#so he REALLY enjoys them. but that aside!!!

[satellite-evans]

Can't pay the bills

A/N : a blurb that came out of nowhere lol enjoy

word count : 600 words ( she's cute)

Harry was sprawled out on the couch, a book in one hand and a cup of tea resting precariously on the coffee table. His oversized sweater and reading glasses made him look like the coziest man alive, completely at peace in your shared home.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, your phone secretly set up to record. The idea for this prank had come to you last night, and you couldn’t resist giving it a go. Harry was so doting, so protective—it was bound to be hilarious.

“Harry,” you called out, your voice tinged with just enough worry to catch his attention.

His head snapped up immediately, the book falling shut in his lap. “What’s wrong, love?”

You wrung your hands for dramatic effect, sighing as you stepped into the living room. “I need to talk to you. It’s… important.”

Harry straightened, sliding his glasses off and setting them on the coffee table. His green eyes searched your face, a flicker of concern crossing his features. “Alright, what is it?”

Taking a deep breath, you sat beside him, biting your lip. “I can’t pay the bills this month.”

There was a beat of silence. Harry blinked at you, visibly confused. “What?”

“I… overspent. Like, really overspent,” you explained, avoiding his gaze. “And now, I don’t have enough to cover the bills.”

Harry tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Darling, you don’t pay the bills.”

You paused, thrown off by his matter-of-fact tone. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He chuckled lightly, though his confusion was apparent. “You’ve never paid the bills. That’s my thing. Always has been.”

You tried to salvage the prank, pressing on. “Well, yeah, but I was trying to be responsible this month! Take some of the load off you, you know? And now I’ve failed.”

Harry gave you a look, one eyebrow raised. “You’re telling me you suddenly decided to take over paying the bills, which I’ve always handled, without telling me… and somehow ran out of money?”

You nodded solemnly, trying to keep a straight face.

He leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms. “Alright, let me get this straight. You’ve managed to spend more than what’s in your account, on top of what I’ve already set aside for everything? Love, what did you buy? A yacht?”

At that, you snorted, quickly covering your mouth. Harry’s lips twitched, and you could tell he was holding back a laugh.

“You’re not upset?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“I’m baffled, not upset,” he replied, shaking his head. “I mean, I’d be thrilled if you wanted to be more involved, but you don’t have to. You know I love taking care of you, yeah?”

That did it. The guilt of pranking him—and the tenderness in his voice—made you burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, Harry, it’s a prank!” you admitted, clutching your stomach as you leaned forward.

Harry stared at you for a moment before a slow grin spread across his face. “A prank, huh? You think it’s funny to make me think my wife suddenly decided to ruin my perfectly balanced system?”

You were laughing too hard to reply, especially as Harry reached over to tickle your sides mercilessly.

“That’s what you get,” he teased, his voice filled with mock indignation. “Prank me, will you?”

“Harry, stop!” you cried, wriggling away as he pulled you into his arms, still grinning.

When you finally caught your breath, you looked up at him, his face close to yours. “You’re too sweet, you know that?”

“Sweet, am I?” he said, his voice softening. “You’re lucky I adore you, or I’d make you pay me back by doing the washing up for a week.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me, love,” he whispered, kissing you gently.

[mysoftboybensolo]

Things I Don't Understand of Audiences Reaction of Nosferatu 2024

Complaints of how this is a ripoff of Dracula, and I am like, of course it is! The original 1922 film is the most famous ripoff in the history of cinema, but it is also one of the best ripoffs ever. Maybe know your history just a bit.

Why are people saying that Ellen dying was stupid or unnecessary? Firstly, that has been the ending in the 1922 and the 1979 film, this wasn't just anything Eggers pulled from nowhere. Secondly, people don't seem to understand that the Gothic genre never not one that allows it's characters to walk away unscathed, whether it is physical damage or mental damage. Blood is demanded, and hardly a truly happy ending is found, at best a bittersweet ending or at worst an ending where everyone is unhappy. I think not only is it true to the films this one is based on, but also the only satisfying ending. Ellen wouldn't have been truly happy if she had survived, because she still will be a seer, she will still have darkness looming inside, and Thomas is either incapable or unwilling to accept it. He's belief that killing Orlok will bring a reset to everything, even bringing Ellen back to how she was before, but the Ellen she was before was still suffered. He brushes aside her nightmares without comfort, he doesn't take into account how she views their marriage (when she insists that she doesn't need material things but he acts as if he knows better), and when she tries to express her suffering, he would prefer her to suppress it. She would never be truly free, but to die doing a good thing, to have control over her death the way she didn't in life, it's an empowering end, if bittersweet.

People complaining about the pace of the film, saying it starts off fine but then drags in the middle? I think the film flowed wonderfully, there was never a moment when I was thinking how much longer to the end or felt it rushed in the story. I personally cannot wait until we get the extended version, but I am happy with how it came out.

Where are people getting "Orlok groomed Ellen" from? Grooming is when someone goes after a minor and gets them to be emotionally attached to them for a long period of time in order to achieve some sort of goal (often times sex). People have been saying Ellen was a "literal child", but we don't know that for certain. Yes, Ellen described herself as a child, but it seems that the term child is used more as a synonym of "inexperienced" or "young". Also, we are not sure how old any of these characters are. If we were to go by actors ages as guidelines, Lily-Rose Depp was 24 when filming this, and all we get in between the first scene to the present day is merely "years later". That can mean two years or ten, we cannot be sure. And while Lil-Rose Depp can look younger than her age, no one better try and say she was playing a 12 year old or whatever in that first scene, because there is no way you can convince me she is as young as that. Also, Ellen hadn't been emotionally attached to Orlok between the years to make it grooming. I can make a better argument of grooming in another famous Gothic movie the 2004 "Phantom of the Opera" then I could with "Nosferatu".

Listen, this movie won't be for everyone, that is fine, but what I have an issue with is saying people are dumb or evil for thinking Ellen x Orlok is interesting/has romantic elements to it. One person commented on another's post about saying that the cast are dumb for seeing this as a love triangle, especially Lily-Rose Depp for not seeing Ellen as a victim. The director, who also wrote it, wanted this version to play up the Death and the Maiden themes, that was their vision, and I don't think it's right or fair to say they are dumb because the original movie wasn't a love triangle. If we were to be really anal about it, so many pieces of media we have we wouldn't be able to enjoy because it's origins are not the same. Sorry Disney's Hunchback fans, you can't enjoy the happy ending because the original was a downer. Sorry Wicked fans, it's nothing like "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", so it shouldn't be enjoyed. See how ridiculous it sounds? You can debate if whether or not they managed to achieve their goal, but you can't deny that was the intention and say people are dumb for picking up what they had intended.

I also feel that it's quite hypocritical of people to say that the relationship between Orlok and Ellen is evil and creepy, but then go off and say that the scenes where Friedrich has sex with Anna's corpse as "romantic" and Thomas' couch scene as "hot", when both deal with dubious/no consent at all. Just admit it, you are fine with dubious stuff so long as it's a hot guy doing it. The couch scene was quite uncomfortable for me, Ellen is clearly not in her right mind, even if not by some kind of possession, but emotionally, and it didn't sit right what Thomas did. I am not saying he raped her, but she wasn't in the right mind space to have this be a passionate moment. And he wasn't doing because of love or passion, he was doing it because he didn't like hearing Ellen say how he couldn't please her like the Count could. We had seen what they are like when they are in a good head space and the feeling mutual, as we saw in the den of the Harding's home. I feel like this scene wasn't meant to be a hot and sexy moment, but a incredibly distressing moment when two individuals are acting at their worst.

I don't understand how people feel that this film isn't a feminist film. I've seen people claim that the movie shames Ellen and that her not finding out how to stop Orlok is robbing her of her agency. Here's the thing, yes, many characters shame her for what she feels, but the narrative doesn't. As the audience, we feel sorry for her, feel bad for everything she is going through, and given the time period, of course there would be many people (mainly men) who will shame her passions or deny her darkness in favor for a more "womanly behavior". We are meant to see how the human world would never understand Ellen the way Orlok would understand her, why she would have called out a force that is inhuman, because humanity has turned her away. What's fascinating is that Ellen has control of Orlok, being able to call him, speak to him as an equal, and get him, a powerful centuries old being, to admit that she is his affliction, his weakness, and in the end, it's proven right. This mortal woman is able to defeat a supernatural being, all the while him loving her, how is that not awesome and feminist?

In regards to her finding the cure; true, in both the '22 and '79 film, Ellen figure out on her own what needs to be done to stop Orlok, but that doesn't mean '24 Ellen isn't smart or in charge of her own actions. We've seen Ellen say what the future holds multiple times, so it isn't crazy to believe that she would have seen what her fate would have been as it drew closer, and her need to talk to Von Franz read to me as her knowing the cure. When Ellen walks Von Franz to his home, she says that she knows what must be done, and they work together to make this happen, with him promising to keep Thomas away. Out of all the men, Von Franz had been the only one to take her feelings and thoughts seriously, and he does so here, including her in the plan (where Thomas had refused her to help), even giving her the chance to be stop Orlok without interruption. He isn't denying her agency, he's keeping others at bay so she can be the hero.

I like the moustache, just like a Romanian nobleman would have had, exactly what the director wanted. After leaving the theatre, my friend and I were discussing the film, and of course the design of Orlok was brought up, and she said "I liked it, especially the moustache, very Vlad the Impaler". She isn't a massive Dracula fan but she understood what was the inspiration behind it. Y'all are just uncultured swine.

In the end, I love this film, and wanted to just share my two cents.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic Preview

A sneak peek of the next chapter of Come Away, O Human Child

“Where did all the water go?”

“All right, you can just drop Chris off at Abuela’s after you two get back from the pier today…she’s gonna keep him overnight,” Eddie says as he enters the kitchen, still threading his belt through the loops on his pants.

Buck salutes him half-heartedly with his coffee mug, still mostly asleep and slumped over on the kitchen table. He makes a vaguely content noise when Eddie runs his hand through his hair on the way to the coffeepot, reaching up to snag his partner’s wrist and reeling him in for a brief, toothpaste-flavored kiss before letting him go. He watches Eddie fill his travel mug and add cream and sugar to his liking, enjoying the way the early-morning sunlight creeping in through the window over the sink paints his partner’s skin in warm, golden light.

“You sure you still feel like taking him out? You could just go see a movie or something—or even just hang out and play video games all day. He won’t be disappointed,” Eddie says, rifling through the pantry and pulling out a couple of protein bars. Bobby will no doubt have an actual breakfast going at the firehouse. Just last week, Buck probably would have woken Chris up a little early and following Eddie in to eat at the 118 before setting out with Chris on their planned adventure.

He doesn’t want to right now, though. He doesn’t want to even see Bobby, and he knows he wouldn’t be able to hide his upset from the rest of the team.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he mumbles finally, when Eddie turns back to him with a raised eyebrow and he realizes he hasn’t actually answered the question. He sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Eddie presses his lips together, glancing at his watch before sitting down at the table across from him. He slides his hand onto the tabletop, turning it over so his palm is open in invitation, and Buck takes it in an instant. “You’ve been really quiet since the party. And I mean…I know I said I’d give you time to get your head around whatever it is. But…I dunno, I just don’t want you to think I haven’t noticed.”

Buck’s hand tightens around Eddie’s, almost involuntarily. The words, combined with the genuine concern and care he can read in his partner’s dark eyes, settling like a warm, solid weight in his chest. “I’m all right,” he says softly, and for the moment it’s almost true.

Eddie watches him a moment longer, his gaze sharp and assessing, before finally nodding. “All right. But I still mean it—we’re sitting down while Chris is at Abuela’s and we’re hashing everything out. We’ve got this, okay?”

Buck both desperately wants and desperately wants to avoid that conversation. He is ashamed to admit it, but he’s afraid to tell Eddie what he learned about what Bobby has been doing behind the scenes to delay his recertification. Afraid to tell him about the conversation he had with Eddie’s mother right before the shield ceremony. Try as he might, he cannot drown out the part of him insisting that Eddie will agree with them. Maybe not at first…but after he has time to sit back and really think about it? After he takes a good, hard look at their arguments and reasons?

Unwanted thing. Unloved thing.

He shakes his head, trying to banish the queasy feeling in his gut that never quite vanishes lately. Deep down, he knows it’s not really fair to assume what Eddie’s thoughts will be—isn’t that partially how he got into the whole mess of not being able to speak about his curse with people who don’t already know about it? He knows he’s not doing right by Eddie, not doing right by this new thing that has sprouted between them and quickly become the most important of all the roots grounding Buck in LA…but he can’t bring himself to stop, either.

Unwanted.

“I know we do,” he says instead, swallowing back all his fears, all his doubts, swallowing them down and forcing them aside for just a little longer. Just a little more time, he thinks…a little more time to soak up this up, to wrap himself in the beautiful, impossible dream of this life, this family, this man for just a little longer.

Wait…that…that makes no sense. Eddie’s not…he hasn’t given any indication that he’s not just as in this as Buck is. He isn’t acting like it’s all temporary. He’s pulled Buck right into the center of his family, with him and Chris. He’s carved out space in his home, his life, offered it all up to Buck. Eddie’s mother is wrong. Eddie’s not going to just toss him aside for someone else—he would never do that to Buck. Why is he—

His head aches.

Poor unwanted thing…

“Where did all the water go?”

*

The water rushes around him, battering, pulling, clawing at his body. Debris slams into him—wood, garbage, carnival toys, branches, food, the collected detritus of the boardwalk that is now underwater and he can barely cling to the string of lights stretching over him. His ocean boon burns on his chest, the magic Sara and Rafael gifted him with feeling like acid dripping through him as he turns his head and vomits up water he’d swallowed. The boon makes it hard for him to drown in seawater—will help him stay afloat, will force his body to expel water, can increase his lung capacity.

But it is not gentle about it.

“Christopher!” he screams. “Chris!” He searches the churning, frothing water, his eyes darting over the debris bobbing along like toys in some giant’s bathtub. Cars and bikes and shopping bags and canvas tents that had housed boardwalk games, God how will he find Chris in all this? “Chris!” he screams again, his throat burning, panic choking him. All he can hear is the roar of water, the ocean tearing into the land, racing through the streets and upending everything. He can’t find him. Then, faintly, so faintly he almost misses it:

“Buck!”

He gasps, pulling himself up as far out of the water as he can. “Chris? Chris!” He scans his surroundings, his heart pounding, fear and adrenaline crashing through him. Finally, finally he catches a glimpse of the yellow shirt Christopher was wearing, a small, dark head bobbing above the torrent. Chris clings to a streetlamp, a few dozen yards away. “Christopher! I see you! I’m coming!”

There is no room for hesitation, for planning. He closes his eyes, centers himself, and lets go of the cable, plunging back down into the rushing water. The boon pulses on his chest and he lets the magic take him, his perfect faith in the gift his friends had given him carrying him as he cuts through the wild water like an arrow, aiming as best he can for Chris. The current is strong, impossible to fight, and even the ocean boon can’t give him the power he’d need to completely control his trajectory. He ducks under the water and comes up again, straining towards the lamppost Chris is barely hanging onto. He’s a strong swimmer even without the ocean boon, always has been, but the water rushing around him is a force of nature, utter chaos. He’s not going to be able to hit the post head on, the current tugging him to the side, pushing him away, away, away.

“Grab my hand!” he bellows desperately, turning over on his back and trying to tread water, slow himself enough to give Chris time to orient himself; get ready. “Reach out and grab my hand!”

Chris tries. For a split-second Buck thinks he’s going to make it and he strains forward, kicking against the water, reaching for Chris as hard as he can.

“No! No, no!” Not far enough. The tips of his fingers barely brush Christopher’s, the water carrying him away before he can latch onto the boy’s hand. For a moment, he thinks Chris is going to let go of the pole to try and dive after him and new horror rushes through him. “No, Chris! Stay right there!”

“I can’t hold on!” Christopher screams, terror cracking his small voice.

“Just hold on, Christopher!” he begs, searching for something, anything he can grab and brace himself on. Chris is going to lose his grip. It’s going to happen and Buck will have one chance to save him. One chance to reach him. If he loses Christopher now, he’ll die. He’ll drown in the frothing, rabid waves or he’ll be crushed by some flooded debris, but he will die. Buck has one chance.

He catches a drift of debris out of the corner of his eye—piled up vehicles, maybe some kind of food cart, with what looks like a surfboard sticking out further into the water—and twists his body, pulling towards it until he fetches up hard against the board. Christopher howls his name as he pulls himself from the water, turns, braces himself ready to leap.

He has one chance.

Christopher’s grip slips from the streetlamp.

"Where did all the water go?"

[totallyanopossum]

Ghost cares for sick gender neutral reader with happy ending bath. 

Ghost Drabble

He comes home to his sweetheart, usually when he enters and the door opens they come bounding towards him, but not this time. He looks to see if they are in the kitchen baking, or in the living room cozied up watching something, or on the balcony enjoying her plants, but they are not there making him panic. He tosses his bag aside and rushes to the bedroom. The lights are dim but they are there, swaddled in blankets with their stuffed animal watching one of their comfort movies.

Their reaction time is slowed, but they turn to look at Simon in the threshold, and are so relieved that he is back,they hate being sick alone makes them feel scared.

Y/N- “ Si”

He can hear how tired and relieved they are to have him back by their tone and rushes to their bedside. Immediately feeling their forehead and checking their pulse, both seem okay.

Simon- “ lovey what's wrong?”

Y/N- “ im sick, exhausted ”

Simon- “ its okay, im here now, ill take care of ya”

Simon climbs into bed with them, taking his place as big spoon fitting into his impression divot in the mattress. He gently pulls their against him, their bodies flush together, his missed this being so close to them. He missed the feel of their body, how they fits perfectly against him, their scent, their soft skin, they are his missing piece. He hates that his sweetheart is sick and that he cant scare away or beat up their illness, this will require making some soup and a quick run to the pharmacy. 

But first he needs to hold them, for both their goods. So he can reconnect with them, which really just means a lot of sniffing and petting . And this reassures them, takes away their fears; fear of their big guy not coming home and fear of being sick alone. 

He brushes their messy bangs out of the way and kisses their forehead, while he asks about their symptoms so he can get the right meds. He doesn't want to leave them but after the one errand he wont be leaving their side again, and this must be done to help them get better.

Simon- “ ill be right back with your medicine lovey”

Y/N- “ be quick”

Simon- “ nothing could keep me from you”

The pharmacy isn't far so he walks instead of risking some traffic mishap. Anybody who saw him power walking, well more like marching down the pavement quickly moved aside worried they would be mowed down if they got in his way. He was radiating Dont Fucking Get In My Way energy the whole trip, scaring the pharmacy tech badly. 

Once home his demeanor softens again. He helps sit them up, giving the medicine, then heads to the kitchen to prepare the soup. He gets everything set up for them on the counter then heads to the bedroom to get them.

Simon- “ soups ready”

They sit up and move to stand but he stops them, stepping in and scooping them up in his arms and carries them to the kitchen, setting them in the counter chair in front of their meal. 

Y/N- “ thanks Si” 

Simon- “ you know id never let your feet touch the group again if you ask”

Y/N- “ I know, if only I didn't like seeing our height difference so much”

They eat their soup and toast while Simon sits beside them, elbow resting on the counter as he watches them eat. At first they had found this behavior a bit unsettling and awkward but they have learned that he's just infatuated with everything they do, from eating a meal, to brushing their hair, to choking on his fat cock. 

They really wish they weren't sick for his return, which means they can't give him a proper home coming, big emphasis on the cuming. On the day he returns its their things to jump in bed and pleasure each other till one, or both of them passes out, but this time that's canceled making them feel a bit guilty.   

Y/N- “ Simon, im sorry im sick”

Simon- “ Dont be, its alright, cant he helped”

Y/N- “ But your homecoming, we always-”

Simon- “ Awe thats what your worried about, Dont be Lovey once your better ill ravish you proper” 

Y/N- “ But, umm, could we take a bath instead be close” 

Simon- “ yes, it will help your congestion to”

So once they are done eating he gets the bath ready, testing the temp, filling the tub, and adding some bath salts. He was apprehensive of baths when they first tried to make him take one, and even more so about the bath salts and additives they put in the water but it was a much better experience then he expected, not only didn't the additives smell good but they relaxed his muscles, now it's something he does often with them.

Simon strips fully and goes to get them, loving the way their pupils blow wide, mouth hands agape, and eyes trail over him landing between his legs. He can't help but let out a chuckle at his effect on his sweetheart, he's glad that no matter how many times they have seen him, he still elicits such a strong response.

Sweetheart just lifts their arms up ready for Simon to strip them, completely giving in and giving themselves over to him, all while their cheeks are turning red. They know Simon wont fuck them while they are sick but doesnt mean they cant enjoy the view, in the beginning they hated how easily they blushed but Simon loves that being able to easily see the effect he has.

He carries them to the bath, settling them on his lap, positioning himself between their thighs loving the feel of their soft plush things against his cock. He knows sweetheart isnt in any condition to fuck, especially not the rough way they do it, he just cant hold back with them. In the beginning he was worried about being too rough with them and tried holding back but his sweetheart is perfect and loves the way Simon lets loose on them, drilling them into the mattress, bending them in new ways reaching deeper and deeper, or pressing them into the wall as he holds them up. It did take some work at first stretching sweethearts holes enough to take him but it was so much fun, Simon has engrained those memories deep never wanting to forget the way they begged, whined, moaned in painful pleasure, the moment he first finally went balls deep, the first time they let him try anal, the first time they came together, the way the lines of the pillow imprint on their face after drilling them into the mattress relentlessly. 

He got lost in thought but now quickly comes back to reality as sweetheart clenches their thighs around him, tilts their head back looking up at him batting her lashes with that playful smirk. 

Simon- “ Lovey you don't have to”

Y/N- “ but I want to, please Si let me make you feel good, then I'll be good and rest, okay?”

But they hadn't waited for an answer while saying that they had already started to give him a thigh-job. He's already gone tense under them, breath already hitching, fingers already grasping at their body digging into their flesh.

Simon- “ Y..your always naughty”

Y/N- “do you want me to stop?”

Simon- “ N..No”

They clench their thighs around his thick fat cock tighter, making their big man turn into a whimpering mess. They love making Simon feel good, pleasuring him, love breaking his composer, turning him into their whispering mess of a man completely at their mercy. 

He's been dreaming of them for months, his hand nothing in comparison to his sweetheart. All that anticipation makes his finish embarrassingly quick,as he climaxes he grabs on to sweetheart wrapping his large arms around them, holding them tight as he spills a large load all over their thighs and into the water. 

Simon- “ I love you sweetheart”

Y/N- “ I love you too Simon”

It takes a few minutes for his breathing to return to normal, once it does he releases his tight grip on sweetheart, hoping he didn't squeeze too hard.

Simon- “ Did I hold too tight lovey?”

Y/N- “no, i missed your hugs”

Simon- “ we’er gonna need to shower”

Y/N- “ in a minute”

After rinsing off, he gets them both changed and cozied up in bed, finishing the movie they were watching before. 

[whumpitisthen]

Limbo

Previous I Masterlist I Next

CWs: dissociation/derealisation [whumpee thinking they aren't really alive], mentioned torture, mentioned character death, a candid conversation about death with Death the jolly fellow himself, angel whumpee, deity whumper, religious themes, carewhumper, the poor boy has no idea what's coming the boy is not doing so well :/ if only there was someone who cared :pensive: ( <- actively making him worse)

“Am I dead?”

The angel looks far away, grey, foggy under his skin. He perches on the bed he was provided, in the lavish guest room he was given. It's an emperor-size bed; it makes him look little with his bruised-up legs hanging off the edge.

Sitting at the long dinner table, legs propped up as he leans back in his chair, Grim hums distractedly. — “Hm?”

“Am I dead?” — Auden repeats after a swallow of consideration, this time at least managing to sound like he wasn't just talking to himself.

The Reaper’s lips curl with a slow hum. He forgets about the pen he was twirling — always playing, always busying his hands with something. A pen, a blade, someone's hair. His hand pauses only briefly, then he continues spinning it between his fingers like he never stopped. — “Mm. It feels like that, doesn’t it.”

There is the sound of thunder, far away, but close enough that Auden can hear it rumble. The sound of his Fall. It scares him so much he can barely breathe. His hands dig into the heavenly soft sheets, feeling undeserving. A moment passes.

“Mori,” — he starts quietly, voice breaking, — “they um… I did not mean to, I really didn't, but I asked them how uh, h-how they got,” — he gestures vaguely in the direction of the intimidating double doors leading into the bedroom, — “...here.”

He feels so similar to how he felt on the day Grim brought him home. Weak and hazy, no particular colour to him. Just tired. Shaken, commanding about as much presence as a ghost.

“It was really stupid, I know. It would be insensitive to ask anyone that, right? Especially so out of the blue, like I did. But I did not m-mean it um, literally. I just thought — I thought they were so nice. So kind. They, I, I did not expect anyone here to be nice. Not to me. I-It surprised me.”

They never found out what he really meant. He meant it to be a compliment. They took it as an order. — “That is what I had meant,” — he tells the Mori in his memory, a small murmur, as if they could still hear him, still trying to explain himself.

“They had gone quiet, and I um, I told them they didn't have to t-tell me anything they didn't want to. I felt horrible. But I asked them, so they answered.”

Now Auden is the one going quiet. He doesn't know how to continue, or if he even wants to. His melancholic rambling isn't even fully directed at the Reaper. Grim’s interest has been piqued, however. — “And what did they tell you?”

Auden squirms, frowning. — “Not pleasant things.”

“Is that so,” — muses the deity, expecting this to be the end of the conversation. For a minute it was, but then the angel finds it in himself to continue.

“They told me they came close to dying, many times. They told me they did die, but not literally — that confused me a little, but I’m, uh, I think I am starting to get it.” — Stealing a glance at the Reaper, he sees a bit of humour glint in his vermilion eyes. He must know the story as well as Mori, though, unlike them, he clearly finds the tale a lot more amusing. — “They said they barely remembered who they were before… before you um, saved them.”

The way he is saying all this makes it seem like he has some sort of conundrum he must solve. Like every bit of information Mori had relayed to him is a puzzle piece. However, while it is fun hearing about how Mori remembers their meeting, Grim does not enjoy long roundabout tangents that go on forever. Setting aside the pen, he stretches, swinging those heavy boots off the table, and fixes Auden with a questioning look. — “This is a lovely retelling darling, but is there somewhere you are going with this? Or did you just feel like sharing with me something I already know?”

The thunderstorm flies ever closer. Static ruffles the feathers on Auden's wings. His shoulders hitch higher, hiding him.

“You saved Mori…”

“Mhm.”

“And you saved me, from the, the dragon lady.”

Grim laughs. — “I did.”

“S-So, since Mori was saved by you when they were dying, and I was saved when I was near death, and we both ended up here, here w-with, well, with you…” — he trails off, hesitant to finish his train of thought. It's like he can't even bring himself to say it.

Finally, Grim's expectant gaze forces the words to tumble out of his mouth anyway.

“I was wondering if maybe… I did die.”

The silence is so loud Auden doesn't even dare to look up, afraid that all he would find is a pitying, mocking grin. His guess at the Reaper's expression is not far off.

“Are you asking me?” — Grim asks belatedly. The fanged smile is clear enough in his voice.

“...Nothing really felt real since then,” — Auden finishes vaguely, weakly, eyes stuck to his own shaky hands clasped around each other in his lap. He feels silly, now. Saying it all aloud made it sound like it's either the most obvious or the most stupid assumption in the world. He can't tell which one it is from the Reaper's mood, but shame sears his cheeks nevertheless.

It takes another moment of cruel silence before he is granted a curious reply; — “Where do you suppose you are right now?”

Auden curls up a little more. — “Somewhere between alive and dead.”

Oh, the poor thing is lost, in more ways than just one.

Grim thinks for a minute, leaning his temple onto his fist. The angel's reality has been all but turned upside down, and now his mind is fracturing. Perhaps the shards could be built into something vastly different. His Lord does find moulding minds especially enjoyable, though such a process can be unfathomably delicate. Still, for now, the safest way forward may just be care and patience. The angel is confused enough as it is, and while hilarious, he doesn't want his lamb losing all touch with reality before meeting his new master. He will have a difficult enough time keeping track of what is real under his care anyway.

“Where do angels go when they die?” — he inquires instead, half interested in Auden's answer himself.

“They don't…”

Grim rolls his eyes. Of course. — “Where do Fallen go?”

“To Hell,” — Auden answers promptly, but then thinks further, and finds the answer insufficient. He doesn't really know what happens to Fallen Angels besides ‘eternal damnation’, since that is just a sentence, not reality. He just never thought to think further than that. Because Fallen can die. They do die, swiftly, once they reach here, once demons find them and tear them apart. — “But, but when they die… I am not sure.”

“Would you like to know?” — the Reaper asks with an easy smile.

Auden lifts his head, a little surprised to be offered to be let in on such secrets of life and death. Asking questions rarely lead to straight answers back up in his Heaven. Most of the time, he was met with disdainful expressions and waved off, told that these kinds of matters should not interest him, or, more humiliatingly, that he should already know the answer. Embarrassed, he learned not to ask questions, and only now is he starting to realise how much of his present knowledge is made up of his own assumptions.

To think he would be learning of death from Death himself — and for his silly question to be met with an unexpectedly straightforward desire to answer; no mocking, nor judgement, nor annoyance…

A small glimmer returns to his eyes as he looks to the deity intently. — “Yes please,” — he whispers, amazed, a little reverent.

The Reaper lifts a claw and beckons Auden over. The angel slides off the mattress and begins walking over obediently, only to stop in his tracks all of a sudden, hesitating.

“W-Wait, no, no I don't,” — he stutters, waving his hands out in front of him, seemingly swiftly having changed his mind. — “You don't have to, to show — I'll, I'm sorry…”

Grim is confused for a moment, not understanding the sudden reluctance, his outstretched hand sinking ever so slightly. Then, he chuckles, light as a cloud. He waves his hand dismissively. — “Oh, no, not like that. That did sound somewhat threatening, I will admit. No need to fear; you are a smart boy, you do not need such demonstration.”

Being beckoned to come closer by the Reaper after inquiring about what happens to Fallen when they die — Grim can't exactly fault the angel for hesitating. Nevertheless, with a small bit more encouragement, the nervous dove sulks up to him cautiously in the end, keeping his hands close in front of him.

“Choose one,” — the Reaper says, motioning to the jade porcelain vase filled to the brim with fresh roses set in the middle of the table. Auden saw so many bouquets arranged in large pots lining the hall as he was looking for a way out. He wonders just how much work it takes to keep every one of them filled and replenished in such a massive mansion.

Once he has made his choice — sliding free the flower that least upsets the balance of the rest as he takes it out — he looks to the Reaper. The Reaper picks one for himself and lifts it to his nose.

“When angels die, their souls float towards Heaven.” — He flips the rose downwards, letting it flop on the table. — “When demons die, their souls remain stuck here. And when Fallen die — ”

The radiant red petals are suddenly wilting, growing limp and dark, then dry and ugly in the Reaper's hand. Auden watches the healthy, beautiful flower rot, and then finally completely erode into black ashes, floating in the air like smoke after a wildfire, leaving nothing behind. Some sort of twisted awe leaves his mouth open and raises the hairs on the back of his neck in seeing the effects of Death's touch. Obliteration, destruction, extinction — with just a single touch…

He held that same hand from Miss Thu’lin’s palace all the way here.

“When Fallen die,” — Grim repeats as he rubs the pads of his fingers together to rid them of the flower's remains, — “their souls have nowhere left to go, so they disperse, just like that. Like a warm breath on a cold winter night.”

Auden clutches his own rose close to his chest, far, far from those deadly talons of shadow. — “Do they just… cease to exist? Permanently?”

The angel's wide eyes bring fondness to the Reaper's smile. He asks, instead of answering; — “do you think you exist?”

“...I don't know,” — Auden admits, a hushed whisper.

The fondness remains as he puts his hand out, scaring a flinch out of the angel. Auden goes to carefully place his rose into Death's hand, but he takes hold of Auden's wrist before he could, plucking it from him and returning it to the vase. He holds his hand gently, but firmly, feeling resistance. It's hard to tell the difference between his silver jewellery and icy skin.

“You are alive, my dear,” — assures Grim, making sure Auden hears him, looking directly into his eyes, — “you are here with me, and that should be all the evidence you need that you still exist as, if you didn't, I could never find you again.”

The young angel's lips quiver, his eyes growing misty, but he listens, and tries in earnest to believe those words. His eyes flicker down as the Reaper's thumb runs across the back of his hand. Back and forth, slow and gentle. Auden's face never crumbles fully, his tears silent as they flow.

Death's frigid kiss presses onto his knuckles like a curse, and the angel forgets to pull away.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpifi @sordayciega @a-miscellaneous-number-of-rats

Taglist (tagged in everything I write): @morning-star-whump @whumprince @a-living-canvas

[mariasont]

Trying It On - K.R

a/n: so this might be a surprise for everyone because ive never posted anything other than hotch & spence but alas! my kylo ren fixation is resurfacing so i wanted to write this! enjoy! or scroll and don’t

parings: kylo ren x maid!fem!reader

warnings: size kink ish, not smut but not fluff necessarily, mention of nips, kylo being an asshole, shy!reader

wc: 3k

The atmosphere in Kylo Ren's chambers was unlike anywhere else aboard the ship--dense, oppressive, almost as though the very air itself resented intrusion. Shadows sprawled across the cold, metallic walls, their jagged edges twisting under the flicker of dim, blood-red lighting.

A low, steady vibration from the ship's engines filled the air, more felt than heard. It buzzed at the base of your skull, like a distant warning that you were not welcome. But you surely didn't need reminder.

You'd thought the same thing the first time you were assigned to clean his quarters. Kylo Ren did not seem like the kind of man who would tolerate someone invading his space, let alone dusting it. Yet here you were, week after week, meticulously wiping down surfaces that barely collected dirt and scrubbing floors that already gleamed. His room was as cold and methodical as the man himself--or at least what you assumed about him.

Thankfully, the supreme leader in question was almost never here. You'd been cleaning his room for weeks now, and in all that time, you'd never once run into him. Not face-to-face, at least. His absence was a blessing. Staying invisible was your survival strategy aboard the Finalizer, and it worked perfectly as long as he remained a distant, untouchable figure.

Not that it stopped your imagination from filling the void.

No one aboard the ship really knew anything concrete about him—what he was like beneath the mask, what he thought, what he wanted. Rumors swirled about the man beneath the mask—some whispered that he was a monster, others insisted he was little more than a broken boy pretending to be a leader. But none of it mattered to you. The less you knew, the safer you were. 

So you stuck to your routine. His chambers were suffocatingly tidy, so cleaning usually meant little more than wiping invisible smudges from glassy surfaces and making sure everything stayed exactly where it belonged. It was like cleaning a tomb: sterile, lifeless, and reeking of death.

There was one unspoken rule was that you found simple: don't touch anything personal. Not that Kylo Ren left much of himself behind in this space. It was like he existed here, but only barely.

At least, that's how it had been. Until today.

The desk caught your eye--or more specifically, his gloves. They lay there, blunt and misplaced, as though tossed aside in a rare moment of carelessness. Kylo Ren's belongings were never out of place. He didn't make mistakes, didn't leave evidence of imperfection. But there they were, unmistakably his.

You should have ignored them. You told yourself to keep cleaning, to focus on your task and pretend you hadn't noticed. But your feet carried you closer, your gaze fixed on the gloves like they were forbidden relics.

One of them had a tear along the palm, the leather jagged and worn. Dried blood crusted the edges of the tear, dark and cracked. The sight made your stomach tighten. His blood. The Supreme Leader's blood.

The thought was unsettling and somehow intimate in a way you hadn't expected. Kylo Ren was supposed to be untouchable, unbreakable. Seeing proof of his mortality, his vulnerability--felt like witnessing something you weren't meant to see.

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the gloves. You could just leave them. That would be the smart thing to do. But a gnawing sense of duty—and something darker, sharper—kept you rooted in place. You couldn't leave them like this. It felt wrong, as though the gloves themselves were accusing you of negligence.

Fix them.

The thought came unbidden, but it rooted itself in your mind, firm and insistent.

You reached out and picked up the torn glove. 

The leather was cool against your skin, heavier than you'd expected. A sharp, electric scent clung to it—a mix of sweat, metal, and something faintly smoky, like scorched ozone. Turning it over in your hands, you traced the edges of the tear with the pad of your thumb.

It felt... alive.

You couldn't explain it, but the glove seemed to hum faintly in your grasp, as though it still carried some trace of him. Your chest tightened, your breath catching as an unwelcome curiosity bloomed within you.

Before you could stop yourself, you slipped your hand inside.

The leather swallowed your fingers immediately, the sheer size of it making you gasp. Your hand felt impossibly small, comically so, the fingers of the glove far too long and thick for your own. You flexed your hand experimentally, the leather creaking faintly, and tried to imagine the man who filled it. His hands had to be enormous, strong. Inhuman.

The soft hiss of the door sliding open yanked you from your thoughts. 

Your body went rigid, heat flooding your face and neck before being replaced by an icy dread that locked your limbs in place. You didn't need to look; the shift in the air told you everything. It thickened, heavy with a suffocating energy that pressed down on you, crawling across your skin like an insect.

Still, you turned—slowly, unwillingly—like a puppet pulled by unseen strings.

Kylo Ren filled the doorway, his towering silhouette backlit by the cold, sterile light of the corridor behind him. The black of his robes bled into the shadows pooling along the walls, stretching his presence into something larger, something that felt more like a living nightmare than a man. His mask gleamed under the blood-red light of the room, its angular design harsh and unforgiving, a sharp, impenetrable barrier that erased any trace of humanity.

The glove was still on your hand. 

Your heart seized, your chest tightening with a sick jolt of realization. The leather felt impossibly tight now, alien and wrong against your skin. You wanted to rip it off, to hide it, to erase the evidence of your mistake, but your body betrayed you. Your arms wouldn't move, your legs rooted to the spot as if the air itself had turned solid, trapping you in place.

He stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind him with another soft hiss. The sound felt louder than it should, final, like the lid of a coffin sealing. His boots struck the floor with torturing slowness, each step reverberating in the pit of your stomach.

The air grew colder, thinner. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

His head tilted slightly, the faint shift of his mask cutting through the haze clouding your thoughts. His gaze—hidden behind the black void of his visor—dropped to your hand. He knew. Of course, he knew. And yet, he didn't speak, didn't react—he simply looked.

"I—I wasn't—" Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, trying to force the words out. "I mean, I didn't— I was just—cleaning! I swear, I didn't mean to—"

The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, but they sounded hollow, even to you.

He said nothing. 

His silence pressed tighter, suffocating the room, until you were choking on your own excuses. Your mind scrambled for anything to fill it.

"I thought I could fix it!" you blurted, the words almost tripping over each other in their rush to escape. "It was torn, and I—I wasn't thinking, I just—"

You trailed off, the sheer absurdity of your own words hitting you like a blow. Fix it?  What kind of excuse was that? The flush burning your cheeks spread down your neck, shame twisting like a knot in your stomach.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible now. "I shouldn't have touched it. I—"

Still, he said nothing. 

His head tilted again, the slow, curt motion somehow sharper, more predatory.

He was enormous, you realized. Even without the armor, his presence would have overwhelmed the space, but the black robes and impenetrable mask made him seem otherworldly, something far beyond human. Power radiated from him in waves, suffusing the air until it felt like you were drowning in it.

This was your first time seeing him so close. Not from across the hangar bay, not giving orders in a distant, booming voice over comms. Here. Now. Inches away.

And it was worse—so much worse—than you'd imagined.

The mask was the first thing you noticed, sharp and brutal, a perfect reflection of the man who wore it. But it was the way he moved that sent ice curling through your veins. Every motion was measured, purposeful, as if he wasted nothing—not a word, not a glance, not a step. He wasn't just a man standing before you. He was a force, something raw and primal that made the room thick with tension.

Your knees wobbled, and for one horrifying second, you thought they might give out entirely. Or worse—piss yourself.

The masked man took another step forward, and the faint heat radiating from him brushed against you despite the cloak. It coiled in the space between you, overbearing and intimate, making the hairs on your arm raise. 

The leather glove on your hand suddenly felt like a brand, searing into your skin, marking you as a trespasser.

"I..." Your voice cracked again. "I didn't mean—"

"Silence."

The word was soft, almost a whisper, but it struck like a slap. Your mouth snapped shut, and you flinched, your whole body trembling under the weight of his command.

The room fell deathly quiet. 

The only sound was the faint rasp of your own ragged breathing. You dared to look up, your gaze locking onto the dark, empty void of his mask. 

For a moment, it felt like he could see through it, through you, peeling back every layer to the raw, trembling thing beneath.

"Why," he said finally, his voice low and mechanical, vibrating with barely-contained menace, "are you wearing my glove?"

The question hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. 

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. What could you possibly say? That you'd been curious? That you couldn't help yourself? 

"I..." you stammered, the single syllable brittle in your throat. "I—"

"You must be braver than I thought," he said, his tone softer now, almost mocking. "Or just stupid enough to think you could touch what belongs to me and walk away unscathed."

"I didn't mean to—" you started, but his hand lifted sharply, cutting you off. 

"What does it feel like?" he asked, taking a step closer, the air between you seeming to thin as his towering frame filled your vision. He tilted his head again, the mask catching the dim light, making the sharp edges gleam. "To wear something made for me? Does it make you feel strong? Like you could be something more than what you are?"

You shook your head frantically, your voice a trembling whisper. "N-no. I didn't—I wasn't—"

"Liar." 

The word was cold and clinical, more a statement of fact than an accusation, and it sliced through your frantic denial with devastating precision.

"You wouldn't have put it on," he said, stepping closer still, his cape brushing faintly against your leg, "if you didn't want to know. If you didn't need to know."

His voice softened, curling around you like smoke. "Tell me—do you think you deserve to wear something of mine? Something that carries my blood?"

Your stomach twisted, shame coiling tightly inside you. You wanted to disappear, to melt into the floor and escape the weight of his gaze. But there was nowhere to go.

"Does it fit?" he asked, his eyes—or what you imagined must be his eyes—dropping to your hand, trembling beneath the glove. "Or does it remind you how inferior you are?" 

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, your voice barely audible. "It doesn't fit."

"Of course, it doesn't." The faint edge of amusement in his voice only deepened your humiliation. "Take it off."

Your hands moved instinctively, fumbling to obey. The glove clung stubbornly to your skin, the leather slick with the sweat now pooling in your palms, and panic flared when the moment stretched longer than it should have. His silence made it worse—made everything worse.

Finally, you managed to pull the glove free, the sound of the leather slipping off seeming deafening in the tense stillness.

You held it out to him, your hand shaking, desperate to rid yourself of the damning object. But he didn't take it.

Instead, he extended his bare hand, palm up. 

The sight of it gave you pause. His hand was scarred, the rough, uneven ridges of old wounds crisscrossing his palm and fingers. A fresh scar, raw and jagged, ran along the edge of his thumb, the angry red line contrasting sharply against his pale skin.

It struck you in a way you couldn't explain—startling and disarming. He's human. 

The thought lingered, unsettling in its clarity. The scars, the warmth you'd felt beneath the glove—they were proof of his mortality. And yet, the mask loomed above, sharp and alien, reminding you that whatever he was, it wasn't the same as you.

You hesitated, your hand hovering over his, unsure of what to do. He didn't speak, didn't move. And yet, an unshakable certainty settled over you, sinking into your mind like a whispered command.

He wanted you to put it on him.

You didn't know how you knew, but you did. The realization sent a chill through you, your stomach knotting as you realized the truth. He wasn't speaking. He wasn't asking. But the thought had rooted itself in your mind with an undeniable clarity. 

You'd heard the stories, the rumors of how Kylo Ren could rip thoughts from minds, implant commands with nothing more than a flicker of will. And now, he was doing it to you.

Your breath quickened as you fought the pull, but your hands betrayed you. Trembling, you reached forward, sliding the glove back onto his outstretched hand. 

His skin was warm beneath your touch, the rough texture of his scars brushing against your fingertips. The contact jolted through you, a sharp static-like shock that made your hands freeze.

"Keep going," he murmured, his voice lower now, softer, yet no less commanding.

Your fingers worked clumsily, tugging the leather into place. The creak of it echoed faintly as you adjusted the glove, your hands brushing his again and again. Every touch felt charged, a hum of something electric and dangerous bleeding into your skin.

 He didn't move, didn't flinch.

When you finished, his other hand shot out, closing around your wrist with a grip that was firm but not painful.

You gasped, the sound soft and breathless, as your body jolted forward under the pull of his strength. Before you could steady yourself, something else—something unseen and immense—pressed you closer, like an invisible current drawing you into him.

Your chest collided with the hard planes of his armor, and the air rushed from your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale. He didn't move, but the rise and fall of his breath was steady, deliberate, and impossibly loud in the small, charged space between you.

You tried to breathe normally, but it was impossible. With every shallow inhale, your chest brushed against his, the thin fabric of your uniform doing nothing to shield you from the pressure. The friction made you hyperaware of everything: the heat of his body, the unyielding strength behind his touch, the way the rasp of your breath sounded so much louder now.

And worse—your body's unwelcome reaction.

You could feel your nipples hardening beneath your uniform, the traitorous response sending a wave of mortified heat flooding your face. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, desperate to will the sensation away, but it only made the tension more unbearable.

"Do you like touching what doesn't belong to you?" he asked, his voice dipping into a growl, vibrating through you as though it were coming from inside your own body.

Your lips parted, but no words came.

The question should have been easy to answer—should have been a firm, unequivocal no. But your mind was spinning, tangled in the storm of your own emotions. You couldn't think clearly, couldn't focus with his chest pressed so firmly against yours, the closeness making you feel trapped and exposed all at once.

Do you like it?

The thought wormed its way into your mind, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. You shouldn't like it. That much was clear. And yet, the truth stirred somewhere deep and unguarded inside you, a quiet, humiliating admission you couldn't bring yourself to confront.

The thought made you feel raw, stripped of every defense, as though he could see right through you.

And then he tilted his head, the subtle motion sending a shiver through you. Though his eyes were hidden behind the cold, lifeless mask, you could feel his gaze piercing into you, searching, uncovering the thing you hadn't dared to admit to yourself until now.

"Interesting," he said, his tone smooth and laced with something unreadable.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, unsure of what to do, unsure of how to breathe. Your chest pressed against his again, the closeness unbearable, and yet you couldn't pull away.

"Don't touch what isn't yours again," he said, his voice soft but weighted with an iron finality that sent a fresh wave of heat surging through your body.

You nodded quickly, instinctively, but your body betrayed you. Your chin tilted up slightly, your neck craning to look at him more fully, your gaze locking on his mask as if trying to glimpse the man beneath.

The pressure released abruptly, and you stumbled back, gasping for air as your chest heaved. Without his closeness, the space between you felt unbearable in a different way.

"You may go," he said, the words clipped, his tone cold.

The command made you flinch, and embarrassment bloomed in your chest, burning hotter than before. You nodded again, your face flushed, and turned toward the door, your movements hurried and clumsy as you fumbled to open it.

You're probably fired.

The thought struck like a hammer as you rushed for the exit, your pulse racing. The shame of it all—how close you'd been, how much you'd felt—clawed at your chest. But then again, you were alive. That was something.

Just as you stepped into the threshold, his voice stopped you in your tracks.

"You're not fired.”

Your head whipped around, wide-eyed and confused, your lips parting to speak, but no words came. He didn't say anything else, didn't clarify. He simply stood there, unmoving, the faint red glow of the room casting sharp shadows across his towering frame.

The realization hit you like a cold shock: He knows what you're thinking.

The whispers, the rumors—the stories you'd heard about Kylo Ren's power to rip thoughts from minds—flared in your memory. Your stomach twisted as the pieces clicked into place.

You nodded again, shakily this time, and turned back toward the hall. The door slid shut behind you with a hiss, cutting off the last bit of air tethered to him.

You pressed your back against the cold metal wall outside, your breath still unsteady, your heart crashing uncomfortably against your ribcage.

Alive. Not fired. But worse—he knew.

And somehow, the thought of it sent another ripple of heat through you that you couldn't explain.

[awakenthebeing]

Pipoe kawaii!

Both of your words in particular have caused Piepoe to feel very joyful and warm...!! It appreciates!!

[worstloki]

there is a difference between being born to a throne, maliciously vying for a throne, stealing a throne, and having a throne thrust upon you when you are already in the midst of an identity crisis. And I fear Loki's place in the line of succession has people unable to differentiate between any of these

[alongtidesoflight]

so here's my honest thoughts on dragon age: the veilguard, after ~40 hours of playing. i finished the main quest after having finished all companion quests and major faction quests. just to clear up what content i saw, i played as an elven transmasc rook who is a member of the lords of fortune. he romanced lucanis (although after finishing the game i'm now leaning towards taash). i don't know what's happening in playthroughs that have a different race, gender identity, romance or faction going on.

full spoilers ahead, i mean it. don't read further if you want to avoid them. i don't want complaining about it in my asks.

oh and also, if you're worried because of a few negative reviews online i can comfort you by saying don't give a fuck about a certain big name youtuber who is very much tied to bethesda franchises giving this a negative review. i'll explain why.

i'm starting off with the things i liked

the game looks really pretty. i was worried it wouldn't feel like thedas anymore (with them trying to "focus on northern thedas only" i thought they'd make a clear cut in environmental design. they do and they don't. it's complicated. i'll elaborate on it when talking about the negative stuff). anyway it does. minrathous feels like kirkwall. treviso enchanted me like the winter palace did. the hossberg wetlands reminded me of the hinterlands and a couple other inquisition maps. arlathan looked like... arlathan. the crossroads were different, but familiar. overall i like the way it looks and feels. it's thedas, with a twist. it's a good one, and gives everything a solid but unique feel.

combat is top tier. if you're a hardcore dragon age player you WILL miss the tactical aspect of it for a bit, but i promise you, once you're used to the way the combat works, you will be lapping that shit up. and once you get to ability combos you'll mourn the control you used to have over your companions in battle a bit less

the MAIN quest and its story. i expected worse, way worse. and for a while the game even had me tricked (harr harr you'll get it in a second) it is Really That Much Worse. but holy shit was it good. i walked away satisfied ngl.

your choices have SOLID weight. there's consequences, good AND bad. i got minrathous blighted, ruled over by venatori, and the leader of the shadow dragons ultimately died because of my decisions. i made those at the beginning and throughout the game. he died at the end. DAVRIN died because i didn't expect what i was saying to have that much weight. i thought i was in the clear. he had hero status. well turns out, your choices can still get your companions killed even if you do everything right. i fucking love him. he shouldn't have made that sacrifice just because i told him to do everything it takes once.

the inquisitor, morrigan and dorian being there, surprisingly. there's also negatives to this though, see below.

speaking of companions dying and the inquisitor playing a bigger role: the final quest feels like me2's suicide mission. i was blown away by it and the fact that i got to see the results of all my efforts playing out in front of me.

bioware are NOT trying to redeem solas. they love him as a character yes, but i wasn't forced to see any good in him. he betrays you. he fucked my rook over twice. he fucked him over right back, for good this time (the veil wasn't torn down, i anchored it by binding him to it, he's doomed to uphold it). but solas really lives up to his name as the trickster elven god. rip to all the people who grew really attached to him over the years.

varric died. if you like him that's probably as hard reading it as it was watching it. varric died and the game lies about it until the very end. when the realisation hits, it hurts. but in the very best way.

the amount of care they put into gender expression and trans identities this time around. (i'll add onto this with negative points as well too).

rook feels very much ingrained in the world of thedas. he doesn't ask questions that expose the player to lore through dialogue as if he's stepped foot into thedas for the first time. those conversations feel very solid and good. i hope other faction players got as much joy out of this as i did.

and the things i didn't like and boy there's a lot unfortunately

the music. let's just get that out of the way holy shit. it doesn't feel like it belongs in this universe. it gets so incredibly sci-fi-y at times you'd think it's taken straight from mass effect andromeda. there's not a single song unique to veilguard that i really enjoyed. it broke my immersion, real bad. hearing a busker play the tavern songs from inquisition on a lute right after i killed some venatori with wobbly bass songs playing in the background is just odd. weird tonal shift. don't like it. it's made for people who like flashy light-weight cinema.

tevinter nights is required reading. the podcasts are required listening exercises. the game is so fast paced, especially at the start, that there's no time to introduce you to characters and how much weight their names carry in-game. i would not have known who half these people are if i hadn't skimmed over tevinter nights. i'd care even less about them than i already did. there is no time to get properly attached to them. people will act as if you're talking to a legend personified and you'll be thinking man goddamn which chapter of tevinter night were they in again and what did they do???

there's a weird mismatch with the animations. you'll have beautifully fluid ones, like emmrich casting spells. and then you'll have rook's face animating in the most unnatural manner that's sorta reminiscent of mass effect andromeda's "my face is tired" addison, when their emotions SHOULD be landing with the player rn instead.

i'm not vibing with the art style. sometimes it works. most of the time it doesn't. at points i felt like i was watching tangled.

that also brings me to some of the dialogue. same issue. i am watching frozen. i am watching tangled. someone on the writer's team really likes the adorkable trope. bellara is its victim.

for all the talk about identity, bioware sure doesn't like theirs. the grey warden armor got a redesign again and it just makes them look like a generic army. i hate it lol

in general, i don't like the armor design. the wardrobe/appearances system is fine, but it's just not helping if all the armors are just... kinda bland or downight bad looking? and don't get me started on the lords of fortune armor. that is orientalism personified.

the world states should have been carried over, full stop. i know they said they didn't because they want to separate what happens in the north from what happens in the south, which... i could have lived with that. but the inquisitor sends you letters that keep you up to date on... the south of thedas. you learn that there's a blight again, that people are standing strong but it's difficult, denerim's fallen, the rulers are taking care of it, orlais is fighting and they're successful for a while, etc etc. what's good bioware. i thought we don't care about the south this time around. why are you feeding me so much boring generic information. if you're not gonna show any of it and just write letters, then carrying the world state over should not have been an issue. i have a game dev background. those few lines of code would not have broken your budget or pushed your engine's limits. fuck right off.

this gripe of mine carries over to all the cameos. as a lord of fortune you have to deal with isabela a lot. it's fun. i missed her. you get to go drinking with her and taash and bellara! also my hawke romanced her. she's not mentioned once. they had the opportunity to put a sentence or two about her in there with not a lot of effort, trust me.

when varric dies, all she has is a single line about it. for gold, for fortune, for varric. she only says it if you interact with her on your way to the final push. that's not mandatory.

morrigan is there. kieran isn't. the old god soul that mythal and then solas absorbed? who cares at this point, the gods are dead now and solas is locked away for eternity. i suppose? why is morrigan there. she feels unneeded. i wish they'd just left her down south, at least that way i wouldn't have had to witness her god awful redesign.

dorian at least feels as if he belongs in this story. the shadow dragons are a crucial part to protecting minrathous. he's also weirdly underutilised. isabela and morrigan had more lines than him in my playthrough.

on the topic of romance: bro that was underwhelming. no, genuinely. you know when romance picked up a bit? after the point of no return. i heard maybe two lines of companion banter about it before that. maybe i missed something which i honestly doubt, but romance did not play much of a role in lucanis's storyline. i saved his grandmother as he wished me to (and if you read tevinter nights you know she was rather abusive and their relationship not the healthiest) and told him to focus on his family. a reunified family my rook wasn't even introduced to as a partner at the end of all that.

really, do not buy this game if you're only in it for the romances. others might be better, lucanis's basically gave me nothing. except for an outing (the second coffee date i had with him, it was getting repetitive) all of it played out once i committed to the final quest. the sex scene was a fade to black. annoyingly right after davrin died. if you're looking for well paced and good spice, pick up something else. the sweet talk and the final goodbye were nice though.

for all the good the ever-presence of gender identity does, it is brought up in such a disruptive manner too. it doesn't even play out naturally if you CHOOSE the lines that are meant to be said. hearing the words trans and non-binary in this setting doesn't feel right, and i'm saying this as a trans guy. i think it could have been handled more gracefully. the amount of times my rook went "i'm a MAN" as if he's about to start drumming on his chest and roaring any second now got super nerve-grating. "i'm so glad you're into me... the me who is trans. remember?" just. tell me one trans person who'd talk like that to a person they've grown close with and are trying to romance. this game doesn't handle sexuality well, so all this hey my body might not look like the way you're expecting it to look talk amounts to nothing anyway. i feel about this the way i feel about krem: this is partial exposition to trans experiences... packaged up for cis consumption. the ONLY exception to that is interacting with taash. holy shit was all of that heartwarming and bro did it feel good and natural to talk to them about theirs and rook's gender.

rivain and nevarra are new locations added by veilguard. they're also incredibly underwhelming, small and constricted maps. rivain is a coastline with a few ruins. the hall of valor is a partial ruin nestled into a cave on a beach, with a fighting pit. isabela is there in her skimpy outfit commentating your pit fights. that's it. i'm sorry if you were looking for a bustling pirate cove or whatever. you're not gonna get it. the nevarran crypts btw are a long ass dungeon crawl. that's it.

speaking of maps. i thought people were being dramatic when they said you're gonna be fighting the same enemies on them again and again. i thought they were figure of speeching it. they're not. you WILL fight the same amount of enemies. in the same spot. every time you reload the map. best to stay on a map and clear out the enemies and do as much questing on that map as you can before leaving, because you WILL have to do it all over again once you return.

the three choices i made for my inquisitor didn't matter lol she didn't have to face solas and therefore couldn't stop him at any cost as she had sworn (maybe because my rook tricked solas into binding himself to the veil, there was also an option to fight him. would she have stepped in? who knows). blackwall wasn't mentioned. and either her using a small amount of her forces in the final fight was the reason the civilians of minrathous fared so well..... or it just didn't matter. ultimately i think she had very little impact on anything

[celtrist]

Why does Vassago already have merch, we haven't even met him yet

[spotaus]

Late Night quick thing (New Age Sillies)

Bad news: That joke post about including Reset + Orchid is definitely not canon. (I legit got sad thinking about Reset being in a universe where Orchid isn't- because their stories are so so intertwined- but Nightmare 100% would NOT risk the whole twins exploding Error's soul thing.)

Good news: This means I COULD include Kane (Reset's older brother who usually dies in timelines where Reset is born) and use it to develope his character a bit more! Also! Perhaps a Blue × Dream kiddo is finally in the stars for me to design?

[meownotgood]

I've been reading your viktor fics and I'm so in love with the the way you potray him. Your writing is amazing!!! I just can't get enough

it means a lot to me that you would say that... thank you!!! I'm very glad to hear you've enjoyed my works 🥹

[hilacopter]

guys sonic 3 was kinda bad

[lieutenantselnia]

Yesterday I've been doing some proper physical exercise for the first time since last year and I'm just imagining how proud my f/os would be of me🥹

[sysig]

VUXisms (Patreon)

[raptureshots]

Atlas is Frank's antithesis in a way . if you think abt it ,,

but also they're also. incredibly similar sometimes