of DA2’s problem will carry over. Cheers, everyone.

Until next time, Hawk.

#game review #review #dragon age 2

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arcanewonder · 5 years

Photo

by first light.

#the sims 3 #ts3 #lucian bloodwood #elosia bloodwood #these dark and hallow places #i love revisiting my builds from last year with these new presets #i may need to build the burned elven homeland in ts3 #because i don't think ts4 could live up to my vision of it #also my next endeavor is skin making for this game #rip my soul because it's probably going to be a tragic mess #also rip lucian because he can't walk out in the daylight #the vampires in a big world don't burn but they are blind in daylight

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gaysimpsstuff · 3 years

Text

Addidentally Injuring Their S/o

Part Two Here

YT Video Here (thanks @vanillaicedlatte-yt)

Genre: a n g s t

Type: Drabble/ Headcannons

Summary: in the heat of an arguement, after a battle, etc., they activate their quirk and Y/n somewhat permanently.

Warnings: gore, blood, fighting/ cursing, crying, burns, toxic relationships, 290 spoilers, endeavor

Other: This was meant to come out yesterday, but shitty mental health got in the way, so yeet. Also, I’m sorry these get worse and worse as they progress, that’s usually how things go for me. This was also inspired by a Tik Tok that I can’t find where Shigaraki accidentally dusts y/n who’s trying to comfort him. It was a Cosplay, if anyone can find it please let me know so I can link it and credit the creator.

Characters: Shigaraki, Dabi, Bakugou, Todoroki

Angst Taglist: @smolchildfangirl @combat-wombatus @mandalorian-baby-bird @waffleareniceandfluffy (let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist)

Tomura Shigaraki

It had started as a great day, a perfect day even. Everyone was listening to him, the league was getting news coverage, people were afraid.

Everything was too perfect.

Something was going to go wrong, he was sure of it.

He hated the way everyone was laughing and joking together, Toga helping Magne do her nails, Spinner playing video games with Twice backstage, and you were chatting with Dabi and Compress about the league’s next moves.

Kuroguri was off doing something or other, and he’d mentioned another ‘follower of All For One.’

But something felt off.

And of course you would notice him.

You were hiding at an abandoned theatre, and he was sitting on the edge of the stage, staring out at the empty audience.

You were with Dabi and Compress in the wings, and glanced away from them towards your boyfriend.

He seemed stressed, scratching at his neck vigorously. You sighed, standing up and heading over to him, sitting beside him.

You placed your hand on top of his spare hand, offering him a soft smile.’

“Hey, baby~” you cooed. “How’s my boyfriend doing?”

He grumbled, yanking his hand away from you. Your theory was correct, he was stressed about something.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially not you. You always tried to comfort him and convince him everything was ‘okay’ even when it wasn’t.

“Go away.” He growled. “I’m trying to think.”

“Thinking about what?” You asked, scooching closer to him.

“None of your fucking business!” He snapped at you, and you flinched away from him.

“Tomura, I was just trying to help-“ you frowned at him. He could be immature and bratty at times he’s, but he usually made sure not to get that way with you.

“I don’t give a shit! I don’t need your damn help!” He stood up, marching over to the wings to head backstage. You followed suit.

Compress and Dabi quickly rushed off the stage when they saw Shigaraki heading towards them. Dabi stopped for a moment next to you, looking at you.

“Good luck with him.” He said, jerking his head towards Shigaraki. You shrugged at him.

Shigaraki overheard Dabi’s notion, anger and distress intensifying. Good luck? Good luck?! What the hell was wrong with him?

Dabi and Compres joined Toga and Magne in the red velvet chairs, Compress requesting that he gets his nails done in orange and black when she finished with Magne’s.

Shigaraki pushed aside the large heavy curtains blocking his way backstage, finding Spinner and Twice huddled near a small TV, an old PvP game loading onscreen

They both looked over their shoulders, staring up at their boss. You quickly darted backstage, crouching next to the ‘gamer boiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis’ as they had nicknamed themselves.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered to them. “He’s in a bit of a mood. I’ll take care of it, okay?”

Did he hear you correctly?

A mood?

You’ll ‘take care of it?’

Of it?

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Say that again, to my fuckung face!” Shigaraki screamed at you. “Tell me I’m just ‘iN a MoOd’ again!!”

You turned to him, eyes wide and scared.

“I’m sorry, Tomura, I didn’t mean it like that- I just didn’t want our friends to worry!”

“They aren’t our fucking friends! They just work for us- they work for me!” He corrected himself.

You stood up, flicking your wrist to motion for Twice and Spinner to leave. They quickly turned off their game and rushed away.

“You might not consider them our friends, but they’re certainly my friends. And I won’t let you scare my friends.” You stood your ground, taking a step towards him.

He scoffed, turning around and marching back onstage. You sighed, following after him, again.

“Please, Tomura talk to me. I’m your partner I want to help you!” You exclaimed. “You’re worrying me, please!”

“Well I don’t want to fucking talk!” He shouted, “and I don’t have to!”

“Please, Tenko!”

“THAT’S NOT MY NAME!”

Red.

He saw red.

His hand flew away from him before he could stop himself, a target missile. It’s destination? Your face.

You lifted your hands instinctively, and he grabbed your wrist, fingers curling around your skin.

In that moment, all he felt was relief. Thank fucking god you’d lifted your arms. It was the one thing that has saved you from him.

You screamed, pain shooting up through you from your arm. Your skin peeled, falling away in tiny fragments of dust.

The dust fell around his fingers, your hand and wrist were completely gone now.

You felt someone pull you backwards, and you saw a glint of silver as Toga quickly severed your arm, blood spilling onto the floor of the stage where the pile of dust that used to be your arm lay.

You fell to your knees, screaming, reaching up and clutching at your elbow- the point of separation- desperately, trying to will your arm back into existence.

“TOMURA!” You shrieked, tears falling down your cheeks. “TOMURA! FIX IT!!”

It was hopeless, you knew there was no way for him to un-dust you. You fell forward, forehead pressed against the floor.

Shigaraki took a step back, glancing at his hand. There were a few speckles of dust resting on his palm. His breath quickened, eyes widening as he cupped his other hand over his mouth.

He stared down at you, Blood staining your shirt as you screamed and cried.

It must have hurt.

He remembered the promise he’d made after you’d started dating, when he’d protected you from some assholes trying to mug you.

“I promise you, I’m going to protect you. Nothing, no one, will lay a hand on you ever again.”

It was a promised meant against anyone who posed a threat to you.

He never meant to become a threat himself.

Touya Todoroki/ Dabi

Some days were always going to be better than others, that’s simply how it works when you’re recovering from trauma.

Today was one of the bad days.

He’d woken up with a thick, heavy, dark feeling in his chest.

He wasn’t even comforted by the warmth your body produced next to him.

Most days he’d roll over and wrap his arm around your body, pulling you close to his body to cuddle you.

This morning however, Dabi rolled away from you and climbed out of bed. You looked over your shoulder at him, confused and slightly hurt. Did you do something to make him upset last night?

You followed after your angsty boyfriend, walking out of the bedroom and down the hall into the kitchen.

He crashed at your apartment a lot, being a villain it was hard to get his own home. You didn’t know where he stayed when he wasn’t at your place.

He grabbed a box of cereal out of the cupboards, pouring himself a bowl. You pulled the milk out of the fridge, handing it to him with a smile.

He scrunched up his nose at your kindness, snatching the carton from your hand and angrily pulling the cap off.

You sighed, nervously pouring yourself a bowl as Dabi started to eat. He didn’t even bother to sit at the table.

“Hey, babe? You okay? You seem kind of... off today.”

Your boyfriend glanced down at you, cerulean eyes seemingly staring right through you.

“M’fine.” He grunted. Your frown tightened.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t believe that.” You shook your head at him.

Dabi glared down at you in annoyance. His scowl deepening. You took a step back, concerned and scared.

“Dabi, please talk to me.” You pleaded with him.

“Uzéndayo.” He grumbled angrily. “Fuck off.”

“Please, you’ll hurt my feelings.” You scoffed sarcastically. “You can talk to me, y’know.”

“Don’t fuckin need to. Leave me alone.”

“Dabi, this is my place. I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Then I’ll leave!” He snapped, brushing past you and leaving his cereal on the counter to sog.

He snatched his jacket off the back of the couch, shrugging it onto his shoulders.

“Seriously, Dabi! What the hell’s going on! Did I do something wrong?”

It pissed him off further to hear you blame yourself. You always thought it was your fault, but it never was.

“Oh shut the fuck up for once! Quit thinking it’s all about you! It’s not always about you!”

“Dabi just fucking talk to me! I’m not letting you leave until you tell me what’s wrong!”

You stepped in front of the door, flinging your arms open to block ilhis exit. He looked you in the eyes, seething.

“Nothing happened!” He shouted “Sometimes I’m just angry for no reason! Get out of my way and I’ll take my anger out on some rando and not on you. Then I’ll come back and we can pretend this never happened.”

“Dabi I won’t let you just kill some innocent person because you’re upset! Just sit with me and we can talk it out and-“

“That’s always your solution! Quit being a wimpy pacifist and move!”

“I’m not a pacifist, I just don’t think you should kill without reason!”

“Well I have a fucking reason!”

“And what’s that?”

“I want to!”

“That’s not a reason!”

“Just get out of my fucking way or I’ll make you!”

“Dabi, just talk to me!”

It was the last thing you said before he grabbed your arm and pulled your body forward to meet his. Your chest pressed against his, his face right in front of yours.

It’d be hot if you weren’t so scared.

“Listen here you little shit,” he growled, low and angry “I’m stronger than you in every fucking way.”

“Dabi?”

“I could kill you in an instant if I so desired.”

“Dabi-“

“Incinerate your filthy annoying ass any day I want, so be fucking grateful for once and watch your damn mouth!”

“Dabi!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LISTEN! I am superior to you in every way, you should be grateful I even share oxygen with you!”

“DABI YOU’RE HURTING ME!”

“I DON’T CARE IF IT HURTS, LISTEN TO ME YOU DIRTY MOTHERFUCKER!” He screamed in your face, eyes wild with unchecked rage.

Tears flowed down your face as you sobbed, indescribable pain was shooting up through your arms.

Dabi’s eyes finally drifted downwards, and he froze, mouth falling slack.

Smoke was billowing off his hands, and his knuckles were white with how hard he was gripping you.

He snapped his hands away from you, curling them into his body as his eyes widened. He took a few steps back.

There were black scorch marks on your body in the shape of his hands. They looked real bad.

“Get out.” You whispered, so soft he couldn’t hear.

“W-what?”

“GET OUT!” You screamed, pointing at the door despite the intense pain in your arms. “GET OUT OR I’M CALLING THE POLICE!”

“B-baby I’m sorry!” He shouted “I didn’t mean to, I promise!”

“I DON’T GIVE A SHIT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOME BEFORE I TURN YOU IN!”

Dabi stumbled past you, quickly rushing out of your apartment and shutting the door behind him.

His back was pressed against the wood as he slid down, covering his face as he listened to your sobs on the other side, hearing your footsteps fade into the bathroom, probably to run cold water on your skin.

For a moment, all the could think about was the cereal on the counter, getting soggy.

“Fuck.” He muttered, eyes burning as they tried to produce tears without his tear ducts.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

Shoto Todoroki

Shit wrong emo scar boy with daddy issues, fire powers, and an evil older sibling with blue fire

There we go

It was a shitty day.

Well, most days were shitty days, but today was shittier than usual.

A home visit, Endeavor trying to act like he was ‘upset about everything that happened,’ and pretending he was the victim in the situation.

It would be enough to set anyone on edge, especially Shouto.

So it wasn’t much of a surprise when he returned to the dorms with a deep frown on his face.

Even when Midoriya, Iida, and Uraraka tried to talk to him, he still seemed angry the whole time. There was really only one thing that should be able to cheer him up. Let’s hope you do your job well.

“Knock knock~ Shouto it’s me!” you stood on the outside of Shouto’s dorm. You knew Shouto must be stressed, so you’d gotten him some brownies from the sweets cupboard, Sato’s locks were easy to pick.

“I don’t want to fucking talk.” his response was blunt, clearly annoyed that you’d bothered his brooding. “Go away.”

You sighed, he could act like such a child sometimes!

“Shouto, I just want to cheer you up! Let me in, babe.” a moment later, he swung the door open, am annoyed glare on his face. You smiled sweetly at him, handing him the plate of brownies. His hands remained in his pockets, glancing down at the brownies then back up at you.

“Um... can I come in?” you asked quietly. He shrugged, stepping aside to let you in. You stepped past him, sitting on the edge of the platform bed, setting the brownies on the nightstand.

Shouto closed the door behind him, turning to face you.

“Do... do you want to talk about it?” Shouto huffed, shaking his head and looking away from you.

“Do I look like I want to talk?” he snapped. You flinched, his tone was harsh.

“Shouto I just want to help, you don’t need to be rude.”

“I don’t give a shit if I’m being ‘rude.’“ He growled, arms crossed.

His eyes stared coldly at you. Yeah, he was definetly upset.

“That’s okay, we can chat about something else. Oh, Sato probably needs to change the lock on the sweets cupboard, I kinda broke it getting you these brownies!” you looked up at him, smile faltering as he looked down his nose at you. “Are... are you mad at me?”

“Wow, you just noticed that.” he rolled his eyes. “I told you to go away but you didn’t.”

“I-I’m sorry, I was just really worried about you. You’re my boyfriend and I love you, I don’t like seeing you upset.”

“Then maybe you should try fucking listening to me for once. If I don’t want to talk, then you can’t make me talk.” You nodded, apologizing again.

“Oh my god shut the fuck up!” he shouted. “You’re always talking, always apologizing, you’re getting on my fucking nerves!”

“Okay!” you stood up quickly, lifting your hands defensively. “I’ll just leave!”

You brushed past him on your way to the door, hesitating on the handle. You glanced over your shoulder at him.

“Would you fucking stop with the pity?” you looked at the ground, not saying anything.

You heard the slap before you felt it.

The sting shot through your face, and you could hear Shouto shouting at you, but it was muffled. You didn’t know what he was saying.

You lifted your hand to your cheek, hissing in pain. He didn’t just slap you,

He used his fire.

You choked on your words, turning to look at your boyfriend with tear-filled eyes.

Shouto was looking at you with a look of sheer horror on his face.

“I’m sorry...” you whimpered. “I’m going-” you slipped out the door, ignoring Shouto’s shout for you to turn back and talk to him

That it was an accident.

That he didn’t mean it.

That didn’t matter.

Katsuki Bakugou/ Dynamight

Fuck Icy-Hot.

Fuck. Him.

He said he’d gotten stronger since the Summer Camp, but he hadn’t at all.

He was still loosing to Todoroki, and no matter how hard he was working, he still kept loosing to him.

His hand was buried in his hair, tugging harshly every so often as he listened to you ramble about something that happened during your work study.

Even you were getting ahead of him, his own partner was getting stronger than him. He’d promised he’d protect you, but that would be useless if you kept improving faster than him.

“Then afterwords, FatGum took me, Kirishima, and Amajiki to this resturaunt, and the owner turned out to be a huge fan of FatGum, she gave us free desert! Oh my gosh the cake was so good!” you exclaimed, laughing a little.

Bakugou grumbled under his breath a little, keeping his eyes away from your estatic face.

“Great.” you glanced back to your boyfriend from where you sat at your desk, eyebrows furroring. Usually, Katsuki would give you one of those proud smirks all like ‘that’s my partner,’ but today he seemed upset.

“You alright, Katsuki? Was your provisional licence class stressful today?” you asked sympathetically, moving your hand towards him to comfort him.

He yanked his hand away from you, shooting you a pissed off look.

“Fuck no.” he growled. “Even if it was, I can handle it. I don’t need your damn help.” you rested your hand on your lap.

“I know, Katsuki. My boyfriend’s so strong!” you smiled brightly at him. Usually complimenting him would make him feel better, but today it seemed to only piss him off more.

“Shut up.” he hunched over, curling into himself more. He pulled one leg up to his chest, holding it under his knee.

“Uh.. are you sure you’re okay?” you asked, cocking your head to the side gently.

“I’m fucking fine!” He snapped, keeping his eyes anywhere but on you. “I don’t need your pity!”

“Pity? Katsuki I’m not pitying you, I’m worried for you. You’re my boyfriend and I want you to be happy so-”

“Didn’t I say to shut up?” he stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Don’t give me your worry, fight me instead!”

“Why the hell would I fight you, Katsuki? I already know you’re stronger than me!”

“Fucking how? You got that new work study you’re constantntly talking about! How haven’t you gotten stronger than me?”

“Is that what this is about? I’ve only been at my work study for a few days, how in the world could I have leaped leagues in that amount of time to reach your level?”

“Then why even join that stupid work study if you’re not getting stronger?”

“I am getting stronger, just not fast enough to be at your level that quickly!” you explained. “Sorry?”

“Ugh just shut the fuck up!” he shouted, storming out of your dorm and down the hall to the common room. There were a only a few people in there,

Yao-Momo and Jirou in the kitchen, Kirishima and Kaminari on the couches, and Sero was leaning over the back of the couch. They all looked up when Bakugou stormed in with you on his tail.

“Katsuki, you’re confusing me! What’s going on? How can I help? Is it something I did?”

“Just leave me alone, okay? Go away!” he shouted over his shoulder. Kaminari, Kirishima, Sero, Jirou, and Yaoyorazu all snapped their heads towards you and Bakugou.

“Katsuki, please! You’re scaring me!” you glanced over at your friends, Jirou and Yao-Momo glancing between each other and muttering.

“Yo, Kachan, the hell’s going on between you and Y/n?” Kaminari asked, standing up. Sero hissed at him to sit down if he wanted to keep his head.

“I’m sorry, Kaminari, Bakugou’s upset and I don’t know why-”

“Don’t know why? Quit it with the lies! I hate liars!”

“I-I’m not lying! I really don’t know!” you reached forward, latching your hand onto his wrist. “Please just talk to me!”

“BULLSHIT!” he snapped his hand away from yours. “You’re a fucking liar!”

“Bakubro, calm down!” Kirishima stood up, briskly walking over to the two of you.

“STAY OUT OF THIS!” Bakugou slammed his palm against Kirishima’s face, setting off a small explosion.

“KIRISHIMA!” You ran to his side as the smoke cleared, finding his face hardened.

“I’m okay, I’m okay!” he assured you. He offered you a small smile, suddenly, he yelped and ducked, avoiding another hit from Bakugou.

“LET GO OF THEM!” he shouted, and his hand sparked twice before setting off again. This time right next to your face.

You hit the ground first, then felt stinging pain across your face and shoulder.

You didn’t even hear your own screaming because of the fact that he blew up your ears.

You didn’t register Kirishima picking you up, or Bakugou staring after you in fear, or the others in the room scolding Bakugou or worrying about you.

All you knew in that moment was pain.

Pure, white hot, agonizing pain.

#bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha angst #mha angst #angst train #dabi angst #dabi x reader #todoroki angst #todoroki x reader #bakugou angst #bakugou x reader #shigaraki angst #shigaraki x reader #poc reader #male reader #trans reader #gender neutral reader

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mggpleasedontlookhere · 3 years

Text

checkmate

summary: where y/n and spencer live in a world of soulmates; but how magical can it really be when the last words of your lover are the only indication of their existence.

word count: 7,054 reading time aprox: 26 mins

warnings: character death, angst

a/n: this is my comeback fic, I hope you like it. I made sure to make it extra angsty to compensate for my disappearance :) also this fic can be read by anyone!

masterlist

Chess is a meticulous endeavor, not only in its cold and calculated nature, but also in the player’s ability to detect insecurity flash across their opponents' eyes, the unconscious idiosyncrasies that foretell future moves, and the slow descent into hopelessness that disintegrates the former’s conviction. Most will point out the cruelty of the game, how callous it must be knowing your end eight moves before it happens. However, others will oppose this notion as it is the game; one must lose to win.

It’s all a matter of who plays their pieces right.

Before that pivotal moment, players can only maneuver through a black and white arena. Fingertips would drum in anticipation while the other would hover over their pieces, striding across the board with purpose. Regardless of the disparity between the players’ experience or skill, there is always one factor, unmoved by player attributes, that is not a disadvantage nor luxury for either party: time.

Even in the checkered plane, nothing will matter. The players will cease to move, forced to end the game by the lack of time. This mechanism in nature acts as a failsafe if either individual is unable to conclude the game. In other words, there are only two outcomes: winning the game by will or letting time take that will away from you.

However, what is not noticed is the growing ache in the winner’s chest, disappointment beginning to fester inside of them because of their loss in deciding. In that split realization, the winner is placed on an equal plane as the loser, wondering if they ever really won at all.

This middle plane is beautiful and tragic simultaneously—maybe the beauty is in the tragedy. But as my palm leaves a bloodied handprint pressed against Spencer’s chest, all I can see is the world around me turning red.

Please be okay, please be okay for me

My mouth would silently mutter in tandem with his desperate and reaching touches, a mantra I convinced myself could surpass time, all while knowing my will was seized from me the moment Spencer uttered the words imprinted at my hip.

October 27th

2 days before

Water vapor collected around the coffee mug pressed to my lips. Although it’s ironic to call it a ‘coffee’ mug considering it was filled to the brim with scalding tea. The tips of my fingers and the skin of my palms tingled at the heat given off. My thoughts drifted to the explanation of the first law of thermodynamics that Spencer had kindly explained during the walk home from the night before.

An unconscious smile brushed over my lips briefly, reminiscing the blissful moments of the team gathered around a bar table after finishing up a briefing about a local case. A warm cloud of content passed through my chest while a lightness traveled from the bottoms of my feet to the summit of my forehead. The herbal tea traveling down my esophagus countered the cold nipping of the autumn air, bringing a welcome equilibrium to my wellbeing.

I shrugged the knitted blanket over my shoulders further, staring into the calming view that the apartment window provided. Across from the building was a small, abandoned park. Most of the neighbors had steered clear of the area as it didn’t meet anyone’s aesthetic standards—well, except for mine.

Half of the trees have lost their leaves, counting down the days to winter. The park benches were covered with tangled vines, even some lacking required wood boards. In summary, the place was an overgrown jungle that no one was willing to inhabit. In result, the once communal area was condemned by the normal folk for being ‘too dead.’ However, I would oppose those who claim the lack of life in the park considering life is not only just living, but it is to invite death.

In my observation of the park, a soft reflection suddenly appeared beside the yellow oak trees. In my peripheral, I can see my roommate creeping up behind me with his limbs moving catlike. I bit my bottom lip to conceal the amused huff threatening to escape me, instead settling to blowing over the steam rising from my cup.

Just before I saw his head bobble over my shoulder, arms stretched out above me, I whipped around his lanky figure and ducked under his arm. “You know for an agent; I expected a better performance.” An inaudible yelp interrupted the fit of giggles I was in as some of the tea spilled onto my blanket. “Now look what you’ve done! Do you know how hard it is to get dark liquids off cotton?”

“Just some hydrogen peroxide will do the trick,” Spencer shrugged, insisting to pull off the semi-damp blanket off my shoulders. “Plus, you messed up my bit!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot I was living with a five-year-old,” I teased, nudging him.

Spencer craned his neck to the side, letting the sore tendons and muscles stretch out from just waking up. All without forgetting to let out an obnoxious yawn in addition to his exaggeratedly extended arms. “I’ll have you know that this five-year-old has three PhDs and three bachelors,” he boasted.

“...and daddy issues.”

Before I can find a way to defend myself, the same blanket that brought me solace previously was transformed into an unmerciful whip. Spencer chased me around the couch until I slipped and toppled over the cushions, landing on the throw pillows. I buried my head into the leather arm, shutting my eyes, while I replicated the nature of Spencer’s antics by emitting ridiculous snores.

“You can’t touch me while I’m sleeping,” I murmured, feigning my slow lull to slumber. “It’s socially unacceptable.” During my spiel, Spencer had playfully grabbed my ankles and dragged me to a sitting position.

“SPENCER!” I gasped, clutching one of the pillows in hand and smacking him over the head with it. “You do not handle people like that! No wonder why you also have momm-”

Spencer’s palm gently nudged me back onto the couch mid-sentence, leaving my frame to hit the cushions with a loud thud. A boom of laughter filled the empty space of my chest, my breath thinning as dopamine jumped from my brain’s synapses. An enchanted smile caressed the corners of my mouth mirroring the one Spencer was sporting.

In these insignificant interactions, I would think back to the times where our comfortability was limited and reveled on how much our friendship grew over the years. There was a sense of solace that overwhelmed me knowing that introducing—and working on his—humor brought an auspicious light to the darkness that often clouded his mind.

My lungs deflated with a hefty exhale, my arm slinging across my eyes in relaxation. Clamored feet and the rug shifting against the wood floor caught my attention. Freeing my line of vision, I was met with a raggedy-haired genius with barely a foot between us. I reached out to comb through his locks, the webbing of my hands catching the tangled curls. “You need to shower greasehead.”

“Actually, the buildup of sebum and laloin in the gland of the hair follicles—coined as the sebaceous gland—offers moisture and protection, given that it is regulated upon its natural equilibrium.” Spencer leaned into the soft touch of my fingers, like how a kitten purrs against their owner’s affection.

“Well, I don’t know about you almost-birthday-boy, but I don’t think you want to go into the next chapter of your life smelling like you just changed out of your first diaper.” I pushed myself up the couch, gesturing Spencer to the hallway bathroom. “This is the big 31!”

“Y/N, we had a party for my 30th. I think I’m good to last for the decade,” he huffed, walking towards his bedroom to grab a change of clothes.

“That’s not the spirit, Dr. Reid!” I yelled across the room. “I swear Spence, you’re the only person who’d turn down a party... And, you even turned down Rossi’s invitation to go all out in his backyard.”

“Another year to celebrate the ever-closing gap between my time on earth and my imminent demise—oh, and how can I forget celebrating it in an open space full of ticks and pollen,” Spencer sarcastically jested, his voice bouncing off the thin white walls.

“At least you’d know your soulmate, right? Then I wouldn’t be the only one to deal with your ‘Debby Downer’ ass,” I added on, rolling my eyes at his usual pessimistic rulings.

“I would prefer nihilistic, but if that vernacular serves you then to each their own.”

“Hey, maybe after you die, I and your soulmate can mourn over you—bond and all that—and then I can steal them away,” I teased.

I looked to the lightning bolts etched into the crevices of my thighs, my fingertips tracing each design until it fell onto the carved words at my hip. In a way, the stretch marks made beautiful vines attached to the faded letters, covering the obvious red scratch marks that had resurfaced from my bad habits.

I kissed my fingertips before planting them back onto the markings, chuckling to myself of the intimate gesture. Unconsciously, I began to rub at the tattooed words once again, hating how their protrusion made my skin crawl.

“I mean I’m dead, what can I really do?” Spencer called out, stopping in his tracks when he reached the bathroom door. He faced me as he spoke, going on about his birthday celebration tomorrow—half of his speech unheard to me—until he requested my immediate attention. “You have to stop picking at the words, Y/N. You’re going to end up hurting yourself.”

“I know, I know,” I sighed, letting my dominant hand fall to my side. A pout fell on my lips at the loss of the small satisfaction scratching granted me. “But the words are just so uncomfortable sometimes. I mean you got lucky with the whole soulmate placement.”

Spencer brought his free hand to his chest, thumb tracing over the small words typed on the skin. “Yeah, I guess I did get lucky huh.” A soft smile grazed over his lips while his eyes were still trained on the unknowing figure resting against the couch.

“What does your marking read aga-”

“Spence, what’s it say on your che-”

I groaned in playful disbelief at the coincidental timing. “You know at this point I’m starting to think we’re telepathic, Spencer.”

“That’s actually what my tattoo is,” he laughed. “It’s my name.”

“Oh yeah,” I nodded, remembering the first time we brought it up in the early days of meeting one another. “Must’ve saved a lot of name tags in elementary school” I teased.

Spencer shook his head, shuffling into the bathroom with a lightness in his steps. With the closing of the door, my gaze fell onto the marking once again.

Regardless of the mechanics of soulmates, I was never worried about the possibility of not meeting them. I was already at my happiest knowing shared moments like these were good enough. However, unbeknownst to my ideal wishes, an irking desire still lingered in the back of my head while fingers hovered over the imperfect skin.

October 28th

1 day before

“Kid, you can’t sit there and tell me that finding your soulmate can be ‘scientifically extrapolated.’ That’s not the point,” Morgan amusingly shook his head at Spencer, ruffling the top of his head as he brushed past him.

“Okay,” Spencer tutted, “tell me. What ‘is’ the point then?”

“Well, all I’m saying is that finding your soulmate—if you have one—is supposed to come supernaturally.”

“Morgan, did you just try to win over boy genius here by talking about the supernatural?” With a tilted smirk, I nursed the half-filled flute between my fingertips. My gaze flickered over to a pleased brainiac sharing the same mischievous glint found in my eyes. I let my head fall back against the couch cushions, my eyes fluttering close to the sound of grown children bickering.

“Alright,” Morgan raised his hands up in defense. “All I was pointing out was that things like these can’t be solved by numbers and science.”

“The same can be said about Newtonian physics, but look where we a-”

Morgan flung a ball of crinkled wrapping paper Spencer’s way, aiming for his head. Spencer attempted to dodge the projectile—emphasis on attempted—only to have it hit him square in the face.

“So much for those Newtonian physics, huh?” I teased while getting up to open another bottle of champagne. Spencer slouched in his chair, the paper cone hat on his head shifting to the side. A grimace replaced the smirk he initially wore, muttering about how he was going to get Morgan back.

“Y/N! Bring that bottle over here when you’re done.” Morgan called out as I walked into the kitchen, pausing the ongoing discussion of the case we planned to tackle. “Also, bring another juice box for Reid here!”

A chorus of laughter followed my ears which each step, a grin finding the corners of my lips. I rose to the tips of my toes to reach for the unopened bottle in the alcohol cabinet. I made my way to the freezer, taking out the bucket of ice I stored away hours ago. When closing the appliance door, my eyes landed on a picture magnetized to the surface.

It was a physical reminder of the time that Spencer convinced me to dress up as Amy Pond, the eleventh doctor’s sidekick, for comic con. He too was dressed up in the doctor’s attire: a brown corduroy suit, a bowtie, and a sonic screwdriver. We both had silly grins planted on our faces, it seemed like nothing could tear down the joyous bubble we were in. Upon reflecting on the memory, the kitchen door swung open revealing a merry Spencer.

“Hey, I was supposed to be getting you that juice box,” I joked.

Spencer shook his head, pushing past me to get to the cupboard. “Very funny,” he droned, sarcasm dripping off his words. I leaned against the counter, setting the bucket of ice to the side. I analyzed his movements, noticing how often he fidgeted with his fingers or how his legs would clumsily turn inward at times.

“You know,” he paused, turning around to face me, “In some countries ruled by military dictatorship, staring could be deemed as a call for execution.”

I crossed my arms, challenging him. “Well last time I checked; we aren’t in any of those countries. Is that right, Dr. Reid?”

“Unfortunately,” he chuckled. “Did you need anything?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“Well, by the way you were checking me out, I would think you needed something.” He sauntered over to the opposite counter across the kitchen, hoisting himself up on the granite. I watched as the casual smirk fell off his face after failing his initial attempt to sit. The second attempt proved to be better, although that didn’t stop me from rolling my eyes at his impotence.

“You know,” I repeated his words, grabbing the champagne and ice bucket as I began to stroll out of the room. “I’m really starting to think you have a better chance at ‘extrapolating’ your soulmate rather than finding them.”

“Wait!”

I whipped around to face him with furrowed eyebrows. I nodded for him to continue, watching as a sly expression reappeared on his face. “You forgot my juice.”

I sighed, setting the items back down on the counter before reaching for the fridge. “You are a grown man, Spence,” I gesticulated at the boy. I grabbed Spencer’s favorite sparkling water and left it aside. “You couldn’t get your own?” I raised my eyebrows at him, ducking out of the refrigerator door.

He crossed his legs, still propped up on the counter. “Well, you did call me a five-year-old and it is my birthday,” he argued, shrugging his shoulders tauntingly.

“I said that the other day, and considering it’s your birthday, that would mean you’d be old enough to conduct yourself,” I countered.

“Actually, it’s grammatically inappropriate to say, ‘the other day’ when the event in question occurred yesterday,” he began to ramble. With an unimpressed nod, I began to slowly back away from the scene until I was abruptly stopped once again.

“Wait!”

“What!”

“You forgot to put it in a cup,” he meekly suggested, his face evident of mischief.

“You’re clearly enjoying this aren’t you?” I groaned, shuffling towards where he was. “I’ll give you something to enjoy...” I whispered to myself.

With a plan set in motion, I sauntered over to where Spencer sat. Once I was in front of him, I made sure to give no indication that I was moving beside him. Instead, I leaned forward, letting our chests press together as I reached up for a mug. I would be lying if I denied the faint blush warming up the apples of my cheeks or the tightness of my throat from this proximity. In a nervous hash, I could’ve sworn hearing Spencer’s breath hitch as my chin brushed against his neck.

Feigning a confident disposition, I dropped back to the heels of my feet, finding myself to be inches away from the enamored and naive genius. “You need this?” I murmured, trying to maintain a collected tone of voice. However, Spencer did make it difficult with the intensity of his penetrating gaze or the way his breath fanned over my sensitive skin.

For a lasting moment, I began to dissect the small specks of hazel hues in his eyes and how a dark pool of brown surrounded his irises. The tip of his nose was flushed in crimson and his mouth hung in what seemed like anticipation and hesitation battling it out. “Uh, yeah... thank you.” His Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped, linking his fingers with mine to take the mug.

Without breaking eye contact, he set the mug aside and away from view. I opened my mouth to say something, but I soon discovered a dessert residing in the back of my throat. Slowly my composure unraveled, leaving me and Spencer in a purgatory of uncertainty and elation. I heard my heart thump against the walls of my ribcage as my eyes traveled to the parting of his lips, his tongue ever so often swiping against the skin.

I shook my head out of the trance we were in, popping the hypnotic bubble forming around us. With a trepidatious smile, I gestured to the living room, suggesting going back out there. “Do you want to...” I tied my hands behind my back, stepping away from him slowly. He nodded in response; his mouth tightly pressed into an awkward line.

With less than obvious movements, we both tiptoed our way back to the liveliness of the other room, soon forgetting about the juice and cup all together.

“Bye guys, thank you for coming! See you tomorrow.” I politely bid everyone a farewell, sending them safe wishes home as they excited through the front door. “Pen, are you coming with us tomorrow?” I received a tipsy nod and a few stumbling feet, but nonetheless confirmation for the case. Spencer was to the left of me doing the same, enduring some last-minute birthday teasing from Morgan before he made his exit.

With the slow creaking of the door, I leaned against the wood, letting my legs slowly slip down the floor until I was sitting. I tilted my head up, staring at an exhausted Spencer before making grabby hands at him. He snorted at the childlike request, aggressively pulling at my wrists until I landed into his chest.

“Alright birthday boy, just because you’re older doesn't mean you can get all strong on me,” I warned, nuzzling my heavy head onto his shoulder. A pleasant silence surrounded us, our bodies maintaining an equal balance as we leaned onto each other. On another note, it reminded me of Newton’s principle of force that Spencer explained to me a few months back. How Newton’s cradle, a simple office trinket, exemplified conservation of momentum and energy. In this fragment of space, it felt like that with Spencer—it always felt like that: a comfortable momentum.

“Hey Spence?”

The quiet continued to spread throughout the atmosphere.

“Spencer?” I pressed my chin against his chest, feeling his arms find their way to my lower back. He hummed in response, his eyelids resting at a closed position. “I’m sorry about that thing in the kitchen... I was just messing around.”

He took a while to react before sighing and pressing a tired kiss to the side of my head; with that, I knew things were okay. “Oh! I didn’t give you your present yet.”

I melted away from his arms, scurrying off to the couch. In an exaggerated reveal, I pulled a small parcel from beneath the cushions, glee filling my eyes as I watched the bow on top spring out. I extended my arms towards Spencer, eager to have him open it.

He walked tentatively towards me, taking purposefully leisurely strides. At one point he began to act like he was in a slow-motion sequence, causing me to threaten the integrity of his present. With raised hands, he sat next to me on the couch and gently pried the gift from my hands. “What did you get me this time? Let me guess. From the size and shape of his package here,” he turned the box around in his hands, shaking it up, “and the sound to force ratio-”

“Just open the damn thing, Spence.”

He smiled at my usual impatience, letting his fingers glide against the edge of the parcel. Finally, with gentle hands, he picked apart the wrapping paper, careful not to rip the heart sticker that held the presentation together. He gathered the bow in his palm, and gently pressed the sticky side of the accessory to my cheek.

I cringed at the feeling, but that soon dissipated hearing the mollified chuckle escape Spencer’s mouth. With a determined huff, Spencer pulled the last pieces of wrapping paper from the box and was left with a frayed book in his palm.

“The Parliment of Foweles...” he whispered; an unreadable expression crossed his features.

I curled into my own body, anticipating some form of reaction. “I... I remember you told me the first time we really sat down and got to know each other that your mom used to read that to you when you were younger.” I picked at the stitches on the couch, a lump forming in my esophagus as my tongue swelled. “It’s first edition...” I smiled, insecurity beginning to conquer my excitement from before.

“Sorry, if you don’t like it... I was just-”

A pair of arms pulled me into a secure embrace while a tender hand came around to cup the back of my head. An inaudible expression of gratitude was lost in between babbles of endearment and soft caresses. Spencer pulled away with pools of adoration, he clutched the book in hand as he pulled me under his arm. He ran his thumb along the deckles that adorned the sides of the pages, his palm tenderly feeling the roughness of the old woven spine.

To open the book, he singled out a random page and lightly flicked a few pages to the side before I halted his movements completely. “Wait!” I requested. “I want you to read it after the case so we can do it together,” I sheepishly tucked a hair behind his ear, hiding the careful blush on my cheeks. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah...that’s fine with me,” he breathed, his eyes locked onto the soft curves of my face. I pulled my hand away, tugging my sleeve further down my arm. “Oh! That reminds me.” Spencer places the book behind him and headed over the coat rack next to the front door. Sliding his hands through various pockets, he finally pulled a small box from one of the compartments.

He tentatively approached me, turning the object in hand. “I know it’s my birthday, but... I wanted to do something because you’ve made everything better in these past years,” he confessed, fidgeting as he came closer. “Being with my mother always felt like home, and I just... you became that for me, so thank you.”

My fingers reached over to his open palm, approaching the velvet box as if it was fragile. I glazed over its general shape, turning it a few times between my hands. “Spencer...I don’t even know what to say.”

“Well, you can start by opening it,” he smiled.

I shook my head, gently prying the box open. Inside laid a beautiful heart-shaped necklace with words etched into the metal. Once I read the words, a heavy breath escaped my lungs, and my shoulders lost all tension. “Spencer...”

“I thought that it would be easier to have the words of your soulmate above your heart rather than you tracing over your hip,” he professed. “I also know that even if you deny not having any connection to this soulmate thing, it often brings you comfort when needed.”

My attention went to him the second he uttered those words. “How did you know,” I mumbled with an enamored chuckle.

“Well, whenever we’re in the field, I could tell the times you get nervous or need reassurance by the way you subtly touch your hip.”

“I thought staring was punishable by death,” I joked, referring to his argument earlier today.

He brushed it off with a wide smile, combing his hands through his hair. “I know we have a hefty case tomorrow based on what Penelope showed us last briefing, so I hoped that this would make you feel better,” he confessed, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back into the arm of the couch.

“Thank you, Spencer...really,” I wrapped my arms above my head, trying to attach the unlocked chain around my neck. “Can you...?”

With gracious hands, he lifted the chain from my fingertips and wrapped it around my neck. The skin of his fingers would occasionally brush the back of my neck, sending euphoric chills down my spine. I felt myself squirm under his touch slightly, although it wasn’t enough to be obvious. Lifting my hair to the side with his wrist, he clasped the necklace together, letting the cold metal kiss the skin.

I turned around, appreciating the trinket in my hands. I shook my head in disbelief, watching as some of the moonlight that seeped through the window reflected off the metal. “Thank you, again, Spencer.” I nodded, bringing him into a meaningful embrace. My head rested in the crook of his neck, an aroma of pine, vanilla, and old books surrounding us. “This really is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever possessed.”

He scoffed, gently wrapping his hands around the small of my back. “Everything pales in comparison to you.”

October 29th

...

I twirled the metal heart in between my fingers as Hotch’s words failed to reach my ears. I would look up occasionally to see the pictures, but we’ve been dealing with an unsub who showed no mercy to anything morally reprehensible. I sighed, swinging my feet under me as I pretended to be enveloped by the case file in my other hand.

“Since we’re dealing with a L.D.S.K-”

“A long-distance serial killer,” Emily intercepted, nodding towards the team.

“We’ll have SWAT patrol the surrounding rooftops. Emily and I will stay with the defense team here.” Hotch pointed to the house of the unsub’s target. “Morgan, Y/N, and Reid will go through the floors of the apartment building with the strike team—witnesses stated that he was located on the 5th floor, but we have to be ready for anything.”

I looked over to Morgan with a determined expression. His face hardened at the words and his lips was pressed into a tight line. In my peripheral, I could see the way his veins would constrict against the skin as he clenched his fists.

This case hit him particularly hard considering we couldn’t save the unsub’s last victim. It was a 4-year-old little girl, and we were misinformed about her possible location. By the time we got to her, she was faced down into a park well with a single bullet hole above her heart. I watched the slow diffusion of her blood, and how the water turned to a murky black. I couldn’t imagine Morgan’s guilt considering he was so sure of himself when reaching a breakthrough with the unsub’s whereabouts. The parents of the child would soon blame Morgan for his ignorance, spewing derogatory slurs in their distress.

“We’ll get him Hotch,” Morgan assured, “This time, we’ll get him.”

Spencer noticed the certitude in his voice, sharing a look with me to give extra attention to Morgan out in the field. I smiled at him, warmed at the concern that the genius had over his friend.

“I’ll be working with local PD to hold a press conference to keep the public on the lookout,” JJ expressed, crossing her arms.

“Since...last time, we figured that unsub finds enjoyment in toying with us or singling us out. So, keep each other in check and make sure to report back in your earpieces every five minutes.” Hotch himself seemed perturbed by the unsub’s earlier actions considering he had his own toddler to deal with. “Penelope has sent the coordinates to everyone. Remember the profile, and don’t leave yourselves vulnerable. We’re dealing with an elusive unsub that won’t stop at nothing to satisfy himself,” Hotch spoke with a quiver in his voice.

I bit the inside of my cheek and breathed heavily through my mouth. My hands began to drift to my hip but momentarily stopped as I remembered the chain around my neck. I slumped into the chair as Hotch dismissed the team, sending them out for their respective assignments.

“You, okay?” I whipped around to the sound of JJ’s voice. She leaned against the doorframe with an expression full of concern. Looking behind her, she noticed Spencer noticeably pacing through the bullpen waiting for a specific someone. He attempted to disguise his eagerness by counting tiles on the floor or squares on the ceiling, but to JJ he was easily discernable.

I let a dry laugh, shaking my head. “After what happened, I’m a bit worried—not about me—but Morgan and Spence.” I swiveled around in the office chair a few times until I landed in front of JJ.

“You know you fidget the same way as Spence,” she pointed out, grinning at the similarity. I shook off the oncoming warmth that flooded the skin and looked elsewhere. “You’re right to worry about both of them though. But you know how stubborn and determined they are.” As she began to walk out, she left a lingering message that soothed my nerves. “Plus, Spencer may have that IQ of his, but we all know runs things between you all.”

She wasn’t wrong. I’ve always kept a watchful eye over the both of them—maybe Spencer a little more—but nonetheless, I deeply cared about both of them. It was relieving to know that Spencer’s circle of trust exponentially grew from Morgan to JJ to me. It symbolized the growth that Spencer was mostly oblivious to, but it meant more to me than I can explain, seeing how he opened himself up to happier possibilities.

A sharp exhale left my lungs while my lips formed into a sly smirk. Without another minute to wait, I left the round table behind JJ, leaving Spencer to stop dawdling. “You ready genius?” I walked out into the hall, not sparing a glance at the figure trailing behind me.

“With you? Always.”

“Nothing here,” a voice confirmed in my earpiece. My gun hung low in my hands while I tiptoed through the floor of the apartment building. “You know Y/N, if I knew that the unsub was going to the pick a building in the area we resided in, maybe I would’ve considered having the party at Rossi’s instead,” Spencer joked.

I bit the smile growing on my lips, focusing on the assignment on hand.

“Maybe after the case, instead of reading that book in our apartment we can go over to that small library/cafe we’ve been meaning to go to,” he continued to drone, forgetting about the connection of everyone’s channels.

“Reid, if all you’re gonna do is flirt with Y/N, leave the damn channel,” Morgan warned. Hearing the worry in his tone, Spencer straightened up, coughing to cover up his soft apology. Being separated didn’t help the irrational thoughts that built up in the back of my conscience; I can’t even comprehend what’s probably going through Morgan’s head.

“You good?” I mumbled into the com; my eyes straightforward while I advanced towards the hall. Morgan didn’t respond, an inaudible huff coming through the speakers.

“I’m moving up to the top floor. Y/N and Reid, go back down to the basement and see if we missed anything,” Morgan broke the awkward silence with an austerity in his words. The silent hum that came afterwards was worse than earlier. I turned off my earpiece, sensing a conversation about to ensue between the two gentlemen.

The thickness in the atmosphere was similar to the air that surrounded me and Spencer when competing in recreational chess. Whenever I attempted to put his king in check, he would block the move by maneuvering another piece in front of it. This would lead to a game of cat and mouse until I would figure out that the entire time, Spencer had been deluding me into false security while checking my king piece. Ultimately, I would lose to Spencer. However, there were games where I’d outmaneuver him or win by dumb luck.

I’d like to think that I developed some sort of intuition for his behavior from playing against him, but he’s deemed unpredictable every game. He was always sharp, eight steps ahead and aware of all possibilities. I guess that’s what make him an effective profiler, always thinking in the future.

I ran down the stairs, still armed, when Penelope’s voice ran through the earpiece. “Updates! Updates people.” The joy in her voice always relived me of the gloom that usually surrounded me in the field; hopefully she has the same effect on Morgan.

“Hey, Pen.” An invisible grin was evident in my words, knowing she’d pick up on it.

“Hello, my love, seems like at least one person is happy to see me,” she verbally jabbed at the lack of response from Spence and Morgan.

Still no response.

“Sorry, they’re working out their marriage at the moment,” I teased, hoping for the usual distasteful comment I usually get from Morgan.

Still nothing.

An unnerving feeling crept up the back of my neck. “Penelope, can you check if their coms are still workin—shit.” Before I could finish, a long buzz of static came through the speakers. The only comprehensible words that were picked up was the beginning of my name before cutting off.

I bit my lip, pulling out the small piece of technology and tapping it a few times. “Come on... dammit.” After playing around with the earpiece, I grew frustrated with it and stuffed it into my pocket.

I paced in the small landing between the stairs, thinking of a new gameplan. I ran my fingers through the ends of my hair, feeling the split ends prick at the skin. I felt a mountain growing in at the bottom of my stomach, leaving my esophagus constricted without air. “What would Spencer do,” I mumbled to myself, gripping onto my necklace.

“Spencer...Spencer...”

Before I could finish the mantra, a shot rang out from above me, and the crashing off glass followed. In the split moment, my legs grew a mind of its own and sprinted to higher ground. Suddenly, the sweat perspiring off me turned cold, and my heartbeat slammed itself into my spinal cord as I ran. My feet forgot its exhaustion while my mind devoured every irrational thought, and combined it with adrenaline.

The single thing that drove me over my limits was knowing that the person who fabricated and would shoo away these thoughts was somewhere I didn’t know I could get to in time.

Spencer’s POV

I tiptoed into a vacant suite of the building, still antsy about the scolding I received from Morgan. The conversation after didn’t help considering it was all a reminder to be aware and focused on the task at hand. I knew Morgan was filled with the need for redemption despite the team forgiving him of his ignorance. So, I shook off the creeping feeling and abided by his instructions.

Deciding to update Y/N and Morgan about my whereabouts, I spoke into the coms only to have static come out of it. I tried once again but failed to reach anyone. The room around me shrank as a sharp exhale left my lungs. I swallowed the buildup of saliva in the back of my throat, feeling uneasy about not knowing what’s to come.

Seeing at the area was clear, I looked out of one of the windows. Initially I cringed at the accumulated dirt and grime in the glass panes, but that all dissipated when I spotted the quaint park that Y/N loved. No one else had any interest in the community lot, seeing as people would coin it—or what Y/N would tell me—the park of death. But to her, she saw the opposite as she always does.

The light feeling of reminiscing my interactions with Y/N soothed the disconcerting atmosphere, keeping me grounded. Although the sentiment ended as soon as it started when I spotted one of the apartment walls was spray-painted with black letters.

Zugzwang

A blaring shot rang out and glass shattered into the room. I ducked into the floor, shutting my eyes. My head spun as the boom impaired my hearing. The window was forcibly open, the shards resting beside me. Left disoriented, I groaned, only feeling the after wave of vibrations on the ground. However, I soon found out that the quake of the floor wasn’t from the initial shot, but the rapid clobbering of feet inching closer to the suite and a shadowy figure preceding it.

Y/N emerged from the doorframe, panting. Eyes were laced in fear while they bore into my own. My stomach twisted into knots from previous events while I contemplated what had occurred. The presence of Y/N wasn’t even strong enough to relinquish the egging feeling crawling in my skin. I anticipated Morgan to appear, considering he was closer to the scene.

Where was he?

Another thing I didn’t anticipate, a second shot.

“Spencer?”

January 3rd

Three months after

My thoughts antagonized one another while I stared out into the world from the eerily quiet apartment. The living room was cold and empty despite the array of furniture scattered about and the broken picture frames lining the walls. The vapor rising from the cup of tea drifted into the air, vanishing into nonexistence. It’s funny how that could happen in a matter of milliseconds.

The pain the lived inside the chambers of my heart was no match for the burning of skin I felt when holding onto the steaming cup. The only worthy adversary would be the rush of self-resentment that coursed through me when picking up the book. I deserved it though. I deserved the spikes through my stomach while my fingers trailed the deckled pages, reminding me of the first time I held the book, its previous owner present with me.

I would remember our time together.

I would remember the promise shared between us.

I would remember the bloodied handprint pressed against my chest.

Now all I had was the physical manifestation of what’s left: the necklace. As cruel as it was for me, I kept it in the book, using it as a bookmark while I lost myself into poems. After a while, the inked words lost their meaning to me, becoming an empty cacophony that encased the jewelry.

Every time I grasped the chain in my clutches, a numbed ache would make itself known at the pit of my stomach. It clawed at my intestines and made the entirety of my body system obsolete. With that, I was abandoned with the sinister hauntings of my own mind—a part of me that I was once praised for.

A genius. A prodigy. Hidden behind the real mess of a guilty man.

I ignored the smashed chess board and pieces that laid still at my feet, concentrating on the snowflakes that littered the park across from the building. The grounds looked beautiful, covered in layers of pure white. I sipped at the tea once more letting my mind deteriorate with a sophisticated nonchalance.

What a tragedy it was to know my soulmate, especially right under the tip of my nose. What a cruel joke life had played.

I wished I had more time.

It was easier to let the guilt consume me rather than pondering on what I lost—who I lost. Had I lost myself too? Maybe, it didn’t matter. In some masochistic way, I enjoyed the guilt because it was a way to remember that at one point someone made for me existed. I used it to relive the moments I could never get back.

All that remained was an empty shell of a man, staring out into a dull world, wondering how time took everything away from him.

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greenninjagal-blog · 3 years

Text

The Rumor Mill Game (pt4)

I swear I didn’t forget about this au. This chapter is just....long.

Welcome back to this mess of an au :) If you need a refresher, you can find Part Three [here!] Or if you’re new check out the first part [here!]

Summary: Logan is...dealing with the fallout of him and his coworker, Remus, having created a rumor about them being married and now apparently having a kid except not because Logan screamed at the top of his lungs that Virgil wasn’t his kid. His boss has a different definition for what “dealing” actually means.

Words: 8292 (Holy shit remember when this au was 2k words)

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

When Logan had seen his boss after he made Virgil cry, he hadn’t expected it to end up like this.

Granted when he hadn’t exactly been expecting anything. He hadn’t been looking ahead, hadn’t been making plans, hadn’t been thinking at all. Which was most likely how he ended up outside the bar in the first place.

Logan could, of course, count the number of times he had been drunk on one hand. College had been a time for experimenting, and of course for his twenty-first birthday his friends at the time had been insistent that he needed to imbibe an unholy amount of alcohol in one night. They had turned it into an experiment, where Logan documented exactly what he was feeling after each drink and he still had the notes in his desk at home, despite the fact that his handwriting had become illegible after the fifth drink and someone had spilled an orange soda based tonic on the third page. The notes themselves were worthless, but they served as a memoir to people who he no longer associated with and a younger version of himself who had still been learning.

And Logan did have a soft spot for that imbecile: Twenty-one-year-old Logan Ackroyd who still believed in the goodness of people and who wanted to change the world and who could fall in lov--

Logan pitied him-- that kid he used to be-- which he was certain that his younger self would be indignant about. Logan always did hate when people pitied him. Those emotions had rarely ever been genuine, rarely ever been helpful, rarely been productive. What was he to do about people feeling bad for him? About others being disappointed? About others making assumptions about him and how he felt?

He didn’t need pity, and he didn’t want it. Not when he got rejected to his first three colleges, not when flunked that English class and had to pay to retake it the next year, not when he had bought that ring and gotten down on one knee and made a whole carefully edited speech and--

And he’s not nearly drunk enough to deal with these types of thoughts. Or any thoughts for that matter. Wouldn’t it just be great to stop thinking?

Then he wouldn’t have to remember the looks on his coworkers faces when he storming into the office less than fifteen minutes after initially leaving for lunch and demanded that Beatrice turn in her overdue spreadsheets in twenty minutes or he’d have her fired before slamming his office door hard enough to crack that frosted glass, or the look on Remus- fucking- Prince’s face when he tried to act like everything that had happened was not his fault and that Logan had taken the game to far by himself without any sort of prompting from Remus, or the look on Virgil’s face when Logan lost his self control.

Like an idiot. Like an asshole. Like someone who doesn’t think before he acts.

Like someone who should be alone for the rest of his life, because he can’t seem to get a hold of those useless emotions of his.

And Logan wanted so very badly to blame Remus Prince for this whole endeavor, the whole production, the whole catastrophe. He wanted to say that without Remus he never would have gotten that angry, wouldn’t have had that conversation, wouldn’t have even gotten Thai today.

Logan wanted to say that, but really it's his own fault. If he had just dismissed Remus’s rumor in the beginning, if he had just told Jen and Quin that his personal business was his own, if he had just ignored the urge to get coffee and finished the spreadsheets without getting up that last night.

His fourth finger itched around the base, the area where that little silver ring had been sitting for less than a day. It was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, because Logan had never worn a ring before and now suddenly the absence of it caused his skin to crawl in a most unpleasant, unproductive way.

Distantly Logan realized that by gifting Remus such a wonderful present, he had also thrown away four hundred dollars. And perhaps ironically Logan noted that he feels annoyed about it-- four hundred dollars had been sitting in a pocket of a dress jacket in the corner of his office for over nine months and he had tossed it aside in a fit of impulsive anger.

Logan had not been hurting for money recently, with how decently he was paid, and the amount of overtime he worked, and how little time he had taken off since that disastrous night.

But perhaps he might have been able to return it to the jewelers and weathered the terrible, awful pitying looks they would give him when he requested about their refund policy or a location where he might be able to sell it himself. It was a ring that was worth four hundred dollars and he had given it to Remus, and isn’t it funny that that’s farther than he got with the one for whom the ring had been originally intended?

And as Logan downed his next rum and coke of the night, he hoped that Remus found a better use for it. Newton knows it hadn't done any good for Logan.

(Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the way that he had screeched “He’s not and never will be our son!” Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the way that Remus had hummed mischievously “I think I enjoy being fake-married to you, Logan." Its stupid, Logan knew, to blame a ring for the the way his last partner had said “We should see other people”. Its stupid, stupid, stupid--)

“Hmmm,” A voice behind him said, “I thought I would find you here!”

Logan didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until he heard the voice and felt every atom in his body figuratively threaten to combust. He wasn’t drunk enough to be thinking about him, and he most certainly wasn’t drunk enough to turn and look at the incessantly, perky man that had decided to sit down next to him.

Logan waved at the bartender and ordered another rum and coke and watched his freshly emptied glass disappear like the handful of others he didn’t bother to keep count of.

“And I’ll have two waters, please!” Patton Hart added with one of his peppy, happy, insufferable laughs, before turning to face Logan. “Hiya, Lo! It's been so long since we’ve seen each other!”

“Not long enough,” Logan disagreed, with a rueful smile that should very clearly, very precisely detail how much he does not want company at the current moment. “Don’t you have things to be doing tonight, Mr. Hart?”

Patton hummed, pressing his lips together as he thought-- a monumental task for someone like him, surely. Logan was partially convinced that if he removed his glasses he might be able to see the squirrels beginning to run on that rusted wheel in the other man’s brain. If Logan was of a less logical mind he might even be brazen enough to call this the first time Patton had used his brain all week.

“Well,” Patton said, carefully settling himself on the stool next to Logan. “I was graciously informed by my son that he would be enjoying the perks of being a teenager with no bedtime tonight and along with where exactly I could shove my homemade lasagna.” He laughed lightly, “Kids, these days! He really does keep me on my toes!”

Logan did his best not to roll his eyes. “I do not know the whereabouts of your son, Mr. Hart.”

“Patton,” He said easily, “And I’m not here for my son. I’m here for you, Logan.”

“If this is about the glass in my door, you are very capable of taking that out of my paycheck.” Logan told him.

The bartender placed Logan’s new rum and coke in front of him and he reached for it almost immediately, only stopping when Patton’s hand landed on his forearm.

“Mr. Hart--”

“Patton,” Patton corrected with that smile that Logan suspected was the worst thing in the world. Worse than Virgil’s blank expression when he told them to get out, worse than Remus’s smug one when he suggested that Logan did indeed enjoy the ability to manipulate his coworkers, worse than Beatrice faulty excel sheets, than broken glass of his door, than a ring he never wanted to see again and yet he still felt like it was missing from his finger.

“Mr. Hart,” Logan said again, “I am going to get horrifically drunk tonight, and I will be calling out sick tomorrow, regardless of what you say. So my advice to you is, say anything of importance now, before I am too incoherent to register and respond accordingly.”

“That doesn’t sound too smart there, kiddo!” Patton said, like he was any older than Logan was.

“I do not feel like being smart right now,” Logan said snippily. Because being smart involved thinking, and Logan had done quite enough thinking for the day. He was tired of thinking, tired of memories, tired of the lump in his chest that had formed during his lunch break and hadn’t dissolved in the eight hours since. He was tired.

“Would you like me to be smart for you?” Patton asked.

Ah.

Yes, Logan remembered suddenly with just a few words why he hated Patton Hart so much. Why he hated those too-wide brown eyes, those stupid freckles, that soft smile. Why he hated the way that Patton had tracked him down despite the fact that he had turned off his phone, the way that Patton had ordered two waters, the way that he hadn’t taken off his jacket. The way that he had taken out his keys and put them on the bar counter between them and Logan could pick out his own house key from the jumbled mess of bits and bobs.

“I heard something pretty interesting today,” Patton said, when Logan didn’t reply because he was too busy remembering why he hated Patton so much.

“Please don’t pretend like you didn’t know about my so-called affair before I did.” Logan snapped. “Honestly, Patton!” Logan dropped his arm from the glass and instead pressed his knuckles to his forehead. “Playing dumb about your own company is my least favroite thing about you.”

“I thought you hated my laugh the most.” Patton looked at him, letting the smile slip into something more serious.

“I hate everything about you.”

“Pay for the drinks, Lo.” Patton told him, “And I’ll take you home. We can have some of my lasagna and watch a space documentary, like we’re twenty years old again.”

Logan hated Patton and hated the way his chest ached at the offer. His knuckles bore into the side of his head, jabbing the frame of his own glasses into this temple. He hated the way that Patton was looking at him, soft and sweet and naive.

He hated the way his fingers itched to take Patton’s hand and go home.

“And after all that,” Patton continued so lightly, “You can tell me all about how Remus Prince got under your skin.”

Logan’s hand slammed on the counter, so suddenly he surprised himself. Patton, however, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, didn’t react other than to hold that smile.

“I am not drunk enough to be talking about Remus Prince,” Logan spat. “Especially not to you, Patton.”

Patton was quiet and at first, Logan really had thought that he had won something-- he thought that perhaps Patton would grant him mercy and let him drown his sorrows alone and miserable in a bar until he forgot his own name. But Patton was too good of a friend and Logan really should hate him less for that.

“You know,” Patton said with a cold type of humor that doused Logan with awareness. Bad awareness. The type of awareness that sunk it’s metaphorical claws into Logan’s chest and pierced straight through his heart before Patton finished what he was saying. “I think….yeah that does sound familiar. Do you remember the last time you said you weren’t drunk enough to tell me something?”

Logan did.

Logan couldn’t forget if he tried.

And he had tried so very hard for so very long-- except that Remus Prince had waltzed into Logan’s life, had called him a Robot, had smirked at him and run their coworkers around like cattle with pretty little words. Except that Remus Prince had gotten bored and decided that the only logical next course of action was to mess with Logan’s personal life.

Except that Remus Prince had played along with the rumor game, and smiled at him, and kissed him, and---

And Logan had started thinking---

And Logan’s mouth had started moving--

And Virgil face had--

Logan reached for the glass in front of him, reaching for the cool ice and the spritzy carbonation and the burn of the rum.

Patton watched him, blinking in the long, slow, dumb way of his that had fooled just about every person that he had come in contact with. With the goofy smile and the habit of deliberately misunderstanding key phrases and making puns and jokes when things were tense, it was hard to see him as anything other than a rich son who became CEO via thinly veiled nepotism.

Logan knocked back the drink, blinking back the burn behind his eyes that were from the alcohol and definitely not from the lump in his throat that had started dissolving.

He didn’t want to close his eyes, because he knew what he would see when he did: a nice suit, a fancy dinner, a walk to the bridge dotted with fairy lights of all things. He’d see that stupid ring, that stupid face, that stupid end of the night that everyone had told him would be nice, and perfect, and everything he would ever want!

And he didn’t want to think about how it had not been nice or perfect or anything either of them had ever wanted!

He didn’t want to think about how years ago he had come to a bar just like this, and tried to get so drunk he could pretend that it hadn’t happened, and Patton had shown up then and offered him a job and--

“He wants to go by Janus now,” Patton said, picking up one of the waters and taking a sip.

Logan squinted at him and tried not to be happy about the distraction from his own thoughts, “Who?”

“My son,” Patton said, like it was obvious he had switched back to a neutral topic. “He told me earlier during our phone call he wants to go by Janus, now. He said he’s hated the name Dante for forever. Can you believe it, Lo?”

Logan couldn’t actually. Because he had known Patton since they themselves were teenagers, since before Patton had brought up how empty being a CEO was without anyone to come home too, since Patton had first invited him to Sunday brunch and introduced him to the child he called “son”. Logan had babysat Dante when Patton had business trips and Dante had always been proud of himself, of his better-than-the-status-quo lifestyle, of his name that held power and prestige and weight.

Dante had been practicing saying his name in the mirror since before his voice cracked. Dante Hart, future CEO. Dante Hart, son of Patton Hart. Dante Hart.

“He’s a teenager,” Logan said, “He’s rebelling.”

“Maybe so!” Patton laughed, and it dwindled down to something that was easier felt in the air than definable in terms Logan was familiar with, “Gosh, I love him so much, Lo. My baby! He’s growing up so fast now! The other day he told me he had a boyfriend. He’s at that stage where he doesn’t want me to help him anymore!”

And despite the buffoon having not had a single drop of alcohol, Patton was tearing up. Logan gritted his teeth at the implications of a weepy, teary, so-full-of-emotions Patton. He had spent enough time in college trying to console him as he figured out the whole “Why does it always have to be about sex? Why can’t I just love hugging someone, Lo? Why does everyone make me feel so broken?” Logan hadn’t been any good back then, and he definitely hadn’t gotten better with time.

After that disaster with the last guy, Logan had decided that feeling things, frivolous things, emotion-like things, were not something he was into anymore.

Logan learned from his mistakes, after all.

Even the mistakes that started with “R” and ended in a $400 ring being thrown away.

“Is that why you’re here, Mr. Hart?” Logan asked, in that way of his that told even Patton with his squirrel run brain that it wasn’t actually a question at all. “You can’t baby your son anymore so you’ve moved on to the next best thing?”

Patton stuck his tongue in his cheek and set his water back down. “Patton.” He stressed. “And I’m not here to baby you, Logan. I’m here to be your friend.”

He said “friend” like it was a word in the dictionary Logan didn’t know. It was infuriating: the insinuation that Logan had never cracked open a dictionary before, that he was so unknowledgeable about the concept of a friend that Patton was about to show him the online Oxford dictionary definition, like someone who played dumb all day and peppered his windows with sticky notes in the shape of a game of Frogger knew more about something than Logan who had clawed his way up from nothing and was constantly needing to prove how he earned his position.

Patton nudged the second water in Logan’s direction.

Logan stared at it, at the condensation on the glass, at the ice cubes, at the refraction of the low lights from the bar counter. He stared at it like it was a portal back through time that would allow him to slam some sense into poor, pitiful twenty-one-years-old Logan before he let himself fall in Love.

Before he bought a ring or stopped taking days off unless Patton tromped down to his office himself. Before Remus Prince borrowed his cup and before Logan got it in his head that he was serving revenge rather than idiocracy. Before he let himself think too little and say too much and hurt a kid that had never deserved to be upset before in his life.

“If my son wants to be called Janus, I’ll call him that,” Patton says softly. “Because even if it doesn’t make sense to me, it means something to him. And even if my friend is struggling with emotions that don’t make sense to me, I’m still gonna try to help him, Lo.”

Patton ducked his head just a little, just enough that he managed to catch Logan’s strategically averted gaze and make something out of it: a swell of guilt, a sense of hope, a pinch of safety and unadulterated kindness.

His throat was dry, but it was the type of dry that couldn’t be fixed with a glass of water.

“I made a kid cry,” Logan said, because self loathing is a coat he had thought he’d outgrown but he can still fit his arms in the sleeves.

Patton nodded. “Yeah, I heard about that.” He sipped his water. “I think we all have at one point or another.”

“See, the distinct difference that you are missing here, Patton, is that you are a father.” Logan snapped, “And your son will cry at the drop of a hat if he thinks he can get something out of it. And you would never harm a child! Not for any reason in the entire world!”

“And you would?”

“I did.” Logan felt himself sink into the chair, sink like an anchor in the ocean, sink like the floor below him had turned into a blackhole. “I did, I did it. What type of person does that make me?”

“I hate to break it to you, Lo,” Patton said, as kindly as he could, which Logan knew was truly, sickenly nice. He wanted to choke on the sentiment but he found that he couldn’t quite make his chest hurt the way he wanted it too when it came to Patton’s pity.

“But that just means you’re a normal person.” Patton smiled dumbly, tilting his head and shrugging. “Everyone says things they don’t mean sometimes.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” Patton countered gently, “Like when I hired Beatrice before realizing that she had lied about knowing how to use Excel.”

“Fuck, Beatrice,” Logan agreed, because if he closed his eyes too hard he thought he might still see grid patterns as much as he might see Virgil’s hurt expression and he hated it so much. So much.

“I also told-- Janus once that I would get him anything he wanted for his birthday, and he asked for a snake.” Patton shuddered, almost comically, “And you saw how that turned out.”

“I’ve always been impressed with his ability to sneak things into the school buildings,” Logan sighed. “I doubt anyone has ever forgotten that Show-and-Tell.”

Patton chuckled quietly. It was almost lost in the buzz of the other patrons in the bar. He drew a smiley face in the condensation on his glass and Logan reached over to wipe it away, like he had done a hundred seventeen times since college.

“So….Lasagna?” Patton offered. “We can make some garlic bread too.”

“I regret ever meeting you,” Logan said, even as he picked up the keys on the counter between them. He wished that Patton didn’t look so self satisfied, so pleased, so smug when the words tumbled from his lips, but Patton had never been one to pertain to the wishes and whims of Logan like that.

Settling his tab was quick; a pile of bills from his wallet that he didn’t actually check, but decided the bartender deserved anyway and then Patton linked their elbows together so that Logan couldn’t walk off the way that he used to when he would agree with Patton just to get him to shut up. Logan snagged Patton’s glasses from his head and fogged them up with his breath, before taking on the tedious task of cleaning the fingerprints off the lens meticulously while walking in a wobbling straight line.

Patton laughed like silver bells and it alone brightened the entire street with a type of magic that Logan had long since given up on trying to scientifically explain. The poet in him that Logan had buried under Calculus classes and Statistics courses and a Business degree and only let out when the alcohol out weighed the blood in his system, whispered that it was because it was Patton and his aloofness, and his kindness, and his generosity that never made any sense, and wasn’t that reason enough for the universe to lighten up?

It was drizzling outside, scattered raindrops and dark heavy clouds that whispered of a thunderstorm later. Patton skipped, Logan rolled his eyes and let himself be dragged towards the familiar pale blue punch buggy. It was the same exact car from their college time together, if one ignored the frankenstein replacements of just about every single component in it. Patton clung to the car the same way he had clung to the delusion of Logan being a good friend; sticking close through every breakdown, excusing every letdown, and spending far too much money on it when economically it would have been more beneficial to just let them go.

A wave of self loathing wrapped over Logan again when he pulled on the car door. Patton was genuinely a good person, a good friend. He was stupid at times and he made decisions that made Logan was to strangle him, but he cared so much more than other people. He offered fourth and fifth chances when Logan would have stone-walled his offender at one.

Not to mention, he had come out in the rain to find Logan specifically, probably traversing through three other bars to find the one that Logan had chosen to be his misery echo chamber.

By some sort of lucky happenstance, Logan had originally walked far enough to hail a taxi to get to this bar, leaving his car in the safety of the parking garage where Patton’s company paid a nice sum for security. Logan had tried to argue about that expense with him back in the day, but Patton had pulled out a picture of his toothy grinning son-- Janus-- and said “Lo!! What if my son comes to visit when he learns to drive?! I don’t want to worry about him getting attacked in the parking garage!”

Logan had brutally pointed out that his son would never visit him during work, and so far he had been correct in that assessment, but that didn’t stop him from feeling the slightest bit guilty about his bluntness even so much time later.

Patton had always looked for the best in people, had more strength than most of humanity, had more hope in happy endings that Logan had trust in fact and numbers.

“Is your son okay with me calling him Janus? I’m unsure of etiquette on this. Should I wait until he tells me his preference or should I just make the switch and not bring it up to him?” Logan asked with a sigh as Patton pulled out of the parking spot and set them towards Patton’s house on the other side of town. Unobstructed and following the driving laws, it would only take them about fifteen minutes, and yet Logan wondered about the possibility of Patton having Advil in the car.

The back of his head was already aching from the days events: banging his head on the keyboard all morning leading up to his disastrous lunch date, Remus, Virgil, squinting at spreadsheets until he couldn’t make out the numbers anymore, and the of course stumbling his way to the bar and dealing with Patton.

Patton giggled. “Oh yeah! I asked him earlier if it was okay to tell you. He said he wanted you to call him Janus now. He also said to tell you, you can take a hike.”

Knowing Janus, it was probably something more volatile than “taking a hike”. Most likely it had been something that might have required him to put a full five dollars in the swear jar that they kept on the counter next to the cookie jar. Not that it would matter much. Logan had stayed over at their house dozens of times and every single time he had come across Janus taking that money back out of that swear jar.

As far as Logan was aware, the swear jar had never actually been full. Patton must have noticed at some point-- probably that very first time Janus had taken the money back out-- but he was irritating insistent that he play dumb about it. Thus, Janus continued to swear in excess, Patton continued to make him put money in a swear jar for no real reason, and Logan continued to never understand either of them.

The radio in Patton’s car had been broken fifteen times since Patton had gotten it, but Logan assumed from the silence of the drive that it was now sixteen. He rested his elbow on the window and watched the drizzle turn into a steady rain and the windshield wipers flutter across their vision to occasionally bring them clarity.

The night life was somewhat dreary. The driving pace was slow, and they hit every single stop light in the city because that was just Logan’s luck. There were a few people running around in the rain: a family with a small child who was jumping in every slowly forming puddle on the sidewalk, a couple sharing an umbrella walking so close together they appeared as if to be one misshapen form, a group of friends chatting outside a 24 hour dinner in raincoats, and a few smokers huddled under an alcove with embers burning just enough for Logan to make out their forms through the downpour.

Logan realized almost immediately that the pit in his stomach was much more bearable if he instead focused on the raindrops on the window that are much easier to look at, much less representing something that Logan had always expected he might one day have, much less accusatory in wondering what is wrong with him that he can’t act like a normal human being, this isn’t working, who wants to marry a robot like you--

That was the reason why he wasn’t expecting the sudden jerk of the car coming to a hard stop at a yellow light that they absolutely could have made.

“PATTON!” Logan yelled.

The car behind them blared it’s horn and Logan rubbed his neck and reset his glasses from the sudden movement, ready to question what exactly Patton thought he was doing, because truly of all the things Logan was not in the mood for, this was one of them.

Except that before Logan could get any words out, Patton had put the car in park and whipped off his seatbelt to kick open his door. A wave of rain came pouring into the car as the man threw himself from the driver's seat like there was something wrong with the car, and for a second Logan entertained the absurd idea that they were going to blow up.

Which truly, would have just been a fitting end to his horrific day.

“Patton!” Logan hissed, grabbing after the other’s coat to pull him back inside before the rain soaked into the seats. “Get back in th--”

The other man ignored him, frantically waving to someone in the rain. “REMUS!! MR. PRINCE!! OVER HERE!!”

If Logan knew slightly less about human biology he might have been inclined to say that his heart jumped straight to his throat and climbed its way up his esophagus to strangle him. He wouldn’t have recognized the figure on the street corner on his own: Remus Prince was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans with holes in the knees. He was soaked to the bone, without an umbrella, and his usual bouncy brown curls were matted to his head, as if he had been walking out in the rain for much longer than the rain had been sweeping through the city.

He was standing with the smokers under their minimal tarp, although he, himself, was without a cigarette at all. When he turned at the call of his name, there was only confusion and exhaustion in his face. None of the smugness, or the ego, or the energy that he usually had.

Logan didn’t know why that bothered him. He was hurting from earlier; that was good.

After all, it was Remus’s ridiculous game that he had dragged everyone else into.

((Logan’s finger itched and he dug his nails into his skin so deeply he was afraid to glance down in case there was blood pouring off hands.))

Remus ventured out to meet them, dodging across the lanes of traffic without a care in the world, or perhaps with a death wish. Remus didn’t seem particularly like he would mind getting run over by the way that he opened the back door, climbed in, and shook the excess water out in the interior of the car like some type of undomesticated dog.

“Is this a kidnapping?” He asked, rain dripping down his face. “A murder? Do I get to know your name before you dismember me, cutie?”

Patton laughed joyfully, even as Logan felt his face screw up at the sound of Remus calling their boss “cutie”. It was beyond unprofessional, even if Remus was apparently unaware that his career hinged entirely on not insulting Patton. It took a lot to make Patton angry enough to fire someone-- his patience was the best and worst thing about him, as Logan had been reminded every time they interacted-- but once Remus crossed that line, not even a cockroach like him would be able to drag himself out of the metaphorical wasteland Patton would make out of his life.

Cutie, honestly. Who calls anyone they’ve just met cutie. Logan could understand Remus having called him Lovebug and Lolo, but cutie?

For Patton?

Patton climbed back into the car, snapping on his seatbelt and managed to get out of park at the very same moment as the light turned green. He wiped his sleeve along his glasses, and brightly said, “I’m Patton! And you already know Logie here!”

“Logie?” Remus repeated, sitting back against the seat taking in Logan for the first time. “Oh shi--”

“Do not call me that,” Logan said. “Patton, you can drop me off at the next corner. I will walk home.”

“Don’t be silly!” Patton said, in the same tone that he had used during their college days to coax Logan into driving him to the nearest grocery store after he had successfully managed to pull two all nighters in a row. Logan hated that tone, and Patton knew that well.

“If you do not stop the car, I will throw myself from it while it is still moving.”

“I can get out, actually!” Remus said far too loud for the small car. Logan resisted the urge to turn around and scowl at him. Surely, his pea-sized brain had managed to figure out that he was the point of contention here and that his best move would be to shut up, so why had he decided to open his mouth? “I need to get home anyway. Big day tomorrow and everything.”

“Oh?” Patton said delightedly because Logan would not ever play into subject changes willingly. “What’s tomorrow?”

“I’m getting fired,” Remus said with a nonchalant shrug.

Patton blinked for a moment-- his squirrel-run brain jamming at the sudden twist of the words because whatever he was expecting from his visitor it was not that. Logan resisted the urge to reach over and give him a shake at the shoulders: of course he wouldn’t be able to expect anything with Remus Prince. The man was insufferable and illogical and he wrought chaos for fun.

With everything that had happened, did Patton really think that there was an exaggeration in there?

Remus wanted attention. And he said whatever he needed to in order to get it: a fake affair, a fake divorce, a fake child-- Of course he would say he was getting fired tomorrow if it got Patton to have to use all of his meager brain cells to figure out how serious he was.

“Is that something to celebrate, Mr. Prince?” Logan cut in coldly. “Getting fired?”

“And here I thought that you would be happy, Ackroyd,” Remus said. “Unless you think you’re going to miss me.”

“If only I would be so lucky,” Logan said, digging his phone from his pocket, and turning it back on. The screen was blindingly bright and Logan’s eyes ached just glancing at it in the corner of his vision. “Patton, pull over. I am not doing this tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever again.”

“I’m not going to let you walk home after however many rum and cokes you had, Logan.”

“Patton,” Logan snarled. “If you continue to treat me like you treat your son, I will tender my resignation tonight. Pull over now.”

Patton opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was swallowed up in Remus’s empty voice speaking.

“You went drinking?”

“Do not talk to me, Mr. Prince.”

“You’re not even yelling.”

Logan wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, which may have irritated him more than the fact that he was so insistent about continuing to talk when Logan was liable to push the car to crash and kill all three of them. Remus was already staring at him, his expression dark and serious in the passing car lights and somehow Logan thought that he looked vulnerable.

Logan gritted his teeth as his headache pulsed behind his eyes.

“Shut up,” he said. “And put on your seat belt.”

“Or what? You’ll divorce me?” Remus pushed forward between the seats until he was just a few inches from Logan’s own face, grinning with all his teeth. It was at once the same smile that Logan had catalogued through every week of working with him and also something completely foreign.

Remus had pulled him into a kiss earlier that morning, and Logan remembered the taste of pickles on his lips just as well as the smirk he kept as Logan walked away. But this expression is somehow inverted, somehow shifted, somehow a weapon more than a challenge.

“Boys,” Patton said. “Please don’t fight in my car!”

“If you did not want us to fight, why did you invite him in this car?” Logan asked. “You, of all people, know my opinions on--”

“Logan, you’re drunk.”

“What does that have to do with this?!” Logan bit out. He glared at his phone: there were three missed calls from Patton and a handful of text messages from him that Logan couldn’t actually read in the combination of the bright phone light and darkness around them. His eyes were blurry even with his glasses on and the frustration of not being able to read only heightened as he made out the notification for his email which meant that Beatrice had managed to finish her work (allowing Logan to be able to go fix it) or that news of him yelling at a child made it around the office and now he was going to harassed by them as well.

All because of Remus Prince’s inability to shut up.

Patton threw a hand out and grabbed Logan’s phone from his hand and carelessly tossed it over both their shoulders to Remus.

“Patton!” Logan hissed, rubbing the irritated tears from his eyes. “Remus, give it back!”

Remus, however, was just staring at the phone in his lap like it was some type of bomb. Logan’s phone locked itself and the screen went dark, and still Remus sat inhumanely still in the seat, staring at it, with a type of blank expression that Logan oftentimes related to their coworkers when Logan asked them to perform any sort of math without a calculator.

“Remus,” Logan said again.

Remus jerked at the sound of his voice, snapping out of whatever fit the phone had put him in almost meekly-- if Logan could describe anything Remus did as meekly without it being a blatant falsehood. “Meekly” itself had never seemed to be a word in Remus’s vocabulary which was another irritating fact about him that made Logan break out in figurative hives.

Logan knew how Remus was.

He knew Remus.

It didn’t matter that he had never talked to Remus before today, that his thinly veiled contempt for his coworkers kept him from being willing to stand in their presence more than he was being paid to, that this fake affair was the first stupid relationship of any kind he had gotten outside of Patton and his son since his last boyfriend had dumped him on the night he was going to propose and hadn’t he thought he’d known him too? Isn’t that what led to all this?

It didn’t matter.

Logan was smarter, now. Logan was better now. Logan was--

“I don’t…” Remus said, trailing off as he stared at the messages popping up on Logan’s phone and Logan wondered why it felt like his lungs had shrunk right in his chest. “I don’t think you should be reading these right now.”

“He definitely should not!” Patton said, with a very convincing amount of forced happiness. “Hold that for him will you, Remus? Oh and why do you think you’re going to get fired tomorrow?”

Remus looked up at Logan and then at Patton and then back at Logan, like Logan was supposed to know what that meant in addition to every other stupid look he’d given Logan all evening. Logan shoved his glasses up to his hairline and rubbed his aching eyes, and yet somehow that still didn’t fix the pounding in his head or the exhaustion hollowing out his bones. It also didn’t make Remus disappear from the backseat, which was equally annoying, even though Logan hadn’t truly thought he was a shared apparition for him and Patton.

“You didn’t mention anything about today to your… what are you a fuck buddy?” Remus said.

And Patton laughed.

Logan grabbed the door handle and yanked on it, but of course the ridiculous safety locks were engaged, and Logan had spent far too many sober years getting locked in this car to try to puzzle out the broken locking system in order to drunkenly throw himself out of the car. He was not in the habit of wishing for miracles, or even believing in deities, but he imagined that some powerful entity was finding ruining Logan’s life to be semi enjoyable.

“See this is why I can’t fire him!” Patton said through giggles and Logan thought maybe he was being addressed for this. Patton met Remus’s gaze through the rearview mirror and shook the last bit of water from his damp hair. “You make everything so entertaining!”

“What?”

Logan grit his teeth and yanked on the door handle again. “Remus, meet Mr. Hart, the CEO and your boss. Also put on your seatbelt.”

Remus blinked at them both, leaning between the seats and definitely not putting on his seatbelt. Logan counted backward from ten, reminding himself that one of the hiring requirements for Patton’s company has always been must be the stupid beyond belief. He’d known for a while that his coworkers were idiots on a good day, hazards to his health on bad ones, and yet somehow in the whirlwind of the day he’s had, Logan had forgotten that Remus counted as a coworker still.

“I’m not… getting fired?” Remus said, acting much like a computer after being turned on. “Why do you know my name then?”

Patton shrugged, flicking on his blinker to change lanes before the next light. “You have interesting ideas for your advertising strategy! Of course I would know your name! I’m sorry about vetoing that last one. I know Logan liked it, but I wanted to stick to the family-as-a-whole angle.”

“Patton,” Logan warned with an edge.

“Logan liked…?” Remus echoed, before turning towards Logan with a look of bewilderment that annoyed Logan far more than it had any right to. “You actually look at my shit?”

“Put on your seatbelt, Remus,” he said, because wasn’t it obvious that Logan looked at his things? Before the whole Robot incident Logan hadn’t had a problem with Remus at all: he was effective and efficient and the rumors were irritating but below him to indulge in. Before Remus had dragged him figuratively kicking and screaming into this mess, Logan approved the budgets that came with the projects Remus created.

He still did that, just with more anger than before. Petty feelings for Remus himself aside, his work was objectively good.

Logan knew that about him.

“So!” Patton said over both of them, with his signature grin that Logan suspected he would still be wearing even if Logan decided to kill him right now. It must be the by-product of being controlled by rodents running on a wheel. “How was your volunteer work Remus?”

Remus froze in the back seat, going unnaturally still again. “Are you some kind of stalker-- uh sir?”

“Will you knock that off?” Logan snapped, which only made Remus’s shoulders jump straight to his ears. “And put on your seatbelt.”

“Just curious!” Patton said, ignoring Logan entirely. “Darlene is a good friend of mine! I make sure to send monthly donations to the organization since I don’t have a lot of free time to jump over and help.”

Remus didn’t say anything to that. He swallowed audibly and leaned back against the seat, dragging fingers through his wet hair and then tucked his arms in his own armpits. Logan pressed a palm to his forehead watching the street lights bend from behind his eyelids because that was easier than staring at Remus act like Patton was trying to pull his teeth out.

“You actually do volunteer work?” Logan said. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Ha,” Remus said without any inflection. Logan thought that was the quietest that he had ever been. Where was that stupid ass smirk? Where was the stubbornness that pushed back against everything? Where was that loud voice and that confidence?

“Put on your seatbelt,” Logan said again.

“Why do you care if I wear the belt or not?”

“Remus put on your seatbelt or, so help me Newton, I will climb back there and put it on for you, myself!”

The air simmered from the acid in his tone, making the silence figurative chafe against his ribs. Remus stared at him, blinking slowly, with the street lights casting roving shadows on his face. His dark eyes were just so-- so--

Logan dug his nails into his palm. Why was it Remus Prince could make him feel like this? What gave him the right?

“It’s okay!” Patton said, setting the car to park. “We’re here anyway!”

Logan reached up and pulled his glasses back onto his face properly, but it still took him a moment to realize that they were near a bunch of townhouses, double parked outside one that Logan had considered moving into all those years ago when he had first been looking for an apartment for after college.

Remus too, apparently needed a moment to recognize the area. “We… are at my apartment? Holy shit, you are a stalker.”

Patton giggled, flashing Remus with his blinding smile and reached back to pick up Logan’s phone from his hands. “Thank you so much, kiddo! We’ll wait until you get inside all safe and sound, and I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“You will not,” Logan said. “Tomorrow you have a business deal two hours away to complete and if you miss it--”

Patton stretched back in his seat and let out a hugely exaggerated yawn. “But they’re so boring! Maybe I should bring Janus with me. He always makes my business deals entertaining. I love when he sets his snake on people. He looks so happy and he laughs and--”

Logan squeezed his eyes closed and recited the first twenty digits of pi in his head to keep from grabbing Patton’s squirrel run brain and slamming it into the steering wheel.

“Homicide is wrong,” Logan said.

“I’ll help you vouch for insanity,” Remus said. “I mean, tied together through a murder, and possibly hiding a body is much more juicy than a fake marriage that’s falling apart. We’d be the talk of the office.”

“They would not find any body that I hid,” Logan said. “Nobody would.”

Remus opened his mouth to say something more, but whatever it is he decided against it. Instead he slid over the seats and kicked open the door right behind Logan and stepped out into the night air.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Hart, sir,” he said, strangely formal, then squinted and added, “Daddy?”

“I’m not firing you, Remus,” Patton said. “No matter what you call me!”

Logan ran his tongue over his teeth counting each and every one. Remus looked at him but ultimately finally adhered to that whole shutting up thing. He closed the door to Patton’s blue punch buggy and started towards the door to the apartments.

“Oh,” Remus said, and turned back at the last second. He knocked his knuckles on Logan’s window a few inches from where Logan’s gaze fixed itself on a light. Patton apparently knew more about what to do than Logan because he pressed the window lowering button and Remus reached his entire arm into the window to drop a small object right into Logan’s lap.

Logan caught it mainly due to reaction rather than skill and his skin tingled at the familiar item. Even in the dark, Logan’s fingers roll over the shape of the ring that had always reminded him of the worst day of his life. It was still warm from being in Remus’s pocket.

“I think that should stay with you,” Remus said, like it wasn’t a big deal at all. “You know… for the next boytoy you take to your sex dungeon or whatever nerds like you do on weekends.”

And then he turned around and fled towards the apartment building. Patton turned off the hazard lights and slipped back into traffic and Logan wondered if he would be polite enough to not comment if Logan started crying right then and there.

His throat felt swollen, his tongue too big for his mouth, and the headache thrummmmmmed painfully.

Logan knew Remus Prince.

“You know that Remus Prince isn’t gonna be like him,” Patton said to fill the silence.

“Remus Prince isn’t like anyone.” Logan didn’t whine. To whine would be unbecoming. And childish. And embarrassing.

So Logan didn’t whine and Patton mercifully didn't call him out on his not-whining.

And neither of them mention the choked tone that Logan had for the rest of the night.

When Logan had seen his boss after he made Virgil cry, he hadn’t expected it to end up with him clutching that ring like a lifeline, but as he ran his fingers around the rim, he wondered if it had fit on Remus’s finger at all.

(Part Five)

#intrulogical #sanders sides #logan sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #Far too many OCs gross #Rumor Mill Au #rumors #well fake marriage #sympathetic remus #Logan is bad at feelings #so bad #now with more logan angst #Patton is a good friend #This au is so old that I called Janus Dante and I decided to fix that #alcohol #drunk logan

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