#jekyll and hyde rewrite

[parsley-the-crow]

*Goes and listens to Jekyll and Hyde the musical thanks to that one Billford animatic*

*Starts wondering how something like this would work in an “endearing school/ orphanage for monsters” type concept*

*Comes to the conclusion that he would be a protagonist who switches between quiet nerd who looks like a normal kid to hyperactive nerd who has sharp teeth. They have the same goal every episode, but neither likes the other’s approach. Both of them are deeply curious kids, but Jekyll knows the scientific method and Hyde just has the most fuck it we ball attitude (and wants to bite things) that leads to hijinks. I think they would have an adorable dynamic, but also be the best ADHD allegory.*

*Realizes that Hyde, when written like this, has more in common with my ideal self than Jekyll does*

*Begins collecting other monsters to make endearing and put in this show*

*Continues this idea over here*

@lukas-broken-bow

[m3lth3ph4nt0m]

I will forever stand by the fact that these two should have been in freaky fusion. like come onnn

these are super old and my designs have changed since but ehhhh fuck it I'll update that laterrr

(much credit to @nottrye and @sockpansy again because of their continued feeding of my monster high autism. i still dont know what the fuck was inspired by them but im tagging them to be sure <3)

[fuddieduddies-art]

thinks about them so hard that my brain explodes

[sondersspite]

The Strange Case of Miss Jekyll and Mr Hyde

Chapter 1

Out in the brisk London morning, two friends indulged in pleasant conversation as they walked through their local park.

One - an entomologist by the name of Gabriel Utterson - rambled incessantly about his studies, uninterrupted by his quieter counterpart. He had curly hair and a soft face, with eyes that sparkled warmly when he spoke. Though he seemed well off, his jacket and waistcoat were carefully preserved, the latter a plush emerald colour with intricate embroidered patterns.

Gabriel was fond of moths, incredibly so. He had an extensive collection that he'd curated himself, trapped by his hands, or sold for an absurd price at auction. His parents had indulged him from a young age, and his friend also.

She hadn't attended university, but encouraged him and his studies by listening attentively and offering assistance when it was needed. There was a time when the two were young in which she'd tripped on a root in the woods, attempting to reach Gabriel with moth eggs she'd found in tree bark. She'd been scolded by her parents for damaging her dress, but she didn't appear to mind.

Henrietta Jekyll didn't appear to have an opinion about anything.

She didn't have hobbies or studies, or a favourite colour. She often wore simple, plain white, accompanied with a parasol to shield her face from the sun, much as she'd been shielded from having her own interests.

Her parents had been strict folk, Gabriel knew that well, and even after their passing his friend never dared to make a life for herself other than the one they'd created. Find a suitable husband, bear children, inherit our estate. She seemed satisfied by this from an outward perspective, but her demeanor was constantly almost doll-like, as if she'd shatter like porcelain under a single touch.

The most warmth she could hold in her eyes, she cast upon Gabriel. She listened closely to him as the two continued their walk, twirling her parasol in her hands as she let a beat of silence pass. She inhaled quietly, her voice soft when she allowed herself to finally speak.

"Gabriel, have you ever considered one's own capacity to change?"

The question took the young man entirely off guard at first. He stopped a little in the path, then straightened, adjusting his glasses with a perplexed look.

"How so? In what way, exactly?"

It was such a shock to hear herself speak that she almost stopped entirely. She debated her thoughts, mulling them over before deciding to continue, humming gently.

"Just a thought I had. You spoke so avidly of moths life cycles, the transformations they endure. Its almost..."

She trailed off, her eyes fixated on the path ahead as she breathed out her last word "...admirable."

Gabriel had turned to face her at this point, his previously confident steps slowing down to a calmer pace, his head tilted in confused fascination. He hadn't heard her speak in such a way before.

"Well-" He cleared his throat slightly, "Its in their nature to adapt."

"And what of human nature?"

Her response was quick, too quick, and Gabriel feared he didn't have an answer. He chuckled lightly in an attempt to shield his inadequacy.

"That isn't exactly my field-"

"But doesn't it interest you?"

There was a sense of excitement in her voice, a breathlessness that made her seem even quieter when she spoke in strings of rambling sentences. Her hands moved quickly, twisting her parasol and making the white lace dance beneath the light. Her friend could only stare, entirely enamoured by her newfound courage.

"The human mind is far more advanced- strong enough I'm sure to enact its own changes- physical and mental. Perhaps for rehabilitation. Criminals, the criminally insane even-"

Gabriel blinked, trying to find the opportune moment in his stunned state not to cut her off. "Yes- yes, I suppose you may be right."

He fell quiet for a moment, unable to stop the intrigue from spilling into his tone.

"And..what sparked this interest? I've heard you utter so few words over the course of our friendship, why has this taken you?"

She hummed a little, her expression shifting subtly back into the calm resting position it usually held. "Inspiration, perhaps?"

Her hands slowed, her parasol going still once more as the two continued to walk. The path beneath them shifted to cobblestone as they left the park and entered the street, and the fleeting passion left Henrietta also. Her words were soft, but slightly sad.

"You do inspire me, Gabriel. Though I dont have my own scientific endeavors, I appreciate you indulging my more..absurd thoughts."

He quickly interrupted, catching up to her on the pathway as she began to drift ahead.

"Its a stroke of brilliance, Henrietta, not absurdity."

She seemed almost struck by that, hesitating in her small strides - though the sentiment quickly faded, replaced with a slightly bitter, but truthful outlook. It wasn't her place as a woman to have such 'strokes of brilliance', and she knew a mutual friend of theirs who wouldn't take it lightly.

"I'm sure our dear Hastie would disagree."

Gabriel physically wilted, falling behind her steps once more as he made a mental note to give his former classmate a strong word.

"Well, I-" He quickly hurried up to her side. "I invited you on this outing, not him. I know he has his..personal feelings in regards to women in the scientific field-"

"You must admit hes right in those feelings."

She didn't feel as though she was being defensive, only stating a fact. Her tone was dull. "It isn't befitting of my station."

"But-"

"Thank you for the company, Gabriel."

He stopped in front of the door to the Jekyll home, hardly understanding how he came to be there. Surely the two hadn't walked that far from the park - he still had so much he wanted to say to her. But instead of insisting on more time, or inviting himself in, he simply watched his friend walk up the steps, the door opened for her by the family butler, Poole. She gave him a glance and he nodded, stepping away with a short bow.

"...good day, Henrietta. Farewell."

[next chapter>>]

[teen-heart-throb-mr-hyde]

been watching bridgerton with my gf. there is henry jekyll everywhere for those with eyes to see.

[leonenjoyer69]

Hey guys you'll never guess what I did, teehee (you will)

Summary:

"If you wish, I have headache relievers in that cabinet beside you. They're the dark green ones, should be labeled," Jekyll offered.

--

Through blurry eyes, Lanyon picked through the vials until a green one in the corner caught his attention. He immediately grabbed it, bringing it closer to peer at the messy tag.

He could scarcely make out an 'H' as the first letter, which, paired with the green color, was enough confirmation for his frazzled mind. With a nervous breath, he popped the cork and brought the glass up to his lips. He lingered for a moment, before finally tipping his head back and drinking the concoction.

_____

SO YEAH, THIS IS GONNA BE VERY DIFFERENT FROM THE FIRST VERSION, BUT I ALREADY LOVE IT SO SO SO MUCH MORE :D AND I HOPE YOU GUYS DO TOO HEHE

Also!! Shout-out to @chorne-the-firstborn s wonderful artfight attack on me that gave me the inspiration to rewrite this fic in the first place!! IT'S SO AMAZING PLEASE GO LIKE IT

[ellzilla]

Brragghhh rewrite doodle blast

[readerofoddities]

Hey, wanna see something cool?

Boom

For @potatodude3554 and I'm rewrite, we're each doing designs for the characters and we'll choose which one we like best for the official rewrite

So this is my initial Jackson and Holt design

Ramblings about the designs below the cut

I honestly really wanted to pull aspects from both sides to influence the other, so Jackson is wearing more fire colors and I gave Holt Jackson's hair color

Since Jackson is canonically part normie part fire elemental, i thought it would be cool to make Jackson look slightly monstrous. I gave him pointed ears and the ability to also turn his hair firey if he gets heated enough, whereas for Holt I wanted him to look a bit more normie-ish. So Jackson's hair color it was lmao. They both can light their hair up because they do inhabit the same body and would have the same powers

In addition, since we're making the story more modern, I gave Holt some airpods to keep him in his monster form instead of his massive headphones. I mostly did this because I didn't want to cover up his piercings

I did take away Holt's face tattoo, but online because I would have been REQUIRED to give it to Jackson because, again, they inhabit the same body. So they only have the yin-yang tattoo on their back

Another thing, while Holt is still masc presenting, Potatodude and I decided that Holt identifies as gender neutral. Not non-binary, not agender, not genderqueer, but a secret other option. Holt now uses they/them and on occasion they/he whereas Jackson prefers being referred to as he/him or he/they. Together they make a demiboy, but separately they are some secret other thing

That's all i have for the pair so far, I might talk more about this rewrite in the future, but no promises

[withinthebrain]

Holed Up Withinthebrain

“Hold up!” cried the impatient voice from the other side of the divide. “What’s the hold up? Are you holed up in the depths of your mind?” The words reverberated like an echo in a cavern. The question hung heavy, lost in the dark corners of the mind.

A figure stood at the threshold of consciousness, caught between reality and imagination. It hesitated, pondering external obligations and inner musings. “Are you Jekyll? or do you hide?” The question filled the space like thick syrup.

The world outside screamed for attention, with its relentless demands and expectations. The urgency was a persistent knocking, trying to break through the inner sanctuary. But withinthebrain, a different world beckoned: calm, natural, serene.

The figure pondered the choice, torn between the need to respond to the external world and the irresistible pull of thoughts and dreams holed up withinthebrain. A delicate decision, a balancing act.

“Hold up!” cried the impatient voice from the other side of the divide. “What’s the hold up? Are you holed up in the depths of your mind?”

Between the hold up of the external world and the peace of solitude, clashing emotions ensued.

With a deep breath, the words rang. “Call me Hyde,” stated Jekyll, stepping into the bustling world, but carrying the oasis in the darkness withinthebrain.

“Hold up!” harped the wary voice from the other side of the divide. “What’s the hold up? Are you holed up in the depths of your mind?”

[creepyboardingschool]

Jackson Jekyll/Holt Hyde is transmasc.

Again, thanks to @lazy-brown for the suggestion.

[parsley-the-crow]

My natural state of being is ‘therapist’.

I tried prompting it to make him find an opportunity to put this into practice the next day, but the answers became unsatisfying after that. Should I write this as a fanfiction?

[act2drama]

Listening to Frankenstein: A New Musical for the first time in ages and...this really is the most Frank Wildhorn show to not be written by Frank Wildhorn, huh...

[a-model-of-propriety]

Anyone else ever think about why the song "Letting Go" exists in the first place?

I mean, it's a part of the show from pretty much the beginning (i know for a fact it's in at least one of the '80s demos) and, despite undergoing significant rewrites over the years, it always remains a part of the show.

But... why?

Narratively, the song doesn't seem to do all that much. It gives us a glimpse into the dynamic between Lisa and Sir Danvers, but we don't really return to that dynamic very often throughout the rest of the show, so it doesn't seem like an integral enough part to survive cuts where other songs like "The World Has Gone Insane" get left behind.

And yet, the song inexplicably survives.

Though the song in its final form doesn't do much in the show, I see a couple ways that I think it could have become a masterstroke in storytelling.

First: In both the 1987 demo and the 1990 highlights album, I believe "Letting Go" is sung by Jekyll and Lisa. This made me consider an alternate version of the story where, instead of Lisa's "When you need me, if you need me, you know where I'll be" after "Once Upon a Dream", they break off the engagement because they have become so distant.

What if, in this hypothetical version of the show, they reprise "Letting Go" as they part? This song then becomes a gut-punch to the audience; though we know both Jekyll and Lisa adore each other, the time must always come to "let go" of the person you adore, even though it hurts.

(I will admit, this idea is heavily inspired by the song "Your Father's Eyes" in Frankenstein: A New Musical. I am adamant that that song only exists so that Victor can reprise it to the Creature at the end. The Danvers + Lisa "Letting Go" would serve a similar purpose in this: it exists solely so that it can be reprised in a far more emotionally devastating setting.)

Second: In the Broadway version, Sir Danvers sings the line "I think I would die if any harm should come to you." In the end, harm very nearly did come to Lisa/Emma. Hyde had her in his grasp! And yet, Danvers survives the tale to become a narrator, despite the fact that he is one of only two major deaths in the original story.

What if—in the musical—he didn't survive? What if that line was foreshadowing his death in the Wedding Reception? Say, for example, Hyde moves to grab Lisa and Danvers gets in his way, encouraging Hyde to send him off to follow Stride and the other Board members who got in Jekyll's way.

"Letting Go", then, signals to those in the audience that the writers know Danvers' fate in the book, reminding us that Danvers truly was doomed from the beginning.

TLDR: The song "Letting Go" doesn't serve much of a purpose in the current iteration of Jekyll & Hyde, but it has the potential to set up incredibly heart-wrenching moments later in the show if anyone is ever brave enough to do a proper revival.

[starsfromtoulon]

they really pulled all the teeth out of Jekyll & Hyde before debuting it on broadway, huh.

[strawberry-bubblef]

Just found your blog after seeing the Overblot students reacting to causing serious harm to the reader/their partner and oof the angst is strong there! Excellent stuff all around and the way that several of them have symbolic injuries suited to each is fitting-

Like Vil pointed out the irony that his attack blinded them (likely disfiguring too)

Leona missing the arm that never hesitated to reach out for him.

Jamil making his S/O unable to stand without them, needing his support.

For some reason, it all reminded me of the Jekyll and Hyde musical (not at all accurate to the original work but the music is pretty good) particularly the Confrontation song, where Jekyll and Hyde have a musical number ripping into the other.

Imagine if the Overblot guys (whether merely haunted by their memories of the event or tying into your original post about permanent injuries inflicted to the person they loved most) have nightmares confronting those versions of themselves especially in regards to the harm that could have (or did) happen to their S/O. Only to get hit with “can’t you see were the same” but maybe the OB’s are mild yanderes towards the S/O or point out easier it is to keep them by his side, that he’s willing to take the risks to keep them around unlike the “good boy” persona some of them keep up.

OB students having nightmares of themselves after hurting their s/o

Part 1: Ob student unintentionally hurting their s/o

Aww! Thanks for the sweet words 🥲🫶 I'm glade you liked it !

Riddle Rosehearts

The halls of Heartslabyul are silent after curfew. Moonlight cuts silver through the tall windows, casting the checkered floor in sharp, cold contrast. It’s late, but Riddle isn’t sleeping. Not really. Not anymore.

He jolts awake again, breath shallow, red eyes wide. He stares at the ceiling, but all he sees is the moment he can never take back.

Your voice, cracking as you tried to reach him.

The way the vines coiled around you, cruel and tight,his vines.

How you cried out.

And the silence after. The absolute silence.

He’s by your side now, and you’ve forgiven him. You told him as much, your voice gentle, your hand on his. But that forgiveness tastes like ash when he remembers the look on your face back then,not fear, not anger, but disbelief. As if you couldn't quite believe he was the one hurting you.

It clings to him like a second skin.

And every night, the dream returns.

The maze is dead now. No more vibrant red blooms or the sweet scent of petals. Only twisted thorns and rotting leaves, the sky above a bruised, stormy purple. The air is heavy with guilt and magic.

In the center of it all sits his throne.

That version of him is waiting, legs crossed elegantly, sipping black tea that stains the porcelain cup like ink.

“You're late,” the Overblot says. “But I suppose shame slows the feet.”

Riddle takes a breath. “I’m not here for your games.”

“Ah, but we’ve played such lovely ones, haven’t we? Tea parties and rules and hearts cut clean in half.”

He steps closer, circling Riddle like a cat. “Do you remember how quiet they became after we were done? No more backtalk. No more chaos. They obeyed. Isn't that what you wanted?”

Riddle flinches.

The Overblot leans in, voice silken and low. “You wrapped yourself in rules because your mother left you no room to breathe. So you did the same to them because love is terrifying when it’s free, isn’t it?”

“I was wrong,” Riddle says. “That wasn’t love.”

“Then what do you call it?” the other hisses, the smile gone. “You think your bouquet of apologies rewrites what you did? You think gentle words and shared tea make up for the way they screamed?”

Riddle’s hands tremble. He can’t meet his own eyes,those cruel red eyes staring out of a mirror cracked by power and pain.

“I didn't mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot’s voice turns almost tender, almost sad. “And I-we will always live with that.”

Silence falls like snow.

And then: “But at least I was honest. At least I did what had to be done to keep them close. You fear they’ll leave. I made it impossible. Maybe you should be thanking me.”

Riddle recoils. “You turned them into something fragile.”

“I turned them into something ours. They stay because of you, but they flinch because of me.”

A pause.

“Can’t you see?” he whispers. “We’re the same.”

The dream ends with Riddle reaching for his collar, choking on petals that pour from his mouth,crimson, velvet, suffocating.

He wakes with a cry.

It’s still night, the room quiet. He reaches for you instinctively, but the sheets are cool, the space beside him empty. Panic strikes fast and cold.

He finds you on the balcony, bathed in moonlight. Wrapped in a soft robe, you’re gazing at the stars. Your arm is wrapped, supported. Some movements are slower now. But your eyes are bright as ever.

You turn as he approaches.

“Another nightmare?”

Riddle says nothing. He only stands behind you and hesitantly slide his hand into yours. His grip is tight,not crushing, never again but desperate in its quiet plea.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” you reply softly, placing yourhand over his. “You made a mistake. A terrible one. But you changed. You’re trying. That matters.”

“I see him every time I close my eyes,” Riddle admits. “He says we’re the same.”

You turn, gently cupping his face with the only hand that you have left. “Then prove him wrong.”

He leans into your touch like a drowning man, clinging to the only solid thing in a storm. In your eyes, there’s still pain. Still healing. But also,somehow hope.

He’s terrified he’ll always be at war with that version of himself.

But if you’re willing to walk beside him through the thorns, maybe, just maybe, there’s a path forward.

Leona Kingscholar

The desert wind howls in his ears.

Leona stands on the edge of a dry, cracked savannah where nothing grows, under a sunless sky. The ground is stained with soot and ash, grass burned to cinders. In the distance, a pride stone crumbles into dust.

And there,at the center of the destruction,is himself.

Or at least, what’s left of him.

His Overblot form sits lazily upon a throne of twisted bone and stone, smoke curling from his mane like incense from an open flame. Those glowing eyes burn, full of mirthless amusement.

“Took you long enough,” the Overblot drawls. “What, couldn’t face me sooner? Or were you too busy watching them struggle to tie their shoes with the wrong damn hand?”

Leona's jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

“Hit a nerve?” His other self stretches, claws dragging over the arms of the throne. “I’m not the one who tore it from them. You are. We are.”

“I never meant–”

“Don’t insult both of us. You knew what that spell could do. You were angry. Jealous. Tired of always coming second. So you struck. And you didn’t stop.”

Leona’s fists clench. He can still remember the heat, the way magic surged through him like wildfire, untamed and wild. The look on your face when you collapsed, your dominant arm crushed under a landslide of sand and force.

He remembers how still you were. How you didn’t reach for him. Couldn’t.

And how the silence that followed was louder than any roar.

“They can’t write like they used to,” his Overblot murmurs. “Can’t lift a box. Can’t sketch, or braid your damn hair. All the things they used to do so easily,gone. Because of you.”

“I know !” Leona snaps. “I live with it every day.”

“Do you?” The Overblot tilts his head. “Then why haven’t you left? Why not let them go and find someone better for them? Someone whole?”

Leona’s voice drops to a growl. “Because I love them.”

The other version smiles, sharp and cruel. “No. You need them. And they need you now, don’t they? You made sure of that. No one else understands them like you. No one else will want them like this.”

Leona stares, disgust tightening in his throat.

“Come on,” the Overblot purrs. “Admit it. Part of you is relieved. Because now they’ll stay.”

“No.”

“They’ll never leave you.”

“NO!”

The Overblot lunges, claws out, but Leona doesn’t move.

Because he knows the truth: this isn’t about physical pain. This is about guilt, about possession, about fear.

And about how love can rot if left to fester.

He wakes up leaning against a tree in Savanaclaw. It's still dark, the early morning stars just beginning to fade. His hands are buried in the dirt, sweat soaking the back of his shirt. His heart thunders in his chest like it’s trying to dig out.

The scent of jasmine reaches him first. Then your voice.

“Bad dream?”

Leona looks up.

You’re seated nearby, wrapped in a blanket, watching the horizon. Your sleeve is pinned up neatly, your right side turned toward him. The scarred place where your arm used to be is hidden, but he knows its shape by memory now.

He sits beside you wordlessly. You lean into him, letting his warmth chase away the morning chill.

“It’s always the same dream,” he mutters. “Me. Him. You.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Do you still hate yourself?”

He doesn’t answer.

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I wish it had been me instead.”

You reach for his hand with your remaining one and lace your fingers together.

“I would’ve still stayed,” you say. “Even if it had been you who got hurt. Even if it was your arm.”

Silence stretches, heavy and honest.

Leona leans into you then, pressing his forehead to your temple.

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

“I know.”

And for once, the guilt doesn’t scream quite so loud.

Azul Ashengrotto

The sea is too still.

No current, no light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

No light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

And then it starts.

The water shifts.

A shadow coils in the deep like smoke in water,and from it emerges himself,not in his human form, not even in his merman body. No, it’s the Overblot: bloated and grandiose, tentacles stretching into the black like roots through rot. His grin is razor-sharp, filled with oil-slick malice.

“Still pretending to be human?” it coos. “Still clinging to the mask of the poor little businessman?”

Azul doesn’t look at it.

“Did you think success would make you good?” the Overblot hisses, gliding around him like a serpent. “That if you just worked hard enough, they’d love you? Respect you?”

Azul breathes slowly, deliberately. “Shut up.”

“Oh, touchy.” “You weren’t nearly so quiet when you were begging them not to leave you. Not when they were lying there,bleeding, gasping because you made them part of your deal.”

Azul flinches.

He sees it again: the whirlpool, the crashing debris, the spell cast in desperation and greed. The way you fell,your leg crushed under the magical pressure, twisted unnaturally before he could stop it.

Before he cared to stop it.

“You used them,” the Overblot sings. “Because deep down, you thought: if they depend on me, they won’t leave me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” it snarls. “You saw them shine and you thought: I want that. You dragged them into your schemes, into your world. And now?”

A cruel smile stretches over its face.

“Now they can’t even dance.”

Azul’s fists curl.

“They limp through the halls, leaning on a cane or your arm, and every step is a reminder. And yet, they still smile at you. Still tell you it’s not your fault.”

The Overblot leans in close, eyes glowing.

“But it is.”

Azul screams,no sound leaves his throat, only bubbles but he surges forward, trying to claw at the thing wearing his face, only for it to melt away into nothing.

Leaving him alone in the silent sea.

He jolts awake in a cold sweat.

The lounge is dark, only the soft glow of enchanted lamps illuminating the drapes. Azul sits on the couch, disheveled,, breath caught halfway in his throat.

A small noise draws his attention.

You're at the window, adjusting your prosthetic leg,carefully, patiently. You don’t notice him watching, or maybe you do, and you choose not to look.

He swallows.

You always do things quietly now. No complaints. No bitter remarks. But you also don’t hum anymore when you walk. You don’t twirl in the water like you used to.

Azul lowers his eyes.

He hears the soft tap of your cane as you make your way over, the familiar pattern of your gait now etched into his memory.

You sit beside him, brushing your hand against his.

“You dreamt about it again.”

He nods, shame burning behind his eyes.

“I see him in the mirror sometimes,” he murmurs. “The one I was. I wonder if I’m still him.”

You shake your head. “He would’ve run from this. You didn’t.”

Azul hesitates before reaching for your hand. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Maybe not,” you whisper, “but you’re trying. And that counts more than you think.”

He leans in slowly, resting his forehead against the side of your head. “If I could give you that leg back…”

“I wouldn’t take it.”

He stiffens, shocked.

You turn to him with quiet intensity. “Because then maybe you’d still be pretending to be someone you’re not. I don’t need perfection. I need you.”

Azul doesn’t reply,he can’t. But he holds you a little tighter, breathing in the proof that somehow, some way… you’re still here.

And maybe that's enough.

Jamil Viper

The chains rattle again.

He doesn’t know where he is,some room, always dark, always humid. The smell of sweat and ash lingers like incense from an old nightmare. Stone walls stretch in every direction, but there’s no exit. No sky. Just that mirror on the wall.

He doesn’t look at it.

Not yet.

He knows who’s waiting on the other side.

But he turns anyway.

And there he i. The Overblot version of himself smiles cruelly, slouching in that confident, arrogant way Jamil hates to admit he once wished he could embody.

“You look exhausted,” the Overblot drawls. “Not sleeping well, Jamil?”

“I’m not here to talk to you,” Jamil hisses.

“Oh, but I’m here to talk to you.” The reflection slinks closer. “How’s our darling doing, by the way? Still limping around because of you?”

Jamil’s stomach churns.

The sound of bones snapping, of the ground cracking during that awful moment,when magic surged out of control, when the pressure pinned you down, the illusion spells fraying as your foot was crushed beneath falling debris he summoned. Not even intentionally. Not really.

But he knew you were nearby.

And he still didn’t care.

He had finally taken the reins of his life and you were collateral.

“I didn’t mean-” Jamil starts, voice strained.

“You didn’t stop,” the Overblot cuts in, venomous. “You didn’t hesitate. You knew they were watching. And still you used your magic. Still you twisted their mind until they collapsed.”

Jamil’s voice is a whisper. “I didn't want to hurt them.”

“You wanted control.”

Silence.

“You wanted them to stop pitying you. To see you,not the servant, not the background character, but the powerful one. And when you had it, even just for a moment…”

The Overblot tilts his head.

“…you liked it.”

Jamil clenches his fists. “I hate you.”

“No,” it says, baring fangs. “You hate that I’m you. You hate that some part of you thought, ‘If I can just keep them dependent… they’ll never leave.’”

The words sting like poison.

“Now look at them,” the Overblot murmurs. “They used to dance barefoot on sunlit floors. Now every step is calculated. Controlled. Like you wanted everything else to be.”

Jamil shuts his eyes tight.

When he opens them again, the mirror is empty.

He’s alone again.

But the silence is louder than before.

He wakes up in a sweat.

The room is dim, lit by the flicker of a candle. The warmth of the dorm blankets does little to soothe him, especially not when he sees the empty spot in the bed beside him.

You're by the window.

Adjusting the supportive brace over your ankle,what's left of it. Your balance is careful, practiced. Your fingers are deft. Jamil sits up quietly, heart aching.

You glance over your shoulder. “Nightmare?”

He nods, slow.

You limp over to him, footsteps padded by the soft cloth of your wrap. You don’t say anything at first,you just press your forehead to his, fingers tangling with his.

“I see him,” Jamil says. “The version of me who… who didn't care. Who thought being loved wasn’t as important as being obeyed.”

You don’t flinch. You already know.

“I hate him,” he whispers.

“But he’s not you,” you murmur back.

Jamil’s eyes glint with unshed tears.

“I almost made you another chain.”

You shake your head, taking his hand and placing it against your heartbeat. “But you let go. You let me go. You helped me stand again.”

His voice is raw. “You should’ve run from me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you reply. “I wanted to walk beside you. Even if I had to relearn how.”

He exhales shakily.

And when he kisses your knuckles, it’s soft. Tentative. Like he’s still trying to prove to himself that you’re real,that this, what he has now, is real.

Even after all he’s done.

Vil Schoenheit

The mirror doesn’t lie. That’s the curse.

He can’t hide from it. Not from the face that stares back at him,twisted, blot-streaked, gleaming with hatred and pride. His Overblot self grins through cracked lipstick and bleeding glamour.

“Ah. Come to scold me again, Schoenheit?”

Vil doesn’t answer. He already knows how this goes.

Every night, it’s the same: the same confrontation, the same voice that sounds too much like his own, the same sickening echo of violet light bursting from his fingertips, burning away the world and everything he held dear.

Especially you.

“Still pretending you didn’t enjoy it?” the Overblot version sneers. “You always thought beauty was everything. Until you became the monster.”

Vil’s voice is cold. “I wanted the world to see me. Not them.”

“And now they can’t see anything at all.” A cruel chuckle. “Isn’t that poetic?”

His throat tightens.

He remembers the scent of magic in the air, the searing heat, the flash of light as your scream tore through him. The way you clutched your face, blood slipping between your fingers. The panic that followed. The silence. The way your eyes never found him again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot tilts his head mockingly. “You wanted to be seen. So you made sure they never would be seen again. You took that from them. You, who worshipped beauty like a god.”

Vil’s hands tremble at his sides.

“You knew what your magic could do. You chose to use it anyway.”

“I thought I could control it.”

“You were wrong.”

Silence.

Then:

“They still call your name,” the Overblot whispers. “Even now. Still reach for you. Still smile in your direction. And doesn’t that make it worse?”

Vil turns away.

“All they know is the echo of your voice and the feel of your touch. And you cling to that, don’t you? Because if they saw you as you were... they would’ve run.”

The mirror cracks.

Not from magic but from the way Vil slams his fist into it, fury rippling through every bone.

And when he opens his eyes again, he's awake.

The bedroom is quiet, curtains drawn open just enough to let in moonlight. You’re seated on the bed, fingers moving expertly as you read a Braille book Vil had custom,made for you. Your head tilts slightly when you hear him stir.

“Another dream?” you ask gently.

Vil’s voice is hoarse. “Yes.”

You set the book down. “Was it him again?”

“…Yes.”

You pat the space beside you, and he comes willingly. Sits beside you. Lets you touch his face. You always do that now,run your fingertips along his cheekbones, brush over the curve of his lips, like you’re memorizing him all over again.

“I hate what I did to you,” he whispers. “I took the stars from your eyes.”

“And still I find light in your voice.” you say softly.

Vil swallows. “You don’t hate me?”

“I miss what I lost,” you admit. “But I don’t miss you. Because you’re still here.”

He presses your hand to his chest. “It should’ve been me.”

“No,” you whisper. “You came back to me. That’s enough.”

Sometimes, he still dreams of mirrors.

But these days, when he wakes,he’s holding your hand.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.

Idia Shroud

That’s how the nightmare always starts.

Blue flame dances along the walls, scorching consoles, melting cables, and setting off a chorus of alarms. Everything is chaos.Except for him. Except for the Overblot.

It rises from the flames like a ghost made of rage and sorrow, hair wilder, cloak billowing like smoke. It grins, bearing rows of flame-slicked teeth.

“Guess what, Idia,” it sing-songs. “You’re the villain in your own tragic visual novel. Bad End unlocked!”

Idia curls inward, arms around himself. “I didn’t want to hurt them.”

“You did more than hurt them,” it hisses. “You burned them. Because you wanted to keep them close. You wanted them safe.”

“I lost control. The magic-”

“You thought locking them in the Underworld was safer than letting them leave you. And when they reached out for you..” The Overblot snaps its fingers.

The scent of scorched flesh.

The sound of your cry.

Idia covers his ears, but it’s no use.

“You destroyed the very hands that held you. Four fingers. Gone. Just like that. Do you know how many times they tried to play your games after that? Tried to cook? Draw? Hold a pen?”

“I didn’t mean to-!”

“But you did.” The voice is ice now. “And you know what the worst part is?”

Silence.

“They still forgive you.”

Idia lifts his head slowly, shame thick in his eyes.

“They still smile when you fumble with words. Still wrap what’s left of their hand around yours. Still kiss your cheek and say it’s okay. It’s not okay.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know it’s not.”

“Then why do you stay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then-q

“…Because they asked me to. Because they didn’t want to lose me too.”

The Overblot’s grin fades.

Idia steps closer to it. For once, he doesn’t flinch.

“I am a coward. I am broken. But I’m trying. Every day. I can’t fix what I did… but I can be here now. And that’s what they asked of me.”

The flames flicker.

“You don’t deserve them,” it spits.

“I know,” Idia says. “But they still choose me. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of that.”

He wakes up gasping.

Your hand is in his,smaller now, missing parts of what once was, wrapped in soft bandages and healing cream. But warm. Still warm.

You stir beside him. “Another one?”

He nods.

You squeeze. “You’re still here.”

“…Yeah.”

You rest your forehead against his. “Then I’m okay.”

He doesn’t cry, but he holds your hand tighter.

And for the first time, the nightmare fades into silence.

Malleus Draconia

The castle is quiet. Too quiet.

He wanders its halls alone in the dream. The stone is grey, cracked with age. Thorny vines have grown wild over every door, every window. The sky outside is eternally twilight, like the world itself is holding its breath. Time doesn’t move here. It hasn’t for centuries.

He knows where you are.

He always knows.

Your chamber lies behind an arch of briars, untouched by rot or dust. Enchanted sleep preserved you, peaceful and unmoving, lips barely parted as if frozen mid-sigh.

He crosses the threshold slowly, reverently. His footsteps don’t echo anymore.

You lies there still.

Because of him.

“Malleus.”

The voice that greets him isn’t yours.

It’s his but deeper, weightless, echoing with ancient magic.

The Overblot.

It steps into view like a reflection peeled from his shadow. A smile too gentle to be anything but cruel.

“You saved her,” it says. “She was going to leave. Be taken away. You stopped it.”

“I imprisoned her,” Malleus whispers.

“You protected her. In eternal sleep, she couldn’t be harmed. Couldn’t abandon you. Couldn’t be taken away by time or fate or death.”

Malleus walks toward the bed. Your skin is still warm beneath the spell, magic thrumming softly with every breath. So many years have passed. More than he dares count.

“And yet she wept in her dreams,” he murmurs. “I heard it. Even through the spell.”

“Dreams are nothing,” the Overblot croons. “She’s safe. Isn’t that all you ever wanted?”

His hands tremble.

“I wanted to be with her,” Malleus says, voice breaking. “Not without her. Not like this.”

The Overblot’s smile fades. It regards him like a disappointed parent. “You are a king .You could have have eternity together.”

“No. I forced eternity upon her. I robbed her of choice… of time… of life.”

A silence falls.

Then-

“But she’s awake now.”

That voice. Yours.

He turns.

You're standing in the doorway. Older than you should be, touched by the centuries but beautiful still. Eyes full of sorrow and kindness both.

“I’m awake, Malleus.”

He stares, breathless. “This isn’t real.”

“It could be,” you say, stepping forward. “If you let go of the guilt. If you come back to me.”

“But I hurt you. I stole your future.”

“And yet I chose to wake up.”

You reach out.

He takes your hand in both of his, kneeling as if in penance.

“I will never forgive myself,” he whispers.

“Then let me forgive you instead,” you say. “You’re here now. And I waited because I believed you’d come back.”

He wakes in your arms, forehead against your shoulder, breath shaky.

You cradle his head gently, fingers weaving through his hair.

“You dreamt it again,” you murmur.

He nods, silent.

“I’m still here,” you remind him. “Still choosing you.”

And he holds you tighter, as though centuries could slip between his fingers once more.

But this time, he’ll never let go.

English is not my first language !

[sha-brytols]

and the thing is i've said so many wildly conflicting things about how flawed solas' character portrayal was in veilguard but like. i unironically do believe they're All True and like i think i can kind of(?) articulate why

like solas in veilguard to me was a pretty perfect example on how clear it is that dragon age has suddenly and drastically regressed from being an exploration into moral ambiguity and that fine smudged line between "hero" and "villain" to a sudden inexplicable refusal to allow any sort of grey area in character motivations in favor of forcing them into a binary box like its a dnd alignment. and i think this specifically because there is literally No Way to write solas in a morally uncomplicated manner while still maintaining anything that makes him an interesting character.

people who hate solas hate veilguard because it removed literally any nuance to his character and repeatedly paints him as a poor mistreated victim whose only crime is that he was Forced to do things He Didnt Want to by a significantly underwritten and highly anticipated female character, and his regrets are all varying degrees of "it's my fault because i was right and they didn't listen to me :(" and no actual agency in his own decision making. his romance with a lavellan is literally front and center in the game and the only one that even gets more than a passing letter or (in dorian's case) like. two full lines of dialogue. the narrative does everything to silently paint him as the misunderstood tragic hero that no one truly appreciates and even rewrites the inquisitor so they always want to redeem him regardless of their previous disposition

people who love solas hate veilguard because it somehow managed to simultaneously do the same thing in reverse. solas has no genuine regrets or sense of guilt or actual reflection about his past behavior in the entire game. he kills his best friend and the game makes sure to zoom in on his face as varric is falling down just so you can see the sneer of contempt. the war table finebros react segments where its literally just the writers unapologetically utilizing the companions as mouthpieces for their personal opinions makes sure to tell the player that solas is unforgivable and a hypocrite and a coward for his actions. they even like. rewrote an entire part of his character specifically to remove that layer of complexity and dumb it down to the Lying Liar Who Lies. where the narrative silently wants you to sympathize with him, the characters LOUDLY want you to condemn him. your most sympathetic dialogue choices are lukewarm "well... i GUESS i understand why..." delivered in a consistent tone of disapproving resignment.

people who are neutral to solas? you're not ALLOWED to be. here you go. Dragon Age: Solas. everything is about solas. you have to make all your choices based around solas. we've written an entire game to revolve around solas. we rewrote like 4 characters to make sure that you are forced into one of the two extremes.

and it's all because you have a game that physically cannot help itself but to make you make the Good Decision and so they can't decide which decision is good and which is bad so they wrote two completely conflicting stories about him at the same time. he is the best boy. he is the worst. it genuinely feels like the writing team was actively wrestling with each other behind the scenes over whether or not solas is a Bad Guy and thus their only means of compromise was writing him as though he was dr jekyll and mr hyde without any transition or consistency. he is a villain. he is a hero. you are a bad person for not seeing his point of view. you are a good person for peacefully redeeming him. and i know there's people who think this is some sort of ingenius character study but none of this is intentional. he isn't like loghain who commits bad acts in service to a greater good. he's the prideful god who lied to the inquisitor about wanting to free the elves and instead his goal has been about his own personal ego all along. he isn't like flemeth, who does good by people and manipulates the story in your favor all for the sake of her own mysterious ends. he isn't even like the architect who lies and murders and manipulates the warden all in the service of his own deluded vision. he's the guy who wants to destroy the world because his abusive ex is forcing him to. but also he's the guy who wants to destroy the world because he thinks mortal life is insignificant and he should be in control because hes The Best.

all complexity of what was previously a deeply nuanced character has been removed, and it's because he used to be so complex that it's so disjointed and bad because they refuse to actually commit to any one direction because in that case they'd might as well make another character. but they can't. they have to make it solas. because solas is their cash cow and their baby.

they want to make a perfect solavellan happy ending because they want to please the people who love their baby but they're so fundamentally divorced from what their audience wants for solas that they ended up writing a caricaturized ai-generated romance novel for teenagers.

they want to make a cathartic fight scene where you beat the bad man because they want to please the people that hate their villain but they have such blatant contempt for criticism of their precious little baby that they make sure to infantilize and misrepresent his flaws as much as they can so he can be the sad little elf boy that you need to hug.

and despite all of this they ALSO wanted so desperately to avoid making you sympathize too much with the antagonist they were building up to that they had to make sure he acted in the most unforgivably evil ways that they could think of just so players knew this is the Bad Guy and you're the Good Guy and don't you forget it.

it's just constant self contradictory writing. it is so blatant that it's genuinely hard for me to even see veilguard's solas as being the same character. i find myself nodding my head in agreement to his most ardent haters because yeah you're right. they did spend an insane amount of time forcing you to see just how innocent and well-intentioned and pure this egotistical mass-murderer was. and i also find myself nodding in agreement with his biggest fans because yeah. you're right. they did randomly turn this character into a moustache-twirling villain who does everything short of tying rook to railroad tracks and cackling as he runs away to tear down the veil. and all this because they couldn't stand to not have him be in the game in the biggest and most impactful way. they literally could not have a story without solas.