#i think the sets are so cool so i want them here

[marypsue]

Man, it's cool and all if you see a metaphor for marginalisation in the monstrous, and if you want the power fantasy of 'what if you could just eat anybody who threatened you/pissed you off'. Me too.

However, as soon as you start saying 'no, these monsters are a 1:1 on Specific Marginalised Group, and you have to treat them in the fiction like they are directly representative of real human members of the marginalised group', BUT you also, in the fiction, make them hurt/kill/eat humans? And then try to shame me, your audience, for noticing or engaging with the bit where they kill people, because you made them directly representative of a real-world marginalised group? You have lost me, and also, I think, the plot.

[lotsofmilfs]

Shades Of Cool Part 1

Pairing : Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader

Summary : You and Agatha were close in Salem, but things happen of course, and now you’re reunited due to the Witches Road

Word Count : 7kish

Authors Notes : I took creative liberties with the road !!! but i’m hoping you still like !

Warnings : Angst, Brief mention of suicide, longing, i think that’s it.

You were in Agatha’s trial on the witches road, you had on the same outfit as her, only it was a pink jersey, instead of the purple. Your hair was down instead of up in the hairstyle that Agatha was wearing, and your knee high socks were white with two purple stripes at the top. You don’t even know how you got here, but that was just how strong Billy was. Summoning you for a trial you had no idea you were taking place in.

You’d met Agatha during the Salem Era, both of you young, and close. You hated your own parents, and when Agatha told you about her mother, you planned to run away together. Things never worked out that way though, the closer you got with Agatha, you wanted to bond with her.

Bonding was something ancient, bringing together two witches. It would open their souls, their minds, and their hearts to one another. Agatha was petrified of being that open with someone, the vulnerability was just too much, and even though it hurt, she left you the next day after you poured your heart out, asking for her to break the barrier and become one.

Now it’s been centuries, and you freeze as you stop messing with the game in front of you, hearing a collection of voices from your right.

“Who’s trial is this?” Jen asks as they all look around

“Agatha’s.” Rio smirks. That name. You’ve not heard that name in so long it brings a flush to your cheeks, and your face lifts up, your side profile now visible to the group.

Agatha freezes when she sees your face, she’d remember it anywhere, she had dreams about it. She doesn’t say anything, she couldn’t. How were you even here? She… Thought maybe you’d died years ago. You never approached anyone about the road, and so she assumed.. She looks at you different then when she seen Rio again, there’s no anger or malice in her gaze. Just a deep set of longing. Her feet carry her involuntarily towards you and she breathes out.

“Darling.”

Your head snaps toward the voice, sharp and familiar, dripping with a need that makes your stomach twist in ways you wish it wouldn’t. “Agatha,” you say, her name cutting through the charged silence like a blade. It comes out too soft for your liking, so you harden your voice. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. There’s something in her eyes that makes it clear you’re not the only one thrown off balance. “The feeling’s mutual, darling,” she says, her tone breezy, almost mocking, but there’s a crack in the façade. She’s staring at you like she’s seen a ghost.

Maybe she has.

You’ve got centuries of practice keeping your emotions in check, but something about the way she’s looking at you, the way her breath catches for just a moment, has your carefully maintained armour slipping. You clench your fists to stop them from shaking.

“What have you done now Agatha? Have you stolen someone’s broomstick?”

Her smirk comes back, sharp and self-assured, like she’s trying to regain the upper hand. “If only it were that simple,” she says lightly, but there’s a tension in her jaw. “Let’s just say I’ve been accused of... dabbling.”

“Dabbling?” you echo, incredulous. “That’s likely one way to put it.”

“Careful,” she says, her voice dropping into something silkier, more dangerous. “You might hurt my feelings.”

Your laugh comes out more bitter than you intend. “Oh, I’m sure they’re well-protected under all that... dabbling.”

The others in the group exchange uneasy glances. Rio, ever the instigator, pipes up again, clearly loving the drama. “So... you two know each other?”

Neither of you answers, too locked in a silent, electric standoff. It’s Agatha who finally breaks the moment, turning to address the group, her voice dripping with the kind of theatrical charm only she can pull off. “Let’s just say we have history.” Her eyes flick back to you, and her tone turns pointed. “Though some of us are better at leaving the past where it belongs.”

Your lips part, sharp words ready to fire back, but you stop yourself. This isn’t the time, and you won’t let her get the better of you. Not again.

Instead, you tilt your head, levelling her with a look. “So, this trial. What’s the serious charge? Not just the accusations.”

Agatha hesitates, just for a moment. “They think I stole something.” Her tone is measured, but there’s a flicker of guilt—or defiance, maybe—in her eyes. “Power. Something I didn’t earn.”

You cross your arms. “And did you?”

Her jaw tightens, and for a second, she looks like she might actually tell you the truth. Then she shrugs, her smirk slipping back into place. “Does it matter?”

“It does if you want to walk out of here alive.”

The air between you is thick with unspoken history, the weight of centuries hanging over every word. Agatha steps closer, lowering her voice so only you can hear. “You’ve always been good at seeing through me, haven’t you?”

You swallow hard, hating the way her words make your chest tighten. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, stepping back just enough to reestablish your ground. “I just know your type.”

She chuckles, soft and low. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve always known me. That’s what made you dangerous.”

Her words hit a nerve, and you hate that she knows it. She’s always been good at that—finding your cracks and slipping through them like smoke. But this time, you won’t let her.

Before you can respond, Rio claps their hands, breaking the tension. “This is all very riveting, but shouldn’t we, I don’t know, do something? Trials, consequences, accusations—ringing any bells?”

Agatha’s gaze snaps to Rio, her smile vanishing in an instant. “Stay out of it,” she says sharply, her voice like ice.

But as much as you want to stay angry, to keep your walls firmly in place, there’s something in her eyes when she looks back at you—a flicker of vulnerability, of something real—that shakes you.

“Why am I here, Agatha?” you ask quietly.

She hesitates, her confidence faltering for just a moment. “I didn’t bring you here,” she says. “But... maybe the road thought I needed a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

Her gaze softens, and for a second, it’s like you’re back in Salem, two young witches on the brink of something extraordinary. She opens her mouth, but the words don’t come.

Instead, she steps back, her expression hardening again. “You’ll see soon enough,” she says, her tone deliberately flippant. “Just try not to get in my way, darling.”

You narrow your eyes, but there’s no time to respond.

The ground beneath your feet rumbles—a low, ominous vibration that sends chills up your spine. The witches’ road is alive, its energies twisting and pulling, urging the trial forward. Around you, the air grows thick with power, sharp and unrelenting, and the others in the group exchange uneasy glances.

Agatha stands still, her gaze fixed on you, as though the trial itself is secondary to the unfinished business crackling between you. But her expression hardens when the light around you shifts—a brilliant blue glow forming a circle in the center of the road.

"Right on cue," Agatha mutters under her breath. She turns to the group, her sharp tone carrying authority, even here. "Stay behind me. All of you."

"Why would we do that?" Rio asks with a smirk, stepping closer to the circle. "You’re the one on trial, remember?"

Before Agatha can snap back, the blue glow bursts upward, spiralling into a towering column of light. From its core, shapes begin to emerge—silhouettes, shifting and indistinct at first, but then solidifying into forms you recognise all too well. Witches, cloaked and severe, their eyes glowing with unnatural light. The Coven.

“Agatha Harkness,” one of them speaks, their voice cold and resonant. “You stand accused of theft, treachery, and the violation of sacred laws.”

Agatha lifts her chin, the picture of defiance, but you catch the way her fingers twitch at her sides, the slight clenching of her jaw. “Well, don’t hold back,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Tell me how you really feel.”

The Coven doesn’t react, their collective gaze shifting past her—to you. The intensity of their focus sends a shiver through you, but you don’t flinch. You know better than to show weakness here.

“Who dares to stand beside the accused?” another witch asks, their glowing eyes narrowing.

“She doesn’t belong here,” Agatha says quickly, stepping in front of you. “This trial has nothing to do with her.”

“Is that so?” The lead witch tilts her head, studying you with unnerving precision. “And yet, the road brought her here. Why?”

You meet the witch’s gaze, refusing to let the weight of her scrutiny drag you down. “I’d like to know that myself,” you say coolly. “But whatever this is, I’m not here to play spectator.”

Agatha casts you a sharp look, her eyes flashing with something between irritation and concern. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hisses.

“Then enlighten me,” you snap back, your patience wearing thin. “Or is keeping secrets still your favourite game?”

“Enough,” the lead witch commands, her voice cutting through the tension. The others fall silent, their glowing eyes shifting back to Agatha. “The accused will answer for her actions.”

“Gladly,” Agatha says, folding her arms. “But let’s be clear—I didn’t steal anything. I earned that power.”

The lead witch’s gaze sharpens. “You twisted ancient magic for your own gain, defied the natural order, and corrupted forces beyond your comprehension. Not to mention murdered hundreds. You are a danger to all witches.”

“Funny,” Agatha retorts, her voice venomous. “I seem to recall you trying to kill me for simply being too powerful. Guess some things never change.”

The Coven bristles, their forms glowing brighter, but before they can respond, the road itself shifts again. The ground beneath you ripples, and for a moment, you’re weightless—floating in the charged air. When you land, the circle of light has expanded, now encompassing you, Agatha, and the Coven.

You glare at her, your frustration boiling over. “What exactly did you do, Agatha?”

Her eyes flicker to you, something almost apologetic flashing across her face before she buries it under her usual mask. “It’s complicated.”

“It always is with you,” you bite back.

Agatha opens her mouth to respond, but the lead witch cuts her off. “The accused is bound to the truth. Let us see if her lies can survive the light.”

At her words, the blue glow intensifies, and the trial begins in earnest. The road reacts violently, pulling memories and illusions from the air—scenes of Agatha’s past swirling like a storm around you. Her betrayal of the Salem Coven. Her hunger for forbidden power. Her darkest moments laid bare.

But then the images shift—scenes you recognise. A younger Agatha, laughing beside you in the moonlight. The two of you whispering secrets, planning your escape. The night she left you, her face a mask of regret as she vanished into the darkness.

Your breath catches, and Agatha’s head snaps toward you, her expression unreadable.

The Coven doesn’t miss the exchange. “Ah,” the lead witch says, a cruel smile curling her lips. “Perhaps the accused’s greatest crime is not against magic, but against the heart.”

Agatha’s face hardens, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes as she turns to you. “Don’t let them twist this,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “You know me better than anyone.”

You take a step closer, your anger warring with the pull of old, buried feelings. “Do I? Because the Agatha I knew wouldn’t have dragged me into her mess.”

“I didn’t!” she snaps, the crack in her composure widening. “But if I had... maybe I should’ve. Maybe you’re the only one who can—” She cuts herself off, looking away.

The Coven watches, their glowing eyes unrelenting. “Speak your truth, Agatha Harkness,” the lead witch commands. “If you can.”

You don’t know what’s worse—the thought that she’s hiding something from you, or the thought that she’s telling the truth and you’re still tied to her, even now. Either way, you’re not letting this end without answers.

“Start talking,” you say, your voice sharp but steady. “Because if you want me to trust you, Agatha, you’d better earn it.”

Agatha remains silent, though her eyes are pleading. The road trembles beneath you, the Coven's chanting growing louder, more insistent. The blue light twists and contorts, creating shadows that dance around you and Agatha. You’re too close to her now, her presence almost overwhelming in its familiarity. After all this time, she’s still the same—still sharp, guarded, impossible. And yet, beneath it all, she’s still her

You steal a glance at her, and for a moment, you see a crack in her defenses. The weight of the trial, the memories, the raw, unspoken tension between you—it’s all there, etched across her face. But she’s too proud to acknowledge it, even now.

“You’re scared,” you say, your voice low enough that only she can hear.

Agatha’s gaze snaps to yours, her eyes narrowing. “Of them?” she asks, gesturing toward the Coven with a sardonic smirk. “Please.”

You hold her gaze, refusing to let her deflect. “Not of them. Of me. Of us.”

Her smirk falters, just for a moment, and you know you’ve hit a nerve. She takes a step back, but you follow, unwilling to let her retreat this time.

“I’m not scared,” she says, but her voice lacks its usual bite.

“Liar,” you counter, your tone soft but unrelenting. “You’ve always been terrified of letting anyone in. Of letting me in.”

Agatha opens her mouth to respond, but the Coven’s chanting suddenly shifts, the words growing sharper, more pointed. The blue light swirls between the two of you, pulling at the air, at your magic, at your connection . The Coven has sensed it—the bond that could’ve been, the bond you once wanted more than anything.

“You thought about it,” you say, stepping closer. “All those years ago. You wanted it, too.”

“Stop,” she snaps, her voice cracking slightly, her control slipping.

“You left because you couldn’t handle it,” you press on. “Because you were too afraid to open yourself up. To share everything—your power, your heart, your soul.”

“I said stop,” she hisses, but she doesn’t move away.

The blue light flares between you, the energy shifting, bending, until it forms a thread, a thin, shimmering line connecting the two of you. The sight of it makes your breath catch in your throat. It’s the bond, raw and unfinished, still lingering after all this time.

Agatha stares at it, her face pale, her usual confidence nowhere to be found. “It’s not real,” she says, her voice almost desperate. “It’s just the trial, just a trick.”

“You don’t believe that,” you say quietly.

The thread pulses, glowing brighter, and you can feel it now- the pull of her soul, of her essence, intertwining with your own. It’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once, and you can see the same war playing out in Agatha’s eyes.

The Coven speaks again, their voices cold and cutting. “The bond remains unfinished. A betrayal of magic, a betrayal of trust. It is a wound that festers, unresolved.”

Agatha clenches her fists, her gaze snapping to the lead witch. “This has nothing to do with them,” she says, her voice shaking with anger. “You’re trying to twist this into something it’s not.”

The lead witch tilts her head, her glowing eyes boring into Agatha. “The trial reveals truth. Nothing more, nothing less.” Her gaze shifts to you, and her next words are deliberate, cruel. “Perhaps the accused should explain why she ran. Why she rejected the bond when it was freely offered.”

Agatha flinches, and you feel the thread between you tremble. For a moment, you think she’s going to lash out, to fight, but instead, she turns to you, her expression raw and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I didn’t run because I didn’t want it,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I ran because I wanted it too much.”

Her words hit you like a tidal wave, and for a moment, you can’t breathe.

“I knew what bonding meant,” she continues, her eyes locking onto yours. “It would’ve made us... tied in ways I couldn’t undo. And I couldn’t let myself—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I thought I was protecting you. Protecting-“ she cuts herself off and then, “But maybe... maybe I was just protecting myself.”

The thread glows brighter, the magic between you surging, and you can feel it now—her fear, her regret, her longing. It’s all there, laid bare, and for the first time, you see her for who she truly is.

“You didn’t need to protect me,” you say, your voice steady. “I was ready, Agatha. I’ve always been ready. But you never gave us a chance.”

Her lips part, but before she can respond, the Coven’s chanting rises to a fever pitch. The thread between you stretches and trembles, the energy reaching a breaking point.

“You must choose,” the lead witch says, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Complete the bond, or sever it forever. There is no more middle ground.”

Agatha’s eyes widen, panic flashing across her face. She looks at you, her composure crumbling, and for the first time, she seems truly vulnerable.

“Don’t let them force this,” she says, her voice trembling. “Not like this.”

The glow of the thread between you pulses, trembling like a fragile lifeline. The Coven’s chanting grows louder, demanding resolution, pushing you both to a precipice. Agatha’s eyes dart between the shimmering connection and your face. You can see the fear in her eyes, the weight of her indecision pressing down like a storm.

“Choose, Agatha Harkness,” the lead witch demands. “Complete the bond, or sever it forever.”

Agatha’s hand hovers over yours, trembling. The vulnerability on her face is something you’ve never seen before, and it twists something deep inside you. For a moment, you think she might do it—reach out and let the bond fully take hold. But then her jaw sets, her gaze hardening.

“No,” she says sharply, yanking her hand back. The thread snaps violently, the energy spiralling outward like a scream. The sudden emptiness is immediate and gut-wrenching, leaving you gasping as if something vital has been ripped away.

Agatha steps back, her face pale, her hands clenched into fists. “I can’t,” she whispers, her voice brittle. “I won’t.”

The lead witch smiles coldly. “So be it.”

The thread between you vanishes, and the road trembles again, this time more violently. The energy shifts, the air growing heavy with the finality of her decision. You feel the hollow space where the bond once was, an ache that settles deep in your chest. It’s unbearable, and when you meet Agatha’s eyes, you see that she feels it too.

Her face twists with something you’ve rarely seen from her: regret.

“Wait,” she breathes, but the Coven’s chanting drowns her out. The blue light around you sharpens, cutting like a blade, and you can feel the road enforcing her choice, solidifying the severance.

“Agatha,” you say, your voice raw, stepping toward her. “Don’t do this. Don’t—”

“I already have,” she interrupts, her voice breaking as she turns away from you. “It’s done.”

But even as she says it, her steps falter. Her hand rises to her chest, where the bond once pulsed with life. Her expression crumples, the emptiness hitting her like a physical blow. She gasps, clutching at the air as if she could pull it back, undo the severance.

The lead witch tilts her head, her voice cutting like a knife. “Feeling the emptiness already, Agatha Harkness? Such is the price of fear.”

Agatha spins back to face them, her mask of confidence shattering completely. “Bring it back,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I’ll do it. I’ll—”

“Impossible,” the lead witch says coolly. “You made your choice.”

“No!” Agatha snaps, desperation lacing her words. She looks at you, her eyes wide and pleading. “I—I didn’t mean it. I can fix it. Just—” She turns back to the Coven. “Just let me fix it.”

The lead witch’s gaze is unforgiving. “The road answers only once. To sever a bond is to sever it forever. That is the law.”

Agatha shakes her head violently. “No. That’s not—no!” Her voice cracks, and for a moment, she looks like she might collapse under the weight of her mistake.

You step forward, your own pain mingling with hers. “There has to be a way,” you say, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “You can’t leave it like this.”

The Coven is silent for a long moment, their glowing eyes unreadable. Finally, the lead witch speaks. “There is one way, but it requires both souls to agree. And the cost will not be light.”

Agatha’s gaze snaps to you, her eyes searching yours. For the first time, there’s no deflection, no bravado just raw, unfiltered need. “Please,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

You take a breath, the pain of the severed bond still fresh and raw. You should walk away. You should let her feel the consequences of her choice. But you can’t. You’ve never been able to. And now hearing her beg? You fear you’d do anything she asked.

“Fine,” you say, stepping forward. “What do we have to do?”

The lead witch smiles faintly, as if this is what she wanted all along. “Rekindling a severed bond requires sacrifice. Magic, power... a piece of the soul itself. Are you willing?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Agatha looks at you, her eyes filled with both gratitude and guilt. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” she says softly. “Not after what I—”

“Then don’t make me regret it,” you interrupt, your voice firm.

She swallows hard, nodding. “I won’t.”

The Coven begins chanting again, the air growing thick with magic. The blue light spirals around you and Agatha, pulling you closer together. This time, the bond doesn’t form gently—it crashes into you, fierce and unrelenting, flooding every part of you with her essence. You feel her fear, her regret, her longing—all of it laid bare. And she feels you, your unwavering determination, your pain, your love.

The connection is deeper than it was before, forged not just from desire but from sacrifice. When the light fades, you’re left standing face to face, your souls intertwined in a way that can never be undone.

Agatha exhales shakily, as if the bond settling between you is more weight than she expected. Her gaze flickers over your face, searching for something—maybe forgiveness, maybe reassurance. You give her neither, not yet. She’s made too many mistakes for things to be that simple. But you can’t deny the way the bond thrums, anchoring you to her in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

The road quakes beneath you again, the energy of the trial still humming in the air. The Coven watches silently, their glowing eyes unreadable, as if they’re waiting for the next move.

Agatha takes a tentative step closer, her voice low. “How does it feel?” she asks, her words almost hesitant. “Having me in your head again.”

You let the question hang for a moment, savouring the way it makes her squirm. “Heavy,” you finally say, your tone sharper than you intended. “But that’s no surprise, is it? You’ve always been a lot to handle.”

Her lips quirk into a faint smirk, the familiar spark of defiance flaring in her eyes. “And yet, here you are. Handling me.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. The bond hums in agreement, pulling you closer even as you try to keep your distance. “Don’t push your luck, Agatha,” you warn. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

Her smirk fades, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable. “I know,” she says softly. “But it’s a start.”

Before you can respond, the lead witch steps forward, her presence as cold and imposing as ever. “The bond is reforged,” she announces, her voice echoing through the space. “But it does not absolve you, Agatha Harkness. This trial is far from over.”

Agatha straightens, her bravado snapping back into place like armour. “Of course it isn’t,” she says, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want to make things too easy.”

The lead witch doesn’t react to the quip, her gaze sharp and unyielding. “The bond may strengthen you, but it also binds you. Your fates are now intertwined. Should one of you fall, the other will follow.”

You glance at Agatha, and for the first time, you see genuine fear flicker across her face. “What does that mean?” you ask, your voice steady but firm.

“It means,” the lead witch says, “that the bond is both your greatest power and your greatest vulnerability. Use it wisely—or perish together.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you feel the weight of them settle into your chest. Agatha glances at you, and you can tell she’s thinking the same thing: what have we just done?

“Fine,” Agatha says finally, her voice tight. “What’s next? Another test? Another round of judgment?”

The lead witch’s lips curl into a faint smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “You think this is a game, Harkness. But the road has already given you its answer. The only question now is whether you’re strong enough to face what comes next.”

The ground beneath you shifts again, and you feel the magic of the road pulling you deeper into its grip. Agatha reaches for you instinctively, her hand brushing against yours. The bond flares at the contact, filling you with a rush of her emotions.

Fear. Regret. Determination. And something else, buried deep, that feels almost like hope.

One again the road surges to life around you, swallowing the quiet moment between you and Agatha. The blue glow deepens, swirling with flecks of violet and gold, and the air feels like it’s being pulled apart. You grip her hand tighter, instinctively bracing yourself, and she doesn’t pull away.

The lead witch raises a hand, silencing the murmuring Coven. Her gaze fixes on the two of you like a blade about to strike. “The reforged bond is only the beginning. What lies ahead will test the strength of your connection—and the truth of your intentions.”

Agatha scoffs, though the sound is weaker than usual. “Another vague warning? How original.”

The lead witch’s smile is razor-thin. “The road reveals what is hidden. It will force you to confront the past you thought buried—and the consequences of choices you’ve both made.”

You glance at Agatha, whose jaw tightens. She’s always been so good at hiding what she’s feeling, but the bond makes that impossible for her now, you wonder if she knew that.

Before you can press her, the ground beneath you crumbles. The Coven’s chanting rises into a deafening crescendo as the two of you are plunged into a swirling abyss of light and shadow. Xx

When the world solidifies again, you’re standing in a dimly lit forest. The air is heavy with the scent of earth and moss, and the moon hangs low in the sky, casting everything in an eerie silver light. The road is gone, as is the Coven. It’s just you and Agatha now.

You turn to her, your heart still racing. “Where are we?”

Agatha looks around, her expression unreadable. “This… this is Salem,” she says quietly. “But not the Salem we knew. It’s different.”

The forest feels alive, the trees whispering secrets you can’t quite make out. The bond hums in your chest, tugging at something deeper, and you know without needing to ask: this place isn’t real. It’s a manifestation. A memory.

“Why would the road bring us here?” you ask, though the answer is already forming in the back of your mind.

Agatha’s lips press into a thin line. “Because it’s cruel,” she mutters. “And it knows where to hurt.”

A sound echoes through the forest—laughter, high and clear, cutting through the silence like a blade. Your stomach twists as you recognise it.

It’s her.

Your younger self steps into the clearing, a vision pulled straight from your memories. She’s vibrant, her eyes bright with hope, her laughter filling the air. And beside her, laughing just as freely, is Agatha.

The sight punches the air from your lungs. You can feel the echoes of that time through the bond—the joy, the connection, the longing that neither of you dared to name.

Agatha stares at the scene, her face pale. “Why are they showing us this?” she whispers.

“You know why,” you say, your voice low. “Because this is where it all started.”

The memory shifts, darkening at the edges. The laughter fades, replaced by tense whispers. The younger version of you steps closer to Agatha, her expression vulnerable, open.

“I don’t want to run,” your younger self says, her voice trembling. “I want to stay. I want to bond with you, Agatha. I—”

“Stop,” the real Agatha mutters, her voice tight.

But the memory plays on. Younger Agatha’s face twists, fear flashing in her eyes. She steps back, shaking her head. “No,” she says, her voice sharp and final. “We can’t. I won’t.”

“Why?” your younger self pleads.

“Because you deserve better than me!” Memory Agatha snaps, her voice cracking, before you hear her internal voice, one that’s truly broken and screaming out in fear “Because I’ll ruin you. Don’t you see that? I ruin everything I touch.”

The words hit like a physical blow, and you see the real Agatha flinch beside you. The memory fades, leaving the clearing silent once more.

You turn to her, your chest tight with emotion. “That’s why you left?” you ask, your voice raw. “Because you thought you’d ruin me?”

Agatha doesn’t meet your eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she says quietly. “I did ruin you, didn’t I? I left, and you—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, your voice sharper than you intended. “Don’t turn this into a pity party, Agatha. You don’t get to decide what I deserved. That was my choice to make.”

Her head snaps up, her eyes flashing with something between anger and pain. “And look where your choice got us,” she spits. “Centuries apart, and now we’re tied together because of this damned road. Is that what you wanted? To be stuck with me forever?”

The bond flares at her words, the tension between you sparking like a live wire. You take a step closer, your voice steady but furious. “What I wanted,” you say, “was for you to trust me. To trust that we could’ve been something more. But you ran because you were too scared to face that.”

Agatha glares at you, but her shoulders sag, the fight draining out of her. “You think I don’t regret it?” she says, her voice breaking. “I’ve regretted it every single day. But I thought... I thought it was better this way. Safer. For both of us.”

“Safer?” you echo bitterly. “Do I look like someone who needed to be saved from you?”

The air between you crackles with magic, the bond pulling tighter as your emotions clash and collide. You can feel her guilt, her longing, her fear—and beneath it all, her love. It’s raw and messy and imperfect, but it’s there, undeniable.

You’re about to say something before the forest grows darker, shadows stretching long and deep as the memory shifts again. You brace yourself, but nothing could prepare you for what the road dredges up next.

The scene crystallises around you: a small, dimly lit room with a single cracked mirror leaning against the wall. The air feels stifling, heavy with pain and desperation. It’s familiar—achingly so. This is where you went the night after Agatha left.

Agatha stands frozen beside you, her breath catching as she takes in the sight of you from centuries ago. Your younger self sits hunched on the floor, trembling, clutching a flickering ball of magic in your hands. The light glows faintly pink, pulsing in time with your heartbeat, but it’s unstable, wavering with every shaky breath you take.

“No,” Agatha whispers, stepping toward the memory as if she can change it. “No, no, no—what are you doing?”

But the memory unfolds without mercy.

Your younger self mutters under her breath, an incantation so jagged and broken it sounds like a dirge. The magic in your hands sparks violently, surging outward before collapsing back in on itself.

“Take it away,” your memory-self says, her voice cracking. “Take it all away. I don’t want it anymore.”

You remember the feeling all too well—the suffocating pain, the emptiness that threatened to swallow you whole. The bond you’d started to forge with Agatha had been severed, but not cleanly. It had left jagged edges, a wound that pulsed with every beat of your heart. You’d thought if you could rid yourself of your magic, you’d be free of her—free of the ache she left behind.

“Stop,” Agatha says aloud, her voice trembling. She reaches for the image of you, but her hand passes through it like smoke. She turns to you, her eyes wide and desperate. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you—”

“Because you weren’t there,”, the hurt in your voice cutting through the air like a blade. “You left, Agatha. I was alone.”

The younger you falters, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t do this,” she sobs, gripping the magic tighter. “I can’t feel her anymore. I can’t—”

The incantation grows louder, your magic swirling around you like a storm. It’s unstable, laced with anger and grief, threatening to implode. And for a moment, it feels like it will work—like you’ll succeed in ripping away the part of you that still clings to her.

But the spell breaks, shattering like glass, and the magic snaps back into you with a force that knocks your younger self to the ground. You cry out, curling into yourself as the bond—though faint and fractured—reasserts itself. It’s agony, the connection too stubborn to let go completely, no matter how much you tried to destroy it.

The memory fades, leaving the clearing eerily silent. Agatha stands rooted in place, her face pale and stricken. You can feel the weight of her guilt through the bond, heavier than ever, pressing into you like a physical thing.

“You tried to... take your magic away?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because of me?”

“Yes,” you say, your tone flat. “And I failed. Just like I failed to let you go.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. She looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, the full scope of what she did to you finally crashing down on her. “I didn’t know,” she says weakly. “I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t,” you cut her off. “You ran, Agatha. You made your choice, and you didn’t look back.”

Her shoulders slump, her walls crumbling entirely. “I thought I was protecting you,” she says, her voice trembling. “I thought... if I stayed, I’d only hurt you more.”

“Well, congratulations,” you say bitterly. “You hurt me anyway.”

The bond flares between you, sharp and raw with the weight of her regret and your lingering anger. Agatha flinches, her hand rising to her chest as if she can feel the ache directly.

“I was a coward,” she admits, her voice breaking. “I was so afraid of what the bond meant—what it would do to me. To us. I thought if I left, it would be easier for both of us.” She meets your eyes, and for once, there’s no deflection, no sarcasm. Just honesty. “I didn’t know it would be worse.”

You take a shaky breath, the pain of the memory still fresh. “I didn’t want it to hurt anymore,” you say quietly. “But it never stopped. Not for centuries.”

Agatha steps closer, her hand hovering near yours. “I don’t know how to make it right,” she says, her voice soft and unsteady. “But if you’ll let me, I’ll try. I’ll spend the rest of eternity trying.”

You study her face, the vulnerability in her expression. The bond hums between you, not as sharp as before, but still raw and unsteady. You don’t trust her—not completely. But for the first time in centuries, you feel something else beneath the anger: the faintest flicker of hope.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you say, your voice softer than before.

Agatha’s lips quirk into a faint, rueful smile. “I won’t,” she says. “Not this time.”

You take a deep breath, and you nod as you both start to walk, looking away from her, your eyes taking in the trees around you both, the silence that is only broken by crickets and your feet on fallen leaves every now and again.

The mist clings to you both like a second skin as the silence stretches, weighted and tense. The bond hums faintly between you, but there’s a strange hollowness to it, a missing note that makes your chest ache. It takes you a while to place it, but the realisation creeps up on you slowly, like a shadow in the corner of your mind.

You glance at Agatha. She’s walking beside you, her shoulders squared in that way that screams she’s unbreakable a lie she’s always told herself. But there’s something missing. Something that isn’t just her sharp-edged confidence.

You stop walking. “Agatha,” you say, your voice cautious but firm. “Your magic.”

She freezes, her back going rigid. Slowly, she turns to face you, her expression carefully neutral, but the bond betrays her. You feel her shame and frustration ripple through it, sharp and unsteady.

“What about it?” she asks, her voice brittle.

“It’s not there,” you say, your tone softer now. “Not the way it used to be. What happened to it?”

She looks away, her jaw clenching. “It’s not important.”

“It is to me,” you counter, stepping closer. “You’ve been hiding this from me, Agatha. Why? What happened?”

Her silence stretches too long, and for a moment, you think she won’t answer. Then, finally, she exhales sharply, her eyes dark with something raw and vulnerable.

“Wanda happened,” she says bitterly. “Westview, she stripped me of everything. My magic, my power—she left me with nothing but a body and a few clever words.”

Your heart stutters. “She took everything?”

“Yes,” Agatha snaps, her voice laced with frustration. “I can’t even light a damn candle without the bond. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be this?” She gestures at herself angrily. “This hollow shell of what I used to be?”

Her words hang between you, her anger bleeding into the bond. But underneath it, you feel the deeper truth: the helplessness, the fear, the grief of losing something so integral to who she is.

“Agatha,” you start, but she cuts you off, her voice sharp and bitter.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t give me some speech about how I’m more than my magic or how I’ll be fine. You don’t understand what it’s like—how empty it feels.”

Your chest tightens, the weight of her pain pressing against you through the bond. And suddenly, you do understand. The absence of her magic isn’t just a loss of power—it’s a loss of self, a wound that’s been festering since Westview.

“I wasn’t going to say that,” you say quietly. “But you’re right. I don’t understand what it’s like to lose magic. I don’t understand how it feels for you. But I can feel it, Agatha. Through the bond. And it hurts.”

Her eyes snap to yours, her expression faltering.

“I feel the emptiness, the hollowness,” you continue. “And I don’t want to feel it anymore. I don’t want you to feel it anymore.”

Her laugh is short and bitter. “Well, unless you’re planning on storming Westview I don’t see what you can do about it.”

You hesitate, the reckless idea forming in your mind. The bond between you hums faintly, and you realise there might be a way to fix this—or at least try.

“I can’t get Wanda to undo it,” you say slowly. “But I can give you something else. My magic.”

Agatha freezes, her expression unreadable. “What?”

“You heard me,” you say. “I can share my magic with you. Just enough to—”

“No,” she says sharply, taking a step back. “Absolutely not. That’s reckless and stupid, even for you.”

“You need magic to be whole again, Agatha,” you argue. “And we have the bond. It’s not just a connection—it’s a tether. If anyone can do this, it’s us.”

“You don’t know that,” she snaps, her voice trembling. “You could hurt yourself. Or me. Or worse, you could sever the bond completely. Have you thought about that?”

“I have,” you say, your voice steady. “And after realising what you’re feeling through our bond I’m willing to take that risk.”

Her anger falters, replaced by something softer—something closer to fear. “Why?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “Why would you do that for me?”

You step closer, your gaze locking with hers. “Because I feel you, Agatha. I’ve felt you for centuries, even when I didn’t want to. And I can’t stand feeling you like this anymore. I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, and for a moment, she looks like she might argue again. But then she nods, her hands trembling at her sides.

“Fine,” she whispers. “But if this goes wrong we’re both dead…”

“It won’t,” you say firmly. “Trust me.”

You reach for her hand, your fingers brushing hers lightly. The bond flares at the contact, and Agatha inhales sharply, her magic—or what’s left of it—stirring faintly in response.

You close your eyes, focusing on the bond and the magic coursing through you. You channel it carefully, letting it flow toward her like a steady stream. It’s not painless—the act feels like giving away pieces of yourself, leaving raw edges behind. But through the bond, you feel her presence grow stronger, her magic flickering to life like an ember reignited.

Agatha gasps softly, her grip on your hand tightening as the magic flows between you. When you finally stop, your knees feel weak, and the bond hums with a new warmth—a sense of balance that wasn’t there before.

You open your eyes to find her staring at you, her expression unreadable.

“How do you feel?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

She hesitates, then says, “Stronger.”

A faint smile tugs at her lips, and before you can react, she steps closer, her cheek brushing against yours. The touch is soft, fleeting, but it sends a warmth through the bond that makes your breath catch. Her hand cups the back of your head and her other hand holds your lower back.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

You wrap your arms around her, exhaustion tugging at you. “Don’t make me regret it.”

She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, her gaze steady. “I won’t.”

[writteninthebinds]

Teach Me

A Jayvik fic - part two

Word-count: 2256

Summary: Jayce teaches Viktor how to dance. Things get a little heated.

Warnings: This is pretty tame. A little nsfw dialogue at the end that alludes to part three.

Notes: I really love this. This is technically part two but you can read it on its own. You can find and read part one on my page. I didn’t put near the same amount of effort into part one, so I might even go back and update it sometime soon. I’ll create a list where you can find them all together too. It’s currently 5am, haven’t slept and I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t post this now, so I apologize if there’s mistakes lol. I’ll edit them when I wake up again. 🫶🏼 you guys.

“Oh, but there is no music,” Viktor musters with pause, like a last-minute thought. Like he didn’t fully think through asking Jayce to teach him how to dance. Here, alone, in his room for the night. Viktor stands towards the end of the large king-sized bed, navy-colored sheets with gold stitching. His cane is tucked into his side, eyes on Jayce, who’s still standing in front of the double doors leading to the balcony.

Jayce is luminated from behind. The glow of the party lanterns below casting warm shadows into the night sky and their -  Viktor’s room.

“We shouldn’t need any,” Jayce promises as he steps further in. He’s still taking in the room, the colors and warm ambient lighting, when he focuses back on Viktor. For a split second, he stands there looking unsure, doubtful or perhaps even regretful for asking Jayce.

Something akin to dedication and reverence rakes its way across Jayce’s bones. Deep in his marrow. He wants to erase any trace of unease from Viktor’s body and mind.

Taking a few long strides, Jayce moves to a small coffee table in the room. Sly smirk painted across his lips, hands already deep within his pockets, searching, he says, “You get the steps right, I give you more of these.”

Confusion clouds Viktor’s face. Eyebrow quirked, nose slightly scrunched, until he looks down. Jayce litters the tabletop with sweets. The same candy he stole earlier. Viktor’s favorite. A laugh is shoved from Viktor’s chest as handfuls are dropped. He watches in awe, in surprise. Jayce can’t tell which, though he decides right then and there that he’ll do anything to keep that look of wonder and mischief on Vik’s face.

“Jayce.”

Viktor laces his name with muted laughter and accusation, really failing to look upset in the slightest. 

“Don't. Don’t give me that. You’re lucky I didn’t grab the crystal dish they were sitting in. Would’ve been easier to carry all night. Been weighing down my pockets,” Jayce rambles.

Set ablaze from the joy on Viktor’s face, he’s moving faster again, not overthinking every move. He gets excited. Jayce knows this. His words and actions speed up, excitement bubbling in his chest. Enhanced by Viktor.

He's still going, Jayce. Still talking, still moving, until a slight breeze pours cool air down his back. It’s then Jayce pauses. His suit jacket is already halfway down his arms, resting in the crooks of his elbows. He wasn’t thinking. Why would he take off his jacket just to dance? Is it weird? Does Viktor think so?

No.

Jayce watches as Viktor stands there rolling up his own sleeves so causally. He doesn’t stop, still folding the fabric. He only looks up at Jayce when he’s been quite for a little too long. And Viktor just smiles. Easy and cool. Like a lazy creek. It soothes Jayce, like the most expensive balm one could buy.

“Alright,” Jayce explains as he shucks off his jacket the rest of the way, “the Waltz. It’s a simple box step.”

He closes the distance between them. His nerves are only settled for so long, until he comes to stand in front of Viktor. Until he realizes, they both can’t lead.

A smug smile tugs at the corner of Viktor’s mouth. He doesn’t wait for Jayce to voice what he can clearly read written on his face. Confident as always, he grabs Jayce’s hands. Hosting their right and left into the air, clasped together, and guiding Jayce’s right to his back. Viktor whispers, “You lead. I will follow.”

That stirs something within Jayce. Deep in his gut. A pit buried and nestled behind his belly button, and Viktor’s dipping his fucking fingers in.

He feels the back brace beneath Viktor’s black shirt, firm under his open palm. Jayce wants more. To feel more. He looks good in black. Fuck.

The feeling of Viktor’s hand coming to a rest on his shoulder shakes Jayce from his thoughts.

“We’re essentially mirroring one another’s steps, in the shape of a box. Each step is a corner,” Jayce describes. His hands are still on Viktor when he realizes he probably should’ve shown him the steps first, with more space between them. He steps away to demonstrate.

They walk through it slowly. One step at a time. Apart and then together again. Jayce gets lost. It might look like he’s letting Viktor work through the stumbling steps on his own, but no, he’s just lost. In Viktor.

Jayce in time relaxes. His right hand splays broader on Viktor’s back, covering so much space. His thumb trailing the line of his spine through the brace. He wants to feel skin. Their palms are slick with sweat, Viktor’s fingers tightening against his hand and shoulder with each misstep.

“Viktor,” Jayce speaks, “eyes on me.”

Instantly Viktor is there, grip still tight and honey amber eyes fixed on his face with determination. A bit of annoyance. Jayce smiles softly. He finds it endearing. Viktor’s intent to learn. Though now Viktor doesn’t respond, doesn’t return to the steps either.

A beat of silence. Then –

“How do you suppose I learn if I am not looking?” Viktor sputters, frustration etched into his features like Jayce asked him for something impossible. It only fuels Jayce’s adoration. Laughing, he pulls away gently, fingertips lingering, and walks over to the small table.

“You’ve done exceptional,” Jayce says as he swipes two pieces of chocolate. He walks back over to Viktor, unwrapping the fudge himself and holding the foil flat for Viktor to pick off of. Even more melted than before, fudge and peanut butter coat the foil, smudging their skin.

“The only exceptional thing I’ve achieved is not breaking any of your toes,” Viktor muses. Joking, but still frustrated. Viktor finishes eating, slipping his thumb into his mouth, ridding it of any left-over fudge.

Jayce finishes his own, tucking the trash into his pocket to deal with later. Busying himself, Jayce stares at Viktor’s feet, partly thinking and partly looking anywhere else that is not Viktor’s mouth. He replays the steps in his mind, imagines Viktor’s brace. Even though he can’t see it now he remembers its design, the mechanics.

While he didn’t lie to Viktor at all, he can understand the hiccups due to the brace. The small steps forward aren’t so much the issue as the side steps and going backwards. Viktor’s leg brace was built for stability. Rigid and sturdy, not for flowing movements. Counterbalancing his weight without his cane is also new.

“Take off your shoes,” Jayce declares. It stops Viktor mid sentence, going on again about Ms. Ellis and when she’ll notice the missing bowl of sweets. He stands there frozen and perplexed. Jayce doesn’t give him a chance to question.

He kicks off his own, and then drops to his knees. Jayce slips the ties of Viktor’s dress shoes loose easily, letting him hold onto his shoulder as his heels slide out.

Perhaps the chocolate has gone to Jayce’s head.

“Now what?” Viktor ask once their both standing again, facing each other, amusement and sarcasm replacing his confusion. They’re both in their socks. Feet sinking into the plush carpet, Jayce takes a step forward, and another.

“Wanted to try something. You’re gonna have to be closer this time though,” Jayce explains. He crowds into Viktor’s space. His right hand reaching forward with confidence, with the excuse that it’s for the dance. Viktor doesn’t hesitate, slipping back into the familiar stance. Until -

“Now, place your feet onto mine,” Jayce explains.

Now Viktor hesitates.

Looking up from the floor, amber eyes on hazel, Viktor says nothing. He just looks at Jayce intently. A moment passes, thick with tension. And in another moment, Viktor drops their clasped hands, grabbing Jayce’s other shoulder.

It shouldn’t be as intimate as it feels. The soft arch of his feet. A shutter shouldn’t rack its way down Jayce’s body as Viktor’s sock covered feet slide onto his.

It’s closer than Jayce thought. Both of Viktor’s hands now rest higher up Jayce’s shoulders. Instinctively, his left found Viktor’s waist, holding him steady as he found his balance and a comfortable position. Just as he settles, looking back to Jayce directly, soft music drifts in from the balcony. The party outside.

Jayce nearly forgot. The sea of people outside, mingling and some dancing themselves. Though Jayce would never trade spots with any of them. Money, power, spotlight. He’s content here. Alone with Viktor, in the sanctity of this room. A new song begins downstairs. Jayce’s cue to start moving.

He moves with a little more effort, the weight of Viktor comforting more than anything though. Gliding across the carpet Jayce starts with a formal Waltz. Poised and perfect. Long strides. He even adds in the turns. He wants Viktor to feel it, the grace of a Waltz you’d perform in front of the eyes of those downstairs.

But here, with Viktor, he shortens his steps soon. Because that is not them. He doesn’t feel the pressure to be perfect in Viktor’s arms. They’re more than fancy parties and the “right way” to dance. He wants Viktor to know he can have it all, that Jayce will show him everything, but that most of all, any way is perfect as long as it’s them. Together.

Before long, they’re simply turning softly, swaying. Moves Viktor could easily do and yet his feet never leave Jayce’s.

“Thank you,” Viktor breathes. The words are spoken lowly enough between them that Jayce barely registers it. Lost again. Jayce hums in response. He can’t do words at the moment.

Viktor’s body has drifted even closer. Jayce thinks if he takes a deep enough breath, their chests might brush together. But right now, it’s Viktor’s hands. Venturing from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, Viktor’s fingers graze against the longer strands of Jayce’s grown out hair. It sends goosebumps erupting, racing across his skin.

“What may I do for you in return? For all of this, tonight?” Viktor ask, his voice different now. Still sweet, still rich, but lower. Jayce understands right then that Viktor reminds him of syrup. His voice specifically. Aged and pure. Sticky sweet and slow. Thick and consuming.

Jayce smiles, responds, “The fudge, remember?”

“No,” Viktor muses, “something else.”

“Teach me something.”

Jayce can’t even regret it, once it’s past his lips and out of his mouth. Words thrown out like a curveball in slow motion. He meant it sincerely. Jayce taught him something, why not offer the same in return?

It came out heavy though. Flirty. Loaded with innuendo due to the slight draw of Jayce’s voice now.

“Like what?” Viktor inquires. It’s this moment Viktor’s fingers, warm and soft, fully slide into Jayce’s hair at the base of his skull. Jayce bites his tongue, and everything he wants to say back.

How to touch you. How to kiss you. How to ask for that from you. Fuck.

Jayce says nothing. He knows though. Viktor knows. Has always been able to read Jayce’s thoughts. Can read it all over his face too, and in the steel look in his eyes.

There is only a beat, soft, before Viktor’s grip tightens in his hair, ripping a gasp from Jayce.

Before he can breathe in again, Viktor’s mouth finds his. Warm. Soft. Their chest fully pressed together now. Jayce’s lungs burn for a full breath, but he doesn’t relent. Neither of them do. He only needs Viktor. To breathe him in.

His arms wrap fully around Viktor’s waist, pulling him in tighter, hands roaming his back now. Their tongues meet and that pit in Jayce’s belly turns molten. A sound Jayce doesn’t want to admit to escapes as Viktor brings a hand around to his face, nails scrapping through his bread. They break apart.

“Jayce,” Viktor rasp.

Jayce doesn’t give him a chance. Driven by need and Viktor’s wrecked tone. Knowing he made him sound like that, he dives back in, erasing the smile from Viktor’s face. Jayce licks behind his teeth, tasting champagne and chocolate, and just - Viktor.

Viktor’s nails scratch his jaw again, venturing lower. His other hand still drags through Jayce’s hair. Things become slower. Hands still roaming, squeezing, pulling. They stand still though. No longer swaying, Jayce’s feet are going numb and tingly beneath them, and he couldn’t care less.

Languid strokes of their tongues draw out more and more sounds. Jayce is distracted. Drowning and loving it. Drinking Viktor in by the lungful. It’s why he doesn’t see it coming.

Another tight grip in his hair, accompanied this time by Viktor’s other hand wrapped around his throat too, squeezing as Viktor sinks his teeth into Jayce’s bottom lip.

“I – unnf.”

Jayce groans, best he can with the way Viktor has his neck cranked back, fingers tightening around his throat.

“Tell me, Jayce. Tell me what you want to learn,” Viktor all but purrs.

He leans in, not going back to fully kissing him but licking across and into Jayce’s open mouth. Like he can’t stop himself either. Like Viktor, too, is fueled by desire, too hungry to wait for a response.

Jayce is weak. Weak when it comes to Viktor. Viktor’s wet mouth and hard touch. He sticks his own tongue out, meeting anywhere Viktor will allow him a taste. He only answers when Viktor pulls back once again.

He pants like a dog. Whines, only a little.

“Teach me how to suck cock.”

[mumms-the-word]

Notes on a Caretaker

I find something about this note so fascinating. Every time I pick it up or scroll back around to it I have to sit with it and just...linger, trying to understand it.

So this is my attempt to break it down and sort through my thoughts about this note, which I think is so obviously from Solas. I think it hints not only to his spirit background, but also his perspective on the path he feels is set before him. Which, idk, is cool!

Mini analysis under the cut! Also a lot of Veilguard spoilers!

This note has a smear of paint on one corner: Have they always been here? There are beings in the Crossroads unknown even to the wise, though the most ancient ones make any domain their own. Certainly, this Caretaker belongs here now.

We’re led to believe this note must be from Solas because of the smear of paint. And I would argue the paint perhaps clues us in to when this might have been written. No doubt Solas was painting murals when he was running around as the Rebel Fen'Harel, since we see some of them in Trespasser, but I think he painted the murals in the Lighthouse after he left the Inquisition (in part because we have that last mural where he kills Flemythal, and he left his paint pallet in the music room after recreating the Inquisition murals there). So it could go either way, but...

I can just imagine Solas, lost in the throes of his regrets, painting his sins on the walls of the library and his memories of the Inquisition in the music room, finally noticing the Caretaker who has arrived, or perhaps was always there. Perhaps he pauses to consider the nature of the Caretaker, and the mystery of when it arrived. We find this note in the kitchen/dining area, where Solas still has a single place setting laid out for himself. So perhaps the Caretaker arrived to take care of him?

Or maybe this is a really, really old letter from when Solas first retreated to the Lighthouse and began to use it as his base of operations. How ancient is the Caretaker? Did they arrive to see to the Lighthouse during the days of the rebellions against the Evanuris, or did they arrive later? Did they arrive because they were drawn to the needs of dozens, hundreds of rebels and refugees, or drawn to its echo after they were gone? Which is it?

I personally go back and forth about it, but it's fascinating that the letter subtly supports both perspectives. Anyways!

I wonder what we look like to them. Need is a scaffold, and the needs of the living ever rise and fall upon it. Hunger, thirst, sleep... imagine the constant cacophony to one sensitive to such things.

The "we" suggests maybe this is a much older letter. I can see a much younger Solas leading his rebels to the Lighthouse and contemplating the nature of this Caretaker, worrying about how so many physical bodies in one space might affect a spirit sensitive to physical needs. But I can also see a much more recent Solas pondering this new (or new to him) creature, so I don't know.

Either way, "we" vs. "them." Solas is well and truly part of the living here, as opposed to viewing this all entirely as a spirit. It's like he's wondering what these spirit-born elves, or even mortals in general look like to a spirit like the Caretaker. A spirit whose focus is on needs, surrounded by these elves with physical bodies who now have very real, tangible needs. Hunger, thirst, sleep, things a spirit does not feel. But the Caretaker does, at least, sense these things in others.

The chorus of one person's needs must be a lot, but the cacophony of dozens, hundreds, as there would have been when the Lighthouse was in its prime? No wonder Solas has a moment of concern for this benevolent spirit.

Or am I too simple? Wants are fleeting; needs have deeper roots. Perhaps that's why I find this particular spirit's presence both comforting and disconcerting. The prospect that our heart's desire and our truest need could differ—or are even at odds—is hard to contemplate.

This. This is the most fascinating part of the note.

Or am I too simple? I think this is a hint, super early in the game, that Solas is a spirit. Spirits are the pure manifestations of emotion and thought. Complexity comes with personhood, with being part of the living in the tangible world. But spirits in the Fade (even before the Veil) are always pretty simple.

Solas is grappling with his nature here.

Wants are fleeting; needs have deeper roots. Perhaps that's why I find this particular spirit's presence both comforting and disconcerting.

I wonder if this is Solas struggling a bit with the unique experience of being both spirit and elf, undying but also very much alive, originally intangible but now physical. Wants come with being a spirit—spirits want to see beyond the Veil, if they're curious enough, or Cole as Compassion wants to help, he wants to look like the boy who died in the Spire. But here it's like Solas is suggesting that need is an intrinsically mortal or at least physical thing—something he didn't need to consider much before he had a body.

After all, spirits who don't have purely physical bodies don't seem to have the same needs. Like when Dorian talks with Cole about having a body, despite him not seeming to have physical needs:

Dorian: Do you need to eat, Cole? Or sleep? Cole: I thought I had to. But I don't. The Old Songs can pull me.

Or Blackwall suggesting that now that Cole is more human (if you take that path) the physical needs will likely come up:

Blackwall: So now that you've dealt with the templar, you're a real boy? Cole: Realer. Blackwall: Good enough. I suppose you'll stop looking into people's heads soon? And you might want to look into, I don't know, eating. Cole: Blech.

Often I think Solas struggles with where he stands, what he is, what he can be, what he should be as someone whom was first a spirit and then a person with a physical body. Short of dying, it sounds as though the process of going from spirit to elf is irreversible. He cannot return to the Fade as a pure spirit anymore. After the Veil, he can only return in dreams, at least until he finds ways of tearing through to the Veil to enter physically again.

But time and again he thinks and acts like a spirit with a simpler, focused nature rather than a complicated nature like a person might have. When he asks, Am I too simple? it feels like he’s acknowledging this. Is he too simple, too focused, too spirit to understand the experience of being fully, complexly mortal or physical?

The Caretaker’s presence is both comforting, because Solas knows that his (or others’) needs will likely be tended to, and yet disconcerting because it’s probably weird to even have those needs.

Ah but here we come to my favorite part.

The prospect that our heart's desire and our truest need could differ—or are even at odds—is hard to contemplate.

I’m sure this is hard to contemplate even for a normal person. How often do we struggle with knowing what we want isn’t always what we need? We may want the sugary cake, for example, but our bodies may need the healthier vegetables or fruits instead.

But going deeper, it’s easy to conflate needs and wants when it comes to abstract things. Like, say, vengeance, penance, atonement, or restoration.

Solas wants to repair the mistake he made thousands of years ago by creating the Veil, but he doesn’t need to do that. Yet in his mind, he treats it like a need, with roots so deep he can’t escape being bound up in them.

He wants to honor Mythal, who died because of his mistakes, who died again at his hand, but he doesn’t see that he can let go of that purpose, because somehow this want isn’t fleeting or fading like wants normally do. It sticks around. Therefore it must be more than want, right?

His heart’s desire is for the elven people to be restored, immortal, free, prosperous, and he throws his entire being into making that goal come true, that dream a reality. But he doesn’t see that his truest need is actually to be freed himself. Free from the purpose he’s given himself in the wake of Mythal’s death. Free from a path of vengeance that no one asked him to take, but that he feels obligated to walk.

His truest need, which he can’t see, because he can’t seem to sort through what is more want versus what is more need (and who can really, when they’re in the thick of things?), is not to cling closer to Mythal and honor his friend (or whatever it is they were), but to be freed from any and all entanglements with her.

He doesn’t want to let her go, but he needs to.

But without her around to release him, he clings to his plans to restore the elven people, restore her people, and hope that that will be atonement enough.

I think that’s why in the redemption ending, when we do see Mythal release Solas, he nearly collapses with this mixture of grief and relief. When he finally straightens up again, yes he’s hurting, but he’s the calmest he’s ever been in the entire game. As in, not tense, not plotting, not agitated. You get the sense that he can see or think with clarity now. Perhaps even breathe freely for the first time in ages.

And he finally sees that what he needs to do is not fix his mistakes, if doing so only causes more chaos and heartache and death for thousands or millions around him, but to seek atonement.

I love the line Rook can say when they’re trying to talk him down and make him bind himself to the Veil.

“[Making the Veil collapse] is what you want. Making amends isn’t about what you want.”

It doesn’t convince Solas, because he still doesn’t see removing the Veil as a want. He views it as a need. Not his need, but the world’s need. The world needs to be restored to the way Mythal would have wanted it, or so he believes.

I think that’s why Mythal has to release him before he can see everything clearly. She is the only one who can give him what he needs but does not what—freedom from her service.

It may not be everyone’s favorite choice, but I understand how we get here, especially since we find this letter so early in the game. Whether this letter is Solas from the distant past or the more recent past, it sets up a trajectory that we can trace all the way to the end of the game. And I just find that fascinating.

[transgender-mothman]

Maybe your biggest concern should just be playing with people who vibe with your style and not worrying about how or why other people do it the way they do if it’s not effecting you in any way?

If someone is being a jerk about it, sure, go off! I don’t think there’s anything wrong with deep discussions about rules, or following them to the letter, or even having (good natured) arguments about a play choice. But just like playing house rules in Monopoly, or doing your own version of hopscotch, there’s nothing wrong with taking what you like and turning the volume down on the rest.

Unless you are playing in a professional or otherwise regulated setting like at your LGS, and everyone is in agreement, it’s fine to do your own thing. I am not here for people being jerks in any game spaces, so by all means, stop someone if they’re being a Problem™. I feel very strongly that you should play at a table that suits what you want out of the game. And that you should, as a DM, discuss this stuff with your players and see what everyone wants to get out of the campaign.

There is still a lot to gain from playing any ttrpg while still being lenient with rules (be it for rule of cool, or home brew, or just omitting things you don’t like). There are set skills, set things you can do, methods to resolve conflict, and additional impetus to advance the story beyond just roleplay. Not everyone is comfortable doing everything off the dome, and a game like d&d, used even with some leniency and wiggle room, offers some structure and building blocks that can make jumping into roleplaying a lot less intimidating. There is a book to read and reference. You can get an idea how the system works, how games flow, and build based off the knowledge you have and tweak as you and your table see fit. And that’s to say nothing of how having a rubric can help (not entirely prevent, but help!) avoid people who just want to continuously one up and have More Powers Than You At All Times. And you have the fun of randomized results due to stats and dice rolls, so things go in different directions than they would just writing or role playing without a ttrpg structure.

For clarification, I’ve been running 5e for the better part of a decade now (plus forays into other systems), and my campaigns are very story and character heavy… and I am lenient about rules, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. Depending on the campaign, the players, and the length/frequency of play, sometimes myself and my players feel it’s best to sand down some edges and play a little softball for the sake of time, flow, and fun. And sometimes people come up with super creative and cool ways to use skills or spells or mechanics that are unconventional, and for the sake of everyone having a good time, it’s a fun to bend the rules a bit just to get the pop from the group and make the gang happy.

There’s no ignoring the rules en masse in my case, I’m still running D&D. Sometimes it’s just allowing things to ride for the drama/cool of it in a scene, or just deciding campaign x doesn’t require mechanic y. It’s all in fun, and so long as my players have a good time and we tell a good story, that’s what matters at my table. I do require people to read the PHB, but not everything applies to every campaign, so I provide abridged reading or clarify what I want people to absorb and what to leave.

Am I gonna be running any professional games? Nah. Am I the best DM? Nope. Do I feel my way to play is superior? No! But I don’t think it’s inferior either because the value is in how much everyone enjoys playing together. Just play with whoever suits your style and vibe and have fun. It’s a game, it’s not that serious.

I think an important part of the "D&D is easy to learn" argument is that a lot of those people don't actually know how to play D&D. They know they need to roll a d20 and add some numbers and sometimes they need to roll another type of die for damage. A part of it is the culture of basically fucking around and letting the GM sort it out. Players don't actually feel the need to learn the rules.

Now I don't think the above actually counts as knowing the rules. D&D is a relatively crunchy game that actually rewards system mastery and actually learning how to play D&D well, as in to make mechanically informed tactical decisions and utilizing the mechanics to your advantage, is actually a skill that needs to be learned and cultivated. None of that is to say that you need to be a perfectly tuned CharOp machine to know how to play D&D. But to actually start to make the sorts of decisions D&D as a game rewards you kind of need to know the rules.

And like, a lot of people don't seem to know the rules. They know how to play D&D in the most abstract sense of knowing that they need to say things and sometimes the person scowling at them from behind the screen will ask them to roll a die. But that's hardly engaging with the mechanics of the game, like the actual game part.

And to paraphrase @prokopetz this also contributes to the impression that other games are hard to learn: because a lot of other games don't have the same culture of play of D&D so like instead of letting new players coast by with a shallow understanding of the rules and letting the GM do all the work, they ask players to start making mechanically informed decisions right away. Sure, it can suck for onboarding, but learning from your mistakes can often be a great way to learn.

[cinnamon-stixs]

Sinsmas came out, and I bawled. here's me yapping about it.

-Blitz put horses EVERYWHERE to try and make Stolas happy

-Stolas was asking for his antidepressants. keep in mind he goes this whole episode, which takes place over the course of a month, completely unmedicated.

-Blitz asking what he eats :(. Then Stolas's rich ass.

-Stella fucking GRAB'S VIAS PHONE. GOD I WANT TO KILL THAT BITCH. THEY SIT THEIR AND LAUGH ABOUT HIM WANTING TO TALK TO HIS DAUGHTER IT MAKES ME SO. FUCKING. ANGRY.

-Imps still hate Stolas. Also bro has NO life skills whatsoever

-She straight up spits in his coffee, no remorse. Queen honestly.

-New fit!! this is so much better than that dumbass romper

-Blitz catching rats for him :((

-"No, this is how I act when I don't have money! :D"

-I absolutely adore the concept of sinsmas btw. Also, notice how both Moxxie and Blitz act on wrath, rather than greed (where they were both raised). Interesting lil detail

-Of course Blitz would set the apartment on fire

-Loona acting like me fr

-Millie and Moxxie fighting heheheee

-He's so concerned lmaooo??

-Whiteboard! My fave is the 'days since moxie sang' counter.

-Loona's opened up so much I love her QmQ

-"I'm poor now!" I love you Stolas but holy shit you privileged ass baby.. At least yall can afford to feed everyone in your house

-God Blitz is so in love

-Stolas is GOING THROUGH IT with these parallels

-Blitz trying to defend cheating 💀💀

-Homophobic cunt

-Mammon tree topper

-They're STILL laughing about Stolas trying to call Via. Have they kept her phone from her this whole time?

-She didn't hear them say he'd been trying to call. She took her earbuds out AFTERWARDS. As far as Via knows, he only called once.

-Stolas was the one who got her the guitar

-Via's song goes so hard, but what happened to her accent??

-The parallels in Via's song and the one Stolas sang to her in ep 2 make me wanna cry

-Btw Via is COMPLETELY justified in how she feels, and her decision to not forgive Stolas.

-"I'll just get older and you'll only know my name" Holy fuck that line goes hard

-I THOUGHT SHE WAS GONNA ATTEMPT.

-"Well here's an idea, You could shut the fuck up!"

-Me I fear

-She sits down with stolas's diary I can't

-I thought the bit of her throwing up as weird as hell. But, foreshadowinggg

-What if this was my 13th reason.

-"Didn't make me wet AT ALL"

-The scream as she flies out the window is delightful

-Blitz immediately knows stolas went to look for Via

-GET HIS ASS

-"Get your icy hands off my bottom, bitch!"

-Dude what the hell did he say?!

-GET. HIS. ASS!!

-"fuck yes! :D"

-Loona and Moxxie working together :(((

-This action scene is so fucking cool

-"High five!!" DUMBASS?!

-Im gonna kms they're so cute

-VIA!

-She doesn't hug her father back.

-She thought him needing the antidepressants was her fault I'm actually gonna do it this time.

-Although Via won't talk to Stolas, she still saved him. She loves her dad, but she's rightfully angry. It'll take time to rebuild that trust.

-FUCK.

-Blitz relaxes. Stolas doesn't.

-God what a cutie

-MOXXIES FACE HSDHSJHDJSIJ

-I knew immediately in the bathroom scene what was up with Millie

-Im really excited to see the pregnant millie plotline actually. Judging by her reaction, she's not sure if she wants to keep it.

-STOLAS'S SOFT LITTLE LAUGH AUGH IM CRYING

-He doesn't hug Blitz back.

-Xmas song at the end goes hard.

Overall, this episode was AMAZING. The writing was great, the emotional moments hit hard, the animation was great as usual, and the pacing was good, if not a bit clunky. What a great end to the season.

I think i'll go call my dad.

[the-universal-sun]

How do Little Ford and Stan handle bathtime? Do they have a favorite type of bath toy? I can personally see Little Stan loving plastic dinosaur figurines, and maybe Ford having one of those Crayola chemistry bath sets! I can also see them having their own towel with a hoodie!

I did briefly write something small about Stan and bathtime a couple of months ago, and this gave me the opportunity to expand on that! Thank you so much for your ask! And sorry it took so long to get to it, I hope you're still here.

I hope you like the head canons I created, that your vision was met. Please let me know!

I'm always open to helpful advice or to just chat!

Happy Holidays if you're the celebrating type!

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

-Little Stan loves bathtime! You wouldn't think it, he hated bathing as a kid, but now that he gets unlimited bath time? With actual hot water? Ford has a hard time getting him out of the bath

-Stan likes his baths scalding hot. It soothes the aches of his joints and old scars and he gets cold easily and will shiver when the water goes lukewarm, so scalding hot water will make it so baths last longer and are all around more pleasant for both Stan and Ford

-Ford has to convince Stan that Poindexter will be safe sitting and keeping watch on the sink, that he can't be in the water with Stan because the he could get sick. The thought of his friend getting sick is what does it for Stan (though somewhere in his grown up mind, he knows it's because Poindexter is an old plush, so no matter how well maintained he is, he shouldn't be getting wet), compromising and letting him keep watch from the toilet, where he can see Stan better

-He has so many rubber duckies, and they're the kind with cool and novelty designs. Pirates, whales, mermaids, some that are just straight up fish shaped instead of patterned like a costume. He plays make believe with them while Ford's washes his hair, just making sound effects to their adventures

-I like your thought on dinosaur toys. Ford got him specific dinosaurs sets, one for bath time and the other for daily play. The daily play is just an assortment of all different kids of dinos from different periods; land, sea, air, bugs, just so many types of dinosaurs. His bathtime set is only marine dinosaurs; some are bought from online and some Ford made himself, those being the more obscure species that he's studied

-I mentioned this before, but Stan has a toy boat with a rudder that will paddle through the water when wound up. He deemed it the "S.S. Stan" and named Ford as his first mate. He loves splashing it through the water and getting Ford's sleeves wet, sometimes spraying him with the little cannon on the ship, giggling and looking away when Ford gives him that look

-The first time he accidentally splashed Ford, early on in Ford caring for him, he got upset and started apologizing with little murmured "sorry's", hoping he didn't upset Ford or ruin his sweater. Ford, of course, wasn't mad at all, and stuck his sweater clad arms all the way down in the water to prove so, showing Stan that it's okay to have fun and splash in the bath

-Ford learned very quickly that he shouldn't wear sweaters during his brother's bath time

-Stan has some of those crayons that can color on bath tub walls and come off easily with water. He'll draw his boat and his dinosaurs and the dinosaurs attacking his boat. He splashes at Ford to get him to see his pretty pictures on the wall

-The only way Ford can get Stan out of the bath is to let the water go cold so he doesn't want to stay in. When that happens, Ford is quick to wrap Stan in his special towel, drying him off before slipping the hood, adorned with lamb ears, over his head and drying off his hair. Ford ignores Stan's pouting about the lamb ears, he's just too cute!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-As a kid, Ford used to love bathtime, it was his time away from the world around him. As an old man with the last 30 years having to go without being clean for weeks and taking short only 5-10 minute scrub downs? Stan has to basically bribe him to bathe when he's little

-Stan gets Ford multitudes of bath chemistry sets, from bathbombs to a water lab that isn't necessarily for the bath, but will work anyways. Anything so Stan can wash his stinky brother

-Like Stan, Ford has to have scalding hot water, it helps soothe the aches of his old body and helps him remember that he's home and with his Buddy, not in some scary dimension all alone. He's safe and warm and he's with his brother

-Ford will leave Dr. Mittens outside the door, terrified of getting his handmade plushy wet and having it fall apart. Stan has to reassure him throughout bathtime that Dr. Mittens is dry and okay and right outside the door, which is cracked open so the plush toy can peak inside

-Beyond all the science kits Ford has for bath time, he also has some aquatic animal replicas and he'll reenact the animals hunting rituals with them, pretend to hunt them himself, and tell Stan every detail he knows about each one. In that order. Every bathtime. And Stan is more than happy to sit there and listen to Ford talk, not only is he genuinely interested in hearing his thoughts, but it also distracts Ford enough for Stan to get him clean

-Unlike Stan, Ford will let him know he's finished bathing simply by stopping what he's doing and saying "I'm done now" and attempting to stand and get up

-Sometimes, Ford will most decidedly not be done, shampoo still in his hair. So when that happens, Stan will have to get Ford talking about something, the chemicals in his soap, the anatomical structure of Beluga Whale, anything so he can finish bathing Ford

-Ford has a towel with cat hears on the hood, matching Dr. Mittens, that he'll only wear after he's completely dried off. He wants to match with Dr. Mittens, but he can't get him wet, so Ford'll wear the hooded towel after Stan towel dries him and his hair, so he just sits in that hooded towel and relaxes after his bath

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bathe these stinky boys

[billiesguitar]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐄𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡

Fuckboy!Billie x Nerdy!Reader

- Part 4 || Au masterlist

I walked into Billie's dorm room, three wrapped gift boxes stacked on each other in my arms. She looked up from her bed, where she was laying down, using her phone. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement when she saw me. I poke my face out from behind it and give her a quick smile along with a 'help me' look.

"You're here!" she exclaimed, jumping up. "Come on, let's exchange our gifts before I forget." She helps me open the door and I set the gift down on her desk and sit on her bed, taking a moment to appreciate how clean she kept her room.

"Okay, okay," I said, handing her the skinniest of the boxes. "Here you go, Billie."

Her eyes showed a look of confusion as she took the gift, feeling how light it was. "what's this?" She teased, shaking it slightly.

"Just open it," I giggled.

she does, tearing the wrapping paper and lifting the lid off the box. Her eyes widened. "Oh my god," she murmured, holding up a 'Supreme Star' Jersey.

"You like it?" I asked nervously.

"you shouldn't have" she says "its so expensive"

I waved it off. "It's just a little something, I know how much you wanted it," I said with a smirk.

"Thank you," she said, giving me a tight hug. "I've got something for you too." She handed me a small box.

I took the box, "what's this?"

"Just open it," she smirks, her eyebrow raising slightly.

I opened the box and inside was a pair of earrings, they were beautiful. They had little stars hanging from them. "Billie, these are amazing," I whispered, taking them out and putting them on.

"I knew you'd love them," she said, smiling at me.

Her phone starts ringing and she checks the screen before rolling her eyes. "It's Finneas," she says, answering the call. "What's up?"

"You didn't tell me you had company," a voice, clearly her brother's, came from the phone.

"It's just y/n," she said casually. "Wait, how do you know I have company?"

"I'm outside your window," he said, and Billie's eyes widened.

"You're what?" She rushed to the window, and sure enough, there was Finneas, leaning against the tree, grinning like the devil himself. "Oh my," she mumbled into the phone. "Hold on, I'm coming down, also I'm bringing y/n." She says, excitedly. "Alright with me." He replys.

Billie puts her jacket on, "C'mon"

I followed her, looking out of the window. "Finneas, you're so embarrassing," she yelled, laughing.

Finneas looked up at us and waved. "You guys ready?"

"Yeah, let's go," Billie said, taking my hand and pulling me along. "bils? I don't wanna intrude."

"Don't worry," she assured me. "Finneas doesn't care. He's like my best friend."

We walked down to the parking lot and Billie runs up to him, giving him a hug. "Merry Christmas," she said.

"You too," he said, smiling. He looked at me and extended his hand. "I'm Finneas, Billie's brother."

"Y/n," I said, shaking his hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too, Y/n," he said. "You're the girl she's always talking about."

I blushed. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, she thinks you're pretty cool," he said, winking at his sister.

Billie rolled her eyes playfully. "Let's go, we're going to be late for dinner."

We got into Finneas' car and drove to the restaurant. The whole way there, Finneas kept making jokes and Billie kept laughing, her eyes lighting up every time he said something funny.

Finneas pulls into the resteraunt's parking lot. "So, what's the deal with you two?" He asks, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

Billie shot him a look. "None of your business, Finneas."

"Come on," he said, grinning. "I'm your brother. I need to know these things."

"We're-" Billie interupts me "We're dating"

My eyes widened, she had never called us that before. "Yeah, that's right," I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. "We're dating."

"This is new?" He asks

"Yeah," she says, "uhm, today actually." She was lying so badly, but I just nodded along.

Finneas nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "Okay, cool. I'm happy for you two."

We walked into the restaurant, and I couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness.

As we sat down, Billie leaned in close to me. "Sorry about that," she whispered. "I didn't know what else to say."

"It's okay," I said, smiling. "I don't mind."

Throughout dinner, we talked and laughed, the three of us getting along surprisingly well. But every time Billie touched my hand or leaned into me, I felt a warmth spread through my chest that I hadn't felt before. Maybe she was more than just a friend with benefits. Maybe she had feelings for me too.

"So, what are you doing over the break?" Finneas asked me. "Nothing really, I'll probably just stay here."

"What?" Billie exclaimed. "You can't spend Christmas alone!"

I shrugged. "It's no big deal."

"You're coming to our place," she said firmly. "It's not a question."

I looked at her, surprised by the invitation. "Really?"

"Yeah," she said, smiling. "It'll be fun."

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of conversation and laughter. When we finished eating, Finneas dropped us off back at the dorms. "See ya," he said, waving out the window.

Billie turned to me, her eyes shimmering with excitement. "Ready for Christmas with my family?"

I nodded, feeling a sudden sense of belonging. "Yeah," I said. "I'm ready."

As we walked back to her room, she took my hand. "Thank you for tonight," she said. "I had a lot of fun."

"Me too," I said, squeezing her hand. "And I'm looking forward to spending Christmas with you and your family."

"It's gonna be great," she promised.

We reached her room, and she turned to face me. "Want to stay the night?" She asked, biting her lip.

I nodded. "I'd love to," I whispered.

We walked into her room, and she closed the door behind us.

As we laid down on her bed, she pulled me closer and whispered in my ear, "I'm so happy you're here."

I felt my heart race. "Me too, Billie," I said. "Me too."

Taglist (I forgot lmao)-@iluvapplesxh @imurmomsfavgf @hkkuugu @jjmyym @stonerfromlesbos @bilsdillldough @chrissv4mp @bla1rxoxo @ihavenoideayimhere @prettylovesickchaelis

[neverending-shenanigans]

Look, I don't disagree with you, per se, but here's the thing: this is all just in theory. The game fails to show this in a meaningful way or in a way that is satisfying from an RPG point of view.

Everybody matters for the success? Cool. How so? If I literally leave them behind in the lighthouse for the rest of the game, it makes no difference.

I love Emmerich, dearly, but what exactly does he do in the Veilguard? Is the game saying the few time he talks to corpses are so vital to our success that the world is doomed without him?

None of the former games (to my knowledge) implied that not recruiting someone screwed everything over completely.

And if the game wants me to see that this is different, because the stakes are higher? Well, game, show me directly what happens if I don't recruit people, make them as vital as you claim they are. And have a number of quests where I can feel their absence if i don't have them around as the experts for necessary tasks (and I mean more than these funky little dagger mechanics or that one final battle, alright). Let me experience how much worse off everyone is if I don't help them. Or if I give them bad advice, if I make them objectively into worse people.

Tie their personal narrative more strongly to the main issue. Balance them out a little. Have Zara's blood magic be a vital part of the ritual Elgar'nan is preparing. Have Isseya actually blight a griffon or two for Ghilly and let them do some hefty damage to the Anderfels or elsewhere. Let Rivain be under siege by the Dragon King and his mind-controlled beasts. Make everyone's issues matter equally with options for real Bad Outcomes.

RPGs used to be about the consequences of my actions, about having choices with actual impact within the game narrative itself, and those were more than just one bad ending option.

This would also be a way to make sure that "these are professionals" can come across. By showing me what happens if they aren't. If we aren't - if Rook isn't.

Don't just have the narrative put up a red tape that says "you cant, because you shouldnt".

Not to mention that I frankly think it does the characters a disservice by saying that "they are professionals" somehow means that they dont have issues, they have to like you, they have to grow as people.

Bioware had a fantastic system in DA2 in the rivalry system which allowed for much more interpersonal nuances. This would have solved a lot of issues here, even if we are in a set-up in which characters will stay with you no matter what. They stay with you for the cause, but they hate you personally. How many professionals feel like that about their Boss and co-workers?How many professionals are great at exactly one thing but still assholes anyway?

And I have seen it be thrown around that "Rook cannot be an asshole because Varric wouldn't have picked them". That feels like cop-out to me. And does not make sense for narrative consistency. He is not some sort of infallible Thedas Jesus. There is precedent for him being wrong about people.

Varric recruited Hawke for his brother's expedition and Hawke had much more potential/freedom to be an ass (to the point in which Varric might end up as a drunkard for it, because Bioware used to include consequences). Varric was as much part of the disaster/tragedy/failure of Kirkwall as the rest of that crew. Varric didn't see Anders' plan coming, either. He also did not spot Solas' plan from miles away.

Varric might have picked Rook up for their moment of bravado that the game always provides, because he was running our of time to stop Solas. Nowhere does it say he might not have ended up regretting that choice a little if you turn out to be a competent ass. Wouldn't that have been a neat thing?

If we and the characters got to experience... regret?

"I wish you could be mean to the companions" it's a story about professionals

"I wish you could have a choice to not recruit companions" it's a story about every single person being vital to success

"the companions are too nice to eachother" it's a story about professionals

"rook puts out people's squabbles too easy" it's a story about a boss who actually cares and doesn't buy pizza to get people to work unpaid overtime

"I wish you could recruit a therapist for the team" based and valid

[victoria-vd]

OFFSCREEN POST

A Heart to Heart

(Takes place directly after Heartless)

The music that had once been a blessing had warped into the curse Victoria believed it to be. It no longer drowned out the voices, but now only added to the cacophony. Thoughts and instruments alike clamored together in an unholy song, individual pieces vying for a sliver of Victoria's attention. Her inner voice had been overpowered once again, drowned out in the sea of noise.

She wanted nothing more than some peace and quiet. And now she knew better than to stick around in a party that overwhelmed her.

So she escaped to the balcony.

Cool, fresh mountain air hit her skin the minute she opened the doors. The midnight breeze wove its fingers through her loose hair, already washing away the stress of the night until it was all behind her. The music, the voices, the past— it was all behind her now. She shut the doors and rested the back of her head against the glass with a deep sigh. It was much quieter out here. Yes, crickets chirped, winds whistled, and trees shook, but it was a welcome song to her ears.

Victoria waited until she could hear herself think to step away from the glass doors. She wandered her way towards the railing and cast her gaze upwards to the nighttime sky. The moon and the stars welcomed her as they always have. They knew nothing of her heart— of the danger or evil within. She could never kill the heavens above.

Her eyes scanned the constellations, tracing the line of Orion's belt in the sky. She only knew how to recognize a handful of the stars— her brother had always been the one more interested in the stars and the stories attributed to them— but of the few that she could find, Orion was by far the easiest for her. 

She was so absorbed in her solitary stargazing that she failed to notice the door open behind her.

"Mind if I join ya?" A familiar voice asked as she slid into the spot next to her with a smile.

Esper's voice snapped Victoria from her stupor. Her eyes softened and she failed to hide the slight upward curl of her lips. With a light breath, Victoria hummed and gave her friend a nod, "Be my guest."

Esper set her cane aside to lean her forearms against the railing. The girl followed her friend's gaze to the horizon to join her in her silent stargazing session.

One might find the silence awkward or unsettling, but Victoria found that the two of them were able to comfortably share moments like this without a word between them. She cast a sideways glance to her friend observing the sky, taking note of how her hair captured the moonlight like white snow and how the stars reflected in her eyes. Said eyes suddenly caught her gaze, and with a gentle smile, Esper turned to lock eyes with her.

Victoria found that despite the breeze, it had become uncharacteristically warm for a winter night.

She hesitantly returned her attention to the sky and thought about their conversation from a week prior. She might never quite wrap her head around how Esper so easily accepted Victoria as a clearly dangerous individual and yet still desired to remain her friend. Time and time again, she has shown that she poses a danger to both her and others— their first meeting had been Victoria grabbing Esper by the hair and slamming her face against a wall for crying out loud! And yet not once has she ever been asked to apologize. Had she even apologized? She couldn't recall. Would she have meant it if she had? Clearly not if she couldn't seem to recall ever having done so.

Even now, she wasn't certain that she'd mean it if she apologized for everything right now.

"Esper," she sighed. "May I ask you something?"

The other girl hummed warmly in response. "You can ask me anything, Tori."

Esper stared at her in silence for a moment, seemingly stunned by the question. But then she suddenly let out an amused puff of air from her nose.

“That would be because I’m not friends with a heartless individual, Tori.” Esper answered, her eyes twinkling, “I’m friends with you— someone who, in my opinion, has quite a bit of heart… You just don’t see it because it’s hard to look at your own heart and see the good— to see how you have been kind. You’ve just got a bit of a hard time showing it... which is why you’ve got me! Because I want to see how you grow and change. To see how your kindness can grow. Because—”  Esper playfully tapped her finger to Victoria’s forehead, “I know it’s there. I’ve seen it. You’re just still learning and I wanna stick around to see what person my friend becomes.”

“You are going to get hurt, Esp.” The spot where her friend had tapped her on the forehead still lingered with the ghost of her touch. “Destruction is an art in which I excel.”

“Life hurts, Tori.” The other girl quietly chuckled, “If I were to avoid everything and anything because in one of maybe thousands of possible futures I get hurt, then I would not be living…" She looked to her friend warmly. "...And I’d like to live that life beside you, if you’d let me.”

A spark of hope ignited within Victoria's chest for reasons uncertain. She found herself straightening her posture as she met Esper’s luminous lavender eyes. With a sharp breath, she asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Esper smiled softly as she answered, “I mean that I’d like to stay by your side, to stay your friend, for as long as you’d like me too.”

...Oh.

“I see,” she nodded. That was exactly what she wanted, wasn’t it? For her to stay by her side? To be her friend despite it all?

So why did her answer leave her with a twinge of disappointment?

…

Why… did her answer leave her with a twinge of disappointment?

Victoria hesitantly broke their locked gaze to consult the stars. She was never one to confront her emotions. They often stood to cloud her judgment with irrationality and unpredictability. Emotions were the gateway to dangerous behavior— to the anger that killed her uncle or the fear that destroyed her old dorm. But while they may be the bane of logic, they could be predicted through careful pattern recognition.

Disappointment did not quite fit the pattern of thought that Victoria should be following. Something was amiss. Something was different.

But what?

An irrational answer nagged at her from the back of her mind, whispering deviously into her ear, but she did not want to entertain the notion. She never liked to humor such thoughts. Many of the people around her liked to make assumptions and speculations— she could hear it in their minds— and she did not care for it. And she was certain that Esper didn't either.

Instead, she preferred to look at this issue from a logical perspective. She mentally circled back to the root of the problem: Esper expressed that she'd like to have Victoria in her life as a friend, and despite this being exactly what she wanted, Victoria found that a part of her felt disappointed by this. Logically, the next course of action would be to ask herself why she felt disappointed by this.

Disappointment. Sadness or displeasure caused by the non-fulfillment of one's hopes or expectations. Had she been hoping for something different? Well— no. She didn't think so, at least. She had hoped that despite everything, Esper would find it within herself to stay with her regardless. And yet she still felt... unsatisfied with this. So clearly there was something more that she had wanted— something that she herself hadn't realized she'd wanted to begin with.

The lingering answer in her mind seemed to snicker in the back of her head, prompting her to shoot the thought down once again. Not yet.

But what more could there be beyond being her lifelong friend? Victoria considered such a future— where they grew older and the world changed around them, yet their friendship remained strong. Where they assumed the responsibilities that came with adulthood but still left time to spend together. Where Victoria became the head of her family, and Esper amassed a respectable power and social standing of her own. And even while regions apart, they still kept in touch and visited one another often. A true best-case scenario in the current direction of their lives.

Did this not leave her satisfied?

Victoria finally risked a glance to her friend beside her on this warm winter night. Once again, Esper seemed to sense her gaze lingering on her, and she turned her head to meet her eyes with a smile that shifted the seasons entirely.

Something within her urged her to break away from the spell her eyes held on her, fearing that they may be her undoing.

She may have to consider the possibility that perhaps the affections she held for Esper could no longer be defined by a purely platonic label. 

Victoria shut her eyes with a deep breath, no longer able to ignore the whispering voice in the back of her mind.

...Perhaps...

Scene End.

[candescentkpop]

You turn the darkness into light

Oneus: Valkyrie

Oneus Part 85 / ∞

[kagooleo]

the gangs all here!!!

[blooddrinkingbartender]

"Maybe next time, I'll be able to smack him with my cane at the very least, that'll hit a bit harder than my fist," Antonio said, with a small grin then, "But it was satisfying to not have to throw a single punch, I will admit."

"I am too," Russell said. As much as he usually didn't hold grudges, Five had definitely earned some ire from him and he hoped that scar would last forever, especially knowing that Lucien caused it.

"Heh, thanks. Glad to be part of it," Travis said. While it was a shock and he was still taking all of this in, he meant it. They all seemed like pretty cool people and Russell was a good judge of character.

Russell had gotten to work setting some cups and glasses up, along with snack plates. Antonio put the kettle on, and was looking through the cupboards for the various teas and the coffee Bill kept. He got a pot of that set up after taking a moment to measure out a better amount of the ground beans.

"Th-thank you," Russell said to Lucien and Antonio, glad for their help, "Th-thank you as, as well, Erica."

It seemed they made a pretty good team in here as well as when they were trying to fight a threat. Maybe when this was over, they could perhaps do something like this for a gathering.

"Now that her mother's here, I think she'll be fine," Antonio said. He certainly felt confident of that fact.

Leofric had started to get up again when he realised that Bill wasn't bleeding from a wound, but crying. The sound was recognisable, which meant the smell was the blood was dripping from his eyes. Despite the fact he was crying and hadn't wanted anyone to see, Bill still wrapped his arms around Rook in a tight hug. That seemed to help ground him for the moment.

"I'm sorry. I never wanted you to have to see me like this, especially with what just happened to you," Bill said, quickly grabbing a handkerchief from his pocket and putting it to his cheeks, it wouldn't do to accidentally get blood on Rook's hair or face, "I was just so worried about you... and then seeing Leofric like that, seeing Erica get shot and everyone else risking themselves in that fight, I'm usually better at holding it back."

He tried to joke.

"Maybe it's because I'm sick, right?"

"William," Leofric said from where he sat, "It's okay to cry in front of others. You don't have to justify it or try and downplay it. I think all that repressed emotion has been wanting to escape for a while, and this was what forced it out."

"Yeah, don't sweat it, blood drinker," Travis then said, "Having emotions or showing them isn't a bad thing. It took me too long to learn that myself."

"Indeed. And you didn't even have to punch anybody this time."

No, he wasn't still annoyed by that. Not too much at least. It was merely some playful teasing between fellow mindbenders. The main crisis was over. Somebody had to take the first step to ease the tension a notch.

"I will relish that thought." he added, nodding to Russell.

Veronica didn't flinch in the least at Travis' reaction. She was too busy working to get Rook out of her armor at the moment, but still couldn't help a small grin.

"The pleasure is mine. Welcome to the madness." she replied, before nodding to Leofric, "And I'm quite alright. We were being kept from turning solid for the most part. I'll ensure my daughter isn't in immediate danger, then have a look at you as well. Take some rest for now."

Lucien watched Veronica get to work to take care of Rook with all the tenderness he would expect from a loving mother. He never questioned why his friend had put everything on the line for a chance to see her mother again. The answer was right there.

He straightened his back and shoved any other thoughts relating to the topic aside along with the magical fatigue. "I'm fine." He forced himself to say, "The feeling is temporary. I'd be glad to help as well."

Whatever got him away from that. Lucien didn't say anything when Erica trailed after him on the way to the kitchen. The elf probably enjoyed more quiet places regardless of the presence of apple juice.

Smokey hopped back into Erica's hands, being more than content to be with his friend again.

"I hope Rook wakes up soon." Erica admitted quietly. She moved to sit on the wall for the time being to stay out of the way.

"I'm sure she won't keep us waiting."

And Lucien wasn't wrong. Right on time, Veronica found herself shaking her head when Rook woke up and immediately dragged herself over to Bill with what little strength she had.

It went as well as one would expect. So Erica leaped out of the kitchen to grab her double and dropped her by Bill's side. She then sat back while Rook slowly leaned in to let him know she was there for him.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[valhallavalgrace]

How are you adjusting to the whole Norse mythology situation?

LEO: I’ve mostly been bugging some of the older einherjar, and Hunding, a little bit, to figure this place out. Do you know how cool it is that some people have been here since the industrial revolution?? There's no way that I'm the first of my dad's kids to make it here. I just don't know who to talk to about it.

((Leo's coping mechanism re: Norse mythology is just hating himself more bc of course he doesn't belong in his own afterlife. but he won't admit that to anyone bc he doesn't know who can be vulnerable with.))

prev ask

[asanjou]

king jeremy with ambiguous sword circa whatever the fuck year