#not for him. (and worse - might never have been freed again. if not for him. it stings to be saved twice when you’re regretting the first | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

grlpartdoll · 26 days

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Azriel is quiet, yes, but not for the reasons people might think. It's not something he does to be mysterious — or to frighten others. Sure. It works well for that, too. But.. Truth is, he has been quiet all his life ; perhaps a symptom of always being belittled when he tried to speak up for himself, be that by his step brothers, his stepdad, or by Rhysand himself.

Azriel has never really had the luxury of having his own opinion. His life has been — for better or for worse — a binary code, 0, 1, a black and white painting, and an immense quantity of yes' and no's.

Since living with the shadows, he's had his step brothers to fear, and then when he goes into the camps, he has Cassian and Rhysand to fear — to watch his mouth around.

But of course, as the story is told, things change, and then before he knows it, he's following his new brothers into battle because even beneath it all, ignoring the fact that he has suspicions that he does not exactly belong within their troops, they're brothers, damnit, and he will walk through fire for them.

And then they grow up, and the war ends. He becomes Rhysand's father's spy, and he goes into that job without any beliefs of his own, his life built around trying to survive his abuse and then the Illyrian camps.

And when he and Cassian and Rhysand finally become old enough, and Rhysand takes the throne, well, at that point he's got an unbreakable devotion to the night court and the citizens within it, and to his brothers, too — beaten into him, caking under his nails like blood, running through his veins like some type of venom to which no one has the cure to.

But even then, when things begin to settle, and everyone finds their place in the Inner circle, he doesn't really know himself, doesn't know where his place truly is. Sure, he's devoted to something, and likes these people enough to forget himself, but. Who is he, really? What does he want? Where does he belong?

Which is why — when he meets you, something wild and free and immovable in your own beliefs and person, he can't help but find refuge there ; in your wild, unkempt person, in your loudness, your clinginess, your unashamedly huge heart.

You're a freshly born… something. The girl born from the Mother, they call you. You're created from the necessity of there being balance again in Prythian during Amarantha ; sent by the Mother to hunt the falsely crowned High Queen of Prythian, and then kill her.

For your service, after you've killed Amarantha and redistributed the power around to their respective High Lords, everyone takes an oath to protect and shelter you whenever you need it.

You spend years between Courts, refining your skills, your powers, enlisting the help of all the helpful High Lords and their Ladies. Rhysand and Feyre, after a few years and the war finally passing, both deem it safe enough and decide to introduce you to their inner circle. You're introduced to them as the person who saved Prythian, as the girl who freed Feyre and Rhysand from under the mountain.

You fall in love with Velaris, and you take a liking to the members of the inner circle. But you become closer friends with Azriel than anyone else you had ever met before.

You, from some kind of instinct or because of the unspoken link you share with Azriel, know he is lost. You are, perhaps, the first to see it.

It's easy to follow and do the same, you suppose. To copy you, devote himself to something new, something other.

But you don't want him to take you as just another thing to protect. To lose himself in. You don't want him to follow in your footsteps just because he has a personal debt unpaid to you for saving his family members, you don't want him to be to you what he is to Rhysand.

So at first, you reject him. And he takes it as well as a man like him takes any sort of rejection. He withdraws easily like a tortoise into its shell, and for a great many days, is unavailable emotionally as well as physically. You don't see him, don't hear from him.

Eventually, Feyre falls pregnant, and you're the one, with your powers, to save her and the two males along with it. Rhysand gifts you lands of your own for it. Drapes you with the honours of being their Saviour one more time.

So you go to that place — to your new home in the wild, unowned lands beside the prison — your paradisiacal islands, and begin building a life for yourself. You make your own home, on the highest cliff you can find. Rhysand provides you with workers and builders, and eventually, a tiny town begins to bloom in the islands. It's slow living, like water lapping at the shore, every member of your tiny budding city lives happily, feasting on their hunts, and on the plentiful fruits of their plantations.

Azriel comes around often by means of checking on you for Rhysand. And you accept it, even though it is a lie. Eventually, your friendship rebuilds again, though. And you know that there is no shifting point, no sudden change — but it sure feels like it, when one day you are standing miles apart, and the other, you're in his arms, letting him sway you to the sound of the waves.

The progression is slow, but as you coax him out, with a bit of rough love and a handful of gentle praise, you begin to see the little things.

His armour loosens by the day. Sometimes, when he comes to see you, meeting on the beach down the mountain where your home resides atop of, he wears only warm weather clothes. His truth teller is left behind, and he lets himself be free of what it means to be the ShadowSinger, while enhancing what it means to be HIM.

And one day you catch him drawing. He'd told you once that a lot of the things in his head often begged to get out, to find a way to be put down and kept down and out of him. You suggested drawing. And he'd huffed at first, shaking his head and murmuring about how his hands would never being able to draw up those things. Good or bad.

You'd smiled gently and shrugged ; telling him that practice made perfect — that you hadn't become good at what you do in a day, either.

The first drawing he finishes is a portrait of Velaris. As though it is something he is trying to purge from his soul — the hold this city has on him. He tries to give it to you, but you refuse. You tell him that this is a part of him and no one else should be allowed to own these drawings. That this is him, on paper, all these little sketches, and that he was the only, sole owner of them.

So he begins to put them up in the room you keep for him in your humble home atop the mountain peak. You take your time keeping them in extra good condition, and as you lay down on the sofa while he sketches you, he asks you why you spent so much of your days in his room, cleaning and removing dust, making sure everything was kept safe and remained beautiful.

And you reply that if they were precious to him, then that meant they deserved to be cherished. And it takes a moment for him to register that — sure, the inner circle loved — loves — him, in their own way, but he'd never been loved the way he needed it. Had never been so seen by someone. Rhysand saw him as his most trusted weapon, but never as the lover he could become. Rhysand did not see Azriel ever being a good lover to any of the women in his inner circle. He never saw him being good — whole — enough for it.

Cassian saw him as his brother in arms, he saw him as a man he could trust with his life when it came down to violence. But when it came to gentleness, Cassian did not. He did not blame him for it.

And Feyre, the woman he considered a sister, only saw him as the protector of her family. She had always been closer to Cassian, from them starving so young, and then finding a family of their own, they could relate. Azriel could not relate to her that way, and she knew it, too, which kept him an arm’s length from the true her.

And Mor — Mor saw him only when she felt it convenient for her.

But you. You cleaned those pieces of paper where horrors he’d seen with his own two eyes were depicted and did not flinch. You saw those happy moments, and did not ignore them, either. You did not pick and choose which sides of him you wanted. You appreciated him wholly like no one ever had.

Progress after that day only doubles.

He begins to stand up for himself. Says no to the missions he knows will only break him inside a little more when he is just starting to stitch up all his broken pieces.

He draws. And sings. At first, he sings only alone, in the vulnerability of his own room, for himself. It's a way to get his feelings out — again. But then one day you take him to the bar in Velaris during one of your stays there, and he decides to sing for you. He'd done it for himself first — because it made him happy, but now, he wanted to show you, too, that to the bottom of his soul, he was starting to find himself.

And when you cry as the song ends, he gathers you in his arms and rocks you until you can breathe steady again.

After that night, many things change.

He's away from you more, but when he is around, he's the happiest you've ever seen him be — as though a weight has finally been lifted off of his shoulders. He stays no longer than a day at a time, and each time he comes back, he brings you a new story to tell — a new discovery he's made about himself.

A year later, you're in your garden, knees in the dirt, knuckles deep in the roots of an orange tree when you hear the familiar flap of his wings in the distance. He lands outside the tiny fence you keep around the garden to limit wild bunnies munching on your fruits. He has a bag on his shoulder, no heavier than a few shirts and pants. No armour in sight. He smiles, tired and worn out, but no less free, and no less in love, and you don't question it. You only raise yourself to your naked feet and step towards him. He cups your face, and you smile, nuzzling in it, that warm, scarred hand.

“Welcome home.” You say, soft and gentle but as firm as you can make it.

He presses his forehead to yours, dips down, and kisses you.

The next morning, you wake up with sunshine lapping at your bare skin like waves, your opened french doors letting in salty sea air into the room, shifting the curtains forward and back. Your body is draped over Azriel’s, who holds you loosely at the waist, his face serene with his eyes closed and eyebrows softly curved upwards.

You trace the small smile on his lips with your longest finger. His lashes flutter, and his hazel eyes find yours. He massages your naked waist as he comes to, blinking a few times, bringing you in closer.

He touches you with reverence, with so much love it's dizzying. “I resigned from my place as Shadow Singer of the night court. I trained Nuala and Cerridwen to take my place.” He announces after a few kisses that steal the air from you.

You don't say anything because you know that at this point in time, he doesn't need your approval, or your point of view on it. He'd done this for himself, and you were beyond proud of him for choosing himself above his prior court for once.

After that day, Azriel finds himself a place in your own little world. In that community you're growing in the mountains. He doesn't leave for Velaris anymore, and when you're called in, he will join you only rarely. Not in an attempt to forget — but because he does not feel the need to. He sees Rhysand and Cassian every month, and Feyre comes up with Nesta and Gwyn and Emerie and Elain sometimes to see you, maybe once every two months, to have a girls night of sorts.

And eventually, years down the line, your little community continues to flourish. You work hard to build a safe heaven for the people that trust you — that up and left their own courts to find you. Some people from the night court, others from spring, and a grand majority from other islands faraway.

Your home builds itself so beautifully over time, that the other courts agree to count your Island as the last court of Prythian — as a sign of respect, and some kind of political grant you don't truly understand.

You don't delude yourself into thinking you're any sort of High Lady, but as you see Azriel helping your citizens with their farms, deep brown skin tanned and slick with sweat instead of blood, playing with the kids with that beautiful, beaming smile on his face, shadows dispersing to trick and make toddlers and youngsters alike giggle, helping fix homes up after rather rough storms hit your village, you think that he'd make a perfect High Lord.

#azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel #acotar fanfiction #acotar

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arachniee · 2 months

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✰ The Arbiter of Justice.

Ex Situationship! Alastor x Female! Overlord Reader , Vox x Female! Overlord Reader, Lucifer x Female! Overlord Reader

₊˚✩彡 Summary: Famously known as hell's only demon that can break contracts between other sinners, you were very sought after by those who wish to free themselves from the wretched hands of their soul owners, much to the dismay (annoyance) of the other Overlords.

₊˚✩彡Notes: okay so, i know you're probably wondering why this came out faster than the parts of my other series, lets just say that i absolutely despised the first drafts i had and had to redo and edit some stuff again, but hey, here you go (this is not proofread, you have been warned)

╰⪼ “Those fuckers are back!”

Vox yelled, flailing his arms out with each syllable that left his petty mouth. Great. First, he found out that the radio demon was back from whatever hole in hell he's been hiding in for the last 7 years, and second, that bitch in the shadows made her appearance again after a whole decade! God, isn't his life just fucking great.

Valentino wanted to snicker, mock him because of his childishness. But he couldn't, for he too was not pleased with someone's return. Sure, he could live without Alastor, and yeah, he could live with the radio demon around. He didn't really care about him, it was only Vox who hated Alastor so much to obviously express it. But the Arbiter? Valentino would even thank any exorcist who manages to kill her. Though, he knew not to expect anything. Since the Vee’s have never really laid a scratch on her skin, no matter what they did.

“I thought she was gone for good too.”

It's been almost 10 years since she left, leaving the Vee’s to assume (hope) that she'd never return and potentially ruin their status. Ever since her sudden disappearance, they've made it their goal to savour this experience, the feeling of making as many contracts as possible without the restraint from that wretched woman who was dubbed the “Arbiter”.

“Can’t this day get any fucking worse?!”

Vox was fuming, it was very prominent. Of course he'd be angry, a threat has been posed to his business. With the Arbiter’s return, surely he'll lose most of his employees again! And that is NOT happening. And to add to his already boiling anger, the radio demon is back as well. He could feel the temperature of his screen almost overloading, if he doesn't calm down soon, he might even crack his screen.

It was only a matter of time ‘til the word reached Velvette, and they were sure that she would also be displeased with the news. All these deals and contracts they made to build themselves up, climb the ranks, all of these may potentially be snatched away by the Arbiter again in a matter of time. They can't afford for that to happen, not now, not again, not ever.

“The upcoming Overlord meeting… Are you going to attend?”

Valentino asked, eyebrows furrowed as he waited for Vox’s answer. His question was hinting a very obvious thought, with the return of the radio demon and the arbiter, surely almost every Overlord will be present. No, the Arbiter has never really attended the meeting personally, but they always send a shadow in their place. That's the most interaction a person has with her, aside from those who manage to successfully summon her and make a contract with her for her services. So attending the Overlord meeting and speaking with the shadow would be their only way of communicating with her. That is the only way they'll be able to receive some sort of response.

Even with how problematic the Arbiter is for them, little to none is known about her. Every person whom she freed from a contract will always do and say the same thing. Their finger pressing to their lips, a eerily soft smile, and a gentle voice that would speak the words;

“Sh, her shadow might hear you!”

Well, that didn't fill up with any context. It was the same actions and answer, no matter how many times a demon would ask them. Did the Arbiter do something to them? Did they say something? Regardless, it was really frustrating. Especially to those who wanted to gather information about her to bring her down. Ehem, the Vee’s, and maybe a few other Overlords.

───〃★

Ever since your disappearance, Alastor and his dear friends were quite bummed (more so than he'd like to admit). And maybe because of the fact that he may favor you more than the others, who knows? But the pain you unknowingly left in his heart was a feeling he could never forget. A feeling he can’t seem to get himself past. Petty, call it as you will. But the memory you engraved in his mind kept him up all night, every night. You consumed him and his thoughts, especially in his sleep.

Which is why he wanted nothing more than to never sleep again.

Despite him not wanting to acknowledge it, he liked you far more than the rest. And he hated himself for it. No matter how hard he tried to avoid any indication of your presence, you still bled into every crevice and corner of this shitty hell hole. Every corner that touched the light and casted shadows, all of it haunted him.

Everything was so similar to you.

So he left. For the longest time, he tried his very best to forget you, spending his time doing who knows what. It has already been 7 years, before he knew it. He knew it was conflicting, but a part of his wretched soul wondered.

Would you be there on his return?

Most likely not. He hoped that you wouldn’t. But he also hoped to see you, even just once. A single glance at you would’ve made him crumble. The wall that he built to keep romance away, it’ll all come crashing down, without a doubt.

“Alastor? What’s botherin’ you, dear?”

A feminine voice cut through the thick tension in the room, a gentle hand resting on his shoulder. Ah, he almost forgot he was in his dear friend’s Emporium. Well, it wasn’t entirely his fault his thoughts wandered off, especially after seeing a picture with a familiar face on it.

“Oh, worry not, Dear Rosie! Nothing a little work can’t handle!’

He assured her, that wide, signature smile of his visibly staring back at the woman. She mirrored it, though she seemed a little less hostile, even with her razor sharp teeth. She had been worried since Alastor left, of course, but what worried her more was how she’d often find him in a daze, seemingly unaware of everything around. Now, in hell, being unaware of your surroundings is the last thing you want. It’s not like she was doubting his strength and power, oh no. But she really can’t help it. She’s often the one taking care of everyone, so naturally, she wants to be there for him out of instinct.

“Well, it certainly doesn’t look like it, Cerf.”

A husky voice piped in, peeking from behind the couch that Rosie and the radio demon sat on. Another figure, who seemingly appeared to be a more masculine version of the Cannibal District’s leader. Same pitch black eyes, pale skin and mop of greyish pink stands. Adorned with a rather lavish suit and a light colored fedora that contrasted Rosie’s more pinkish hat.

“As sharp as always, I see you are!”

“Oh come on, pumpkin! We gotta give Alastor his own personal space, okay? If he doesn’t wanna talk about it then we won’t force him.”

Rosie interrupted, glancing behind her to finally eye the person that the voice belonged to. The previous smile on her face seemed to grow, of course, why wouldn’t it? Looking at her younger brother has always been pleasing to her, especially since they look too much alike.

“I am well aware, my Rosa. Must you always treat me as an unknowing child?”

Her younger brother sighed, momentarily closing his eyes and shaking his head left and right, his greyish pink locks swaying with each movement.

“But my dear, it seems that you are!”

The radio demon replied to his question. This was one of the ways Alastor tried, in hopes of forgetting you. Spending time with his dearest friends was something he cherished, especially with how much he saw that they genuinely cared for him. But it was a bittersweet feeling.

How differently would things be if you were still here?

“Word has it that she has finally returned.”

The same figure from behind the two seated Overlords exclaimed, tone now an octave lower and stirring with an unknowing emotion. Was he trying to be cautious? Or was he trying to not be insensitive towards Alastor’s feelings? Well, whatever the reason, this topic was bound to surface in their conversations anytime soon, so might as well talk about it now.

“My Riose, that is not something you must bring up so suddenly!”

The said young man let out a huff of air, out of amusement or interest, not quite sure. Gosh, he certainly is still like a child in the two Overlords’ eyes. With a shrug, Riose decided to change the topic. Man, he was expecting to hear more stories about the Arbiter, but that can wait another time perhaps. Once the radio demon has fully moved on, he supposed.

Alastor knew you were back, he has connections after all. But he hated how he hoped so much that you’d meet again, after all these years. But that was closer to impossible, to be honest. He’s accepted that fact, not fully, but he’s trying. Trying to move on, trying to forget you.

Though Riose had a feeling that he’d share this stuff with you and tell you about the shit the radio demon has been ranting to him and his sister, and unfortunately, you don’t know if you want to let Alastor go yet.

#hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel rosie #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel valentino #hazbin hotel

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simplydannie · 2 months

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Events have occured before the Trolls find themselves in a giant warehouse owned by the Mistress. Unfortunately, they have given the twins to their old manager. Taking them back, she resumes to mental abuse and hsing them as her guinea pigs. After hearing the truth from Branch, that Velvet and Veneer were not the ones to take the Trolls, instant regret enters them. Now they go search for their new friends… in hopes they can find them alive and well.

The Trolls made their way through the air vents of the facility…. it was huge.

Room upon room they looked, but their was no sign of them….Their was no sign of the twins.

“We got to find them fast. Who knows what Mistress is doing to them…or did.” Floyd said. The Trolls made the mistake of allowing that witch to take them away… They promised the twins theyd be there for them, they would never abandon them…and what did they do? Hand them over to someone who was abusive to them from the beginning.

Episode after episode, the wins grew worse and worse. The Trolls didn’t know how they could help Velvet and Veneer. The Trolls grow hopeless in finding a cure to this Troll poison. They grew fearful as more and more Trolls began disappearing. They blamed the twins for it… especially when Branch disappeared…So they allowed the Mistress, their old manager, to take them away because she said she knew how to help them. After finding Branch and a handful of Trolls, that’s when they all realized they made a mistake…Now here they were…desperately trying to find them.

“You think JD and Clay are having any luck?” Branch asked.

“Who knows. This place is huge! They could be anywhere….” Poppy began to say.

“Over here!” Viva cried out. The rest of them made their way to where Viva was looking….There they were, tied back to back on some sort of chair. The little Trolls scanned the room making sure it was clear. The opened the vent and made their way down to the two giant Rageouns.

“Velvet! Veneer! Oh thank heavens you’re alright! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Poppy chimed at them….no answer. Sounds were heard from the vent opposite them; more Trolls came out: John Dory and Clay.

“You found them! Come on! Let’s get them freed up and out of here.” John Dory said. He and Clay made their way to the door, listening for anything or anyone that might come in. Branch was the only one who stood silent, staring up at the twins….something didn’t look right.

“Vels, Ven! Come on guys! I’m so sorry I let that monster take you away…..again.” Floyd said as he desperately tried to undo the knots that binded them together….still no answer.

“…Floyd…” Branch said as he got a closer look at the twins.

“Poppy! Viva! Help me undo these knots!” Floyd said. Between the three of them, they desperately pulled and pulled.

“…Guys…” Branch began to say again.

“Branch help them out!” Clay called out.

“Guys!” Branch cried louder…all the Trolls stopped and looked at him. “…I think….We’re…..we’re too late…” Everyone turned to look.

Velvet and Veneer sat there….expressionless. Their eyes half opened, staring off at nothing….The color in their eyes having almost faded to nothing, dark circles looming underneath…Their skin looking paler than it was.

“Velvet…” Floyd said looking at the girl….nothing….He inched closer to Veneer. “Ven?” The boy didn’t turn to look at him at all…it’s as if he wasn’t event here. Floyd looked at Branch. “No…no we can’t be too late..”

“The poison…this can’t be because of the poison can it?” Poppy asked. What did she do to them? The Trolls looked around for clues, all there was in the room were some of the twins belongings on the desk nearby….The Trolls noticed vents near the floor, these vents were different than the ones they came in from…a wierd essence came from them.

“…She….she used more essence on them…She poisoned them even more.” Branch said with a horrified expression.

“Thats why she tied them up. To keep them from hurting themselves or each other as they went crazy...the episodes….Oh my gosh…that’s…that’s…” Viva covered her mouth as small tears went down her face.

“She practically tortured them…” Branch said. Now the twins sat their, practically zombies.

“No…No, I refuse to believe they’re gone. Velvet! Veneer! Come on we have to go!” Floyd cried out…..nothing…just silent breathing and far off expressions.

“…Velvet… You left your favorite cashmier sweater back at Gristles castle…Well, we kind of stained it..” Poppy said…Nothing…She looked at everyone else…they had to have them come back somehow.

“Come on kid…come on.” Branch heard John Dory say. Floyd pointed towards something on the desk.

“The locket! Get the locket!” He told the Trolls. Grapsing it, they flung themselves on Veneer’s lap…they opened the locket… Inside was a photo of the twins, and their parents.

“Remember this. You told me about this day…It was your guys 8th birthday. They took you guys camping. You said it was the best day ever.” Floyd said as he pointed at the picture. They tried putting it towards Veneer’s line of view, but he didn’t budge, he didn’t move. They moved over towards Velvet. “You told me that you made fun of Veneer that day cause he fell into the stream, little fishes getting into his pants. Remember? Come on you have to remember!” Floyd screamed out.

There was no reaction from either one of them…The poison continued to consume their mind…they were gone…there would be nothing left of them…Branch stayed at the desk as the rest of them tried to continue to get the twins back; anything they could bring up that would spark their interest. He looked at the twins belongs on the desk….He saw Veneer’s notebook. During their stay with them in both Bergentown and Vacay Island, Veneer carried a notebook with him. He always had his nose in it…Branch never bothered to ask him about it..

“Would you like to see what I did?” Veneer would ask.

“No.” Branch would tell him giving him the cold shoulder. Opening the book, Branch saw what the kid would do….he would draw…and he was pretty good. Pictures of his time with the Trolls, sketches of Bruce and the kids, Bridget and Gristle, his sister….Branch. He’s so cool, was written in Veneer’s hand writing next to a drawing of Branch. I have the coolest dad, another note next to a picture of Floyd playing a tiny guitat. Goals, Veneer wrote by a drawing he did of Poppy and Branch. A weird feeling began tearing at Branches heart…

“…I’m sorry….” Branch mumbled at first. He turned to face the twins…towards Veneer. “I’m so sorry….For everything….I didn’t listen either one of you…Especially you Veneer…” It was as if Branch was talking to stone as the twins continued to sit their motionless. “You both just wanted another shot at family…redemption in life…we could’ve given you that…but we didnt…..I’m sorry.”

They continued to stare at the twins, hoping for signs of life…something. Tears began forming in Floyds eyes.

“They’re gone….they’re really gone…I….I failed them.” He said.

“We all did Floyd….I have never failed anything as queen before…But this…I screwed up big time.” Poppy fell to her knees hugging herself. Viva went to embrace her sister. Everything seemed familair to Branch at this moment…this took him back…back when they were captured, about to be eaten by the Bergens that one night…before Bridget allowed them to escape. The hopelessness, the sadness, it all felt the same. Something in him began to wonder that maybe there could be one chance to bring them back…maybe, just maybe…. He began to sing…

The rest of the Trolls looked up at him. At first they were confused, but then they saw him looking directly at Velvet and Veneer as he sang…. One by one, they all began to sing their heart out, hoping that Velvet and Veneer were in there somewhere…listening…. they had to be….but as they continued to sing, there was no reaction from the twins. There was a moment of silence. Branch tilted his head down in defeat….until….he heard something…the voice was barely audible, but it was there…It was Veneers…it sounded like he sang a few verses of the song…The Trolls looked at each other, ears perked up. Branch sang again…..

….And again he heard Veneers voice….then Velvets…barely audible…but it was there. Branch hopped off the table and got closer to the twins…he sang louder and louder…right now he didn’t care if anyone outside would hear…he was determined to bring them back. The louder the Trolls sang, the more audible the twins became….they did it, they had found their voice.

In the blink of an eye the twins snapped. Color came back to their eyes, the dark circles gone. They blinked in confusion looking around the room. Veneer was the first to see the Trolls.

“….Guys what..…Branch!” He called out as he saw the small Troll amongst everyone else. The last Veneer remembered, Branch had been kidnapped.

“Hey, bud.” Branch said softly with a smile on his face, a small tear streaming down. Poppy walked over to hold his hand.

“What the…Why am I tied to chair with Veneer? To close for comfort! Get him off!” Velvet began to wiggle around causing a comotion…Yep, she was back. Together they undid the knots, freeing themselve. The Trolls were overfilled with excitement. Branch, Poppy, Viva, Floyd, Clay, and John Dory flung themselves on the twins, their force causing them to fall over. They held them as close as their tiny arms can in a warm embrace. Veneer happily held the little Trolls close…Velvet was a little less affectionate, but she smiled.

“We’re sorry! We’re so, so sorry! We should not have let you go!” Poppy exclaimed to both.

“Why did you?” Velvet asked.

“…We were afraid. You guys were getting worse…we let our fear win. We’re so sorry.” Viva exclaimed.

“Same. I walked out on family…and I let it happen again.” JD said.

“Me too…There’s just no excuse. We promised to take care of you.” Clay added.

“…I have no excuse…I promised your parents I’d take care of you…I failed them…twice….I let you get taken and abused by the same person…I’m sorry.” Floyd looked between both Velvet and Veneer. Veneer gave him a soft smile.

“I guess you can call it even then?” Veneer responded.

“No..No. Don’t ever think like that okay. We’re never letting you two again.” Floyd responded.

“Well that’s depressing.” Velvet replied earning an elbow from Veneer, but they all knew that was her way of being affectionate…of being thankful.

“And I’m sorry too…for being so cold and mean. I just couldn’t get over what you guys did to Floyd…but I shouldve been more open…I’m sorry…Especially to you Veneer.” Branch couldn’t help it, he squished Veneers cheeks together. “You’re art…is amazing by the way.” He said.

“Thanf youz…” Veneer said through squished cheeks.

“Okay, okay. Loving the bromance!! But we still have missing Trolls to find.” Poppy exclaimed.

“Right. You guys in?” Branch turned to Velvet and Veneer.

“Always. From here on out.” Veneer replied. Velvet shrugged and nodded in agreement.

“Why not.”

#dreamworks trolls #trolls band together #trolls 3 #trolls veneer #velvet and veneer #velvet trolls #veneer #velvet #velvet and veneer trolls #fandom #trolls branch #trolls poppy #trolls viva #trolls floyd #trolls clay #john dory #fanfic #fanfiction #Spotify

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fanficsat12am · 2 years

Text

how the brothers react to playing with his hair headcanons | Beelzebub & Belphegor

WARNINGS: This contains angst with comfort and mentions of Lilith

📜 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃!! 📜 Lucifer & Mammon Leviathan, Satan & Asmodeus

Beelzebub

You opened your eyes to see Beel in a cold sweat, tears brimming his eyes with quick and shallow breath leaving his agape mouth. His eyes looked unfocused, darting to look around the dark room. Little did you know that while you saw only darkness in the room, he saw vivid images of Lilith and the war, the past continuing to haunt him.

You noticed that Beel had been waking up more frequently than usual for a midnight snack. You’ve caught him multiple times in the kitchen already, each night feeling uneasy with his wavering smile meant for reassurance. Wanting to help the poor giant, you decided to sleep beside him tonight–claiming to just want to spend more time with him.

Trying to rack your brain for anything that can help your lover, you’re hit with a fond memory between the two of you. Times when you’d go to him in a heap of sobs and he’d hold you tight, brushing his hand through our hair and whispering words of reassurance.

So, you do to him what he has done to you over and over again with no hesitation. You envelop him into your arms and start playing with his hair, the hue resembling that of amber.

To your surprise, it seemed to have made the situation worse. His cries were now more severe than that a while ago.

But it wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault. He didn’t tell you about his nightmares, nor did he tell you much about his time before the Celestial War. Did she tell you? The times of when Lilith would run her fingers along his hair, your gentle touch almost an exact replica of how hers felt.

You were about to pull away when his hand shoots up to rest on top of yours, a sign to keep going. So you obliged, the demon's tense shoulders finally slackening. You continued until the demon’s eyes closed, deep and shallow breaths indicating that he was asleep.

Since that night, he longs for that certain touch from you. It ends up being a form of relaxation that brings him to the euphoric times in the Celestial Realm.

“Honey, you haven’t eaten anything for an hour and your stomach’s been grumbling non-stop. You need to eat”

“Just a few more minutes please…I might be hungry, but I don’t wanna be starved of your touch”

Plus Belphie can probably sense it so he’ll bring me some

Belphegor

He woke up from one of his afternoon naps to something rummaging about in his hair. His breathing hitched, thinking that it was a mouse or an insect, and was about to shoot up from his position. A sigh of relief left his lips when he saw your familiar hand on his head.

The demon tries to keep his eyes open, your touch bringing him to a heavenly place he hasn't been to for what felt like eternity. He might seem composed on the outside, but in reality he’s scared. Scared that if he falls back asleep, he’ll wake up with you gone just like her.

To his dismay, the warmth of your touch lulled him back to a deep slumber. He found himself in the arms of his little sister once again, her small hand brushing through his locks. They were in his room, the pristine whites and golds filling the space unmistakable.

Before he can even relish in the feeling of the moment, he finds himself plummeting from the skies, the bed they were on was suddenly gone in a split second. He's now standing in the middle of a darkened void. Where were you? Where was Lilith? For the first time after being freed from the attic, he's once again alone.

Belphie woke up from his slumber in a jolt, the demon still groggy. He looked around his room expecting to see you talking to Beel or going through your D.D.D., but you weren’t.

A deep dread in his stomach starts to form and he feels tears start to form. He wanted to believe that this was just another one of his dreams, but it wasn’t. This was a nightmare coming to reality. With a heavy heart, sobs start to leave the poor blunette.

Through heaving breathing, he hears the door to his room creak open. He thought that it was just Beel, knowing that he can somehow sense his heartbreak.

But it wasn’t Beel. It wasn’t his gentle calloused hand resting on his face, nor was it his violet eyes staring at him. It was yours.

You leaned down to his ear and whispered five simple words, the sound almost inaudible... "It's time to wake up"

His eyes slowly open, feeling an uncomfortable wet feeling on his face. Was this another dream? He almost thought so until he made out a familiar silhouette and gentle fingers combing through his blueberry hair. This was real, he was sure of it. Without a second thought, he clung tight to you, thinking you’ll slip away if he lets go. You coo at him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear with obvious worry lacing your voice.

After he told you everything that happened, not a day passes wherein he doesn't wakes up to you playing with his hair. He often finds the line between reality and his head blurry– the gesture reassuring him that he’s awake, with you in his arms.

“How was your nap, baby?”

“Waking up to you and your touch is always better than only seeing you in my dreams”

AN: HELLO THERE!! I hope you guys liked my third work 😃 I've had a great time writing these and have a lot more coming up❗❗ Thanks for all your support and I hope you stick around to see what's coming in the future <33

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brittle-doughie · 1 year

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How will the cookies Reacted to finding out Y/N have been frame for a crime they never committed and was jailed and was traumatize by the incident leading to Self Doubt and Trust issues and the Yandere Cookies met the culprit who cause Y/N Misery and Arrest

Antagonized

Innocent until proven guilty, that’s my take.

You looked down to the floor of your jail cell, hands cuffed together as you sat in silence, trying to take in what had just happened that led to you winding up in here.

You were arrested for the theft of Cheese Stones in Pumpkin Cookie’s Appraisal, being the only Cookie at the scene when alarms were raised. You swore up and down that you were only there to have Melon Bun’s stones apprised for her, but cops at the scene didn’t want to hear it. Cheese Stones were stolen, you had a bagful of them, and you were a new face around these parts, you had to be the crook.

You never would’ve expected to find yourself at the back of a police car today, getting your mugshot, then placed into a cell as they started their investigation into the matter. You again swore that you had nothing to do with this matter, but the guards putting you into your cell could care less for what a crook had to say.

So here you were, sitting in silence within your cell, awaiting your sentencing. Your hands were shaking, you’ve never been arrested before, let alone about to be prosecuted.

It was made worse based on the fact that you didn’t anything…

————————————————————————

Almond Cookie wasn’t buying any of this. YOU, Y/N Cookie, known for your benevolence and being an all-loving friend to fellow cookies, is being arrested for theft?

No.

He’s investigating further, he’s going after the rookies who were at the scene for doing such a sloppy job and making arrests before the facts were in. They couldn’t even be bothered to get your account on the crime before they threw you in the back of a police car. Almond Cookie couldn’t bear to see your mugshot, that look at sorrow in your face and the sadness in your eyes..Almond couldn’t stand it.

Solving this case was the least of his worries. Word had gone out about your arrest and now Almond had to deal with a number of cookies expressing their outrage and sympathy for you.

What a calamity, Truffle Cookie thought. To think that you of all cookies would be arrested came as a surprise to her. She’d politely request Almond Cookie to solve the case, but that polite tone contrasted her shadowy eyed look. He BETTER find the true culprit, she refused to accept that you were the felon, and Almond might just have to accept what comes to him if you’re put away for good. His closets or under the bed will never be safe.

Almond Cookie, the Cookie that helped her with the painting affair in the past, has now decided that you were to be locked up without even an investigation on who did it in the first place? Talk about shotty detective work, Butter Pretzel Cookie thinks. Her frustration is more personal on the fact that she wanted to unveil a portrait of you when you were free, so being arrested really put a damper on her mood.

Lollipop Cookie didn’t understand. You, a cookie she’s known for a while, arrested? But…you never showed signs of being a criminal, she was having to be consoled by Butterbear after a bout of crying. You said that you would visit the shop the next day to spend time with her and Butterbear, she was really looking forward to it and was saddened that it couldn’t happen now. She’ll plead with Almond to set you free, you haven’t done anything wrong!

Melon Bun herself showed up to the witness testimonies and gave her account that you really were just doing an errand for her! She was worried when you didn’t return after a few hours and was caught off guard when Pumpkin told that you were jailed! She felt guilty for what happened and will personally see to it that you were freed! She only hopes you don’t hate her after this…

————————————————————————

Almond was done gathering testimonies and started to lay out the pieces together.

You started the day by visiting Truffle Cookie to have tea time together, having pleasant small talk with her. (Truffle Cookie did have to pause her testimony as she held her blushing cheeks, ah, you said so much sweet things to her, she felt like a highschool girl with a crush.)

You then visited Butter Pretzel to help with her paintings, she needed more materials and she’s worried that stepping away will make her current work dry out before she can get more. She wanted you to stay and draw you a portrait, it was a long task however. She grew frustrated that she couldn’t perfectly replicate you in art form, she had to throw away so many drafts before she finally got one to satisfy her standards. Oddly enough, she closed her shop for the day right around when she started to work on your portrait.

Finally, you visited Melon Bun, who wanted your help to get her cheese stones appraised, but couldn’t leave the mine. She didn’t want Goblin Cookie running off with the haul she had right now! You agreed and Melon Bun promised that when you got back, you two were gonna have a pizza date! Looking forward to it, you grabbed the bag of cheese stones and made your way to the Appraisal.

Unfortunately, this would be right around the time that the Appraisal would be robbed of their array of cheese stones, done by a currently unknown Cookie. However, the pictures at the crime scene left details that Almond Cookie knew all too well.

This…felon was the one that had done this, this crook had always been a thorn to Almond Cookie’s side. The more Almond Cookie pieced together the evidence, the more guilty he had got.

Almond made his way to the jail cells, moving past the four cookies who went after him, ignoring their questions as he reached the cells. You plagued his mind, the look of sorrow on your mugshot coming back to him. That only made his pace faster.

He had to get to you.

————————————————————————

The weight was finally lifted off your shoulders when the fell opened and your cuffs were unlocked, Almond Cookie knelt down to meet your gaze.

He…wanted to apologize for every mistake this station had done to you. It was a mistake to have arrested you blindly, to have you even jailed here, Almond wanted to personally meet the officer that made the arrest and give them a reminder of why you don’t arrest innocent cookies.

He guided you out of your cells, to meet the four cookies that had arrived after hearing the news.

Lollipop wanted to hug you and ask if you were okay, but you rejected her attempt. You..wanted to be alone right now, get some coffee, and just shake off the day. Lollipop understood…but that tear that came out betrayed her words.

Truffle held your arm and expressed relief that you were innocent, would you…care for some tea? She wanted to help take your mind this whole incident, she’ll make yours especially sweet! You shrugged off her hold and told her some other time. To Truffle Cookie’ her heart shattered as she let go, looking down somberly.

Butter Pretzel caught your attention and asked if you wanted to see your portrait! She finished it and hoped that she captured your sweetness, she really wanted you to like it and to an extent…like her. You did your best to be polite and turned down right now, but you promise to look at it some other time. She says it’s fine…but the thoughts of striking Almond over the head with the painting say otherwise.

Melon Bun wanted to apologize big time for getting you into this mess, she didn’t mean to get you arrested, she didn’t mean for you to go through this experience, she hoped this whole thing was scrubbed off your clean record. Please don’t hate her

Almond was the same, he wanted to apologize for the station’s mistakes and responded to Melon Bun’s worries that this incident will be removed and wiped off, he’ll see to it personally that it does. He hopes that this situation doesn’t make you afraid of him or any authority, but when you couldn’t make eye contact with him, his fears might have been realized.

You announced your departure with a strained smile as you went home. As soon as you were out of view, the four cookies quickly turned to Almond Cookie, their glowing eyes shadowed in darkness, brimmed with murderous intent.

Almond defended himself, stating that was this crooked cookie that was responsible for this crime, let’s go after them instead of bickering here. Almond himself was incredibly angry too…the mere possibility that this cookie can get away with possibly ruining Almond’s relationship with you…enrages him.

————————————————————————

The next day’s news covered a brutal attack on a now jailed cookie, their dough bruised and cracked enough to leave noticeable injuries. Almond expressed no sympathy for the criminal, saying they deserved what they got. He shrugged off and disregarded the traces of butter, spiders, and cheese found on the perp, and especially the black eye the cookie had.

Butter Pretzel hummed as she painted a new portrait of you, who knew that bits of jam could really bring out the eyes.

Melon Bun whistles as she cleaned her pickaxe, watching over her shoulder every now and then. She didn’t want others to see the strawberry jam on it.

Truffle sipped on her tea as she heard the news over radio, giggling to herself as a shadow was casted over her eyes.

Lollipop wasn’t that invested into the news, she was busy spending time playing with you in the workshop, with Butterbear watching over the two of you with a laugh. As long as you were here, Lollipop didn’t really care what becomes of that thief.

All of them wouldn’t mind if this criminal was put away for good though. Because getting out meant facing these cookies again…and they can hold a grudge.

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lumpsbumpsandwhumps · 3 months

Note

uhh good old fashioned forced to kneel (maybe in front of a mafia boss after failing a job), maybe pistol whipping involved

hehehehehe

It was useless to struggle. You knew it was useless to struggle. You struggled many times in the past and had never been able to make the man budge once, so why you thought this time would be any different was wasted effort on your part. Still, you couldn't help the instinctual need to fight against the thick arm coiled around your waist that dragged you deeper into the underground vault.

I've gotten you approved for a transfer to one of our sister locations, your former manager said. It's in a higher end district so there's tighter safety measures in place, she said. You won't need to let that fear hold you back again, she said.

In her defense, she couldn't have possibly been able to be able to predict just two months later this bank would also be targeted. By the same group of men, no less. Well, you assumed they were the same, based off the similar physiques and coordinated masks. Skullface and his vintage Halloween counterparts were absent this time, instead being replaced with plastic faces of dog breeds. You were currently experiencing the joy yet again of being manhandled by Rottweiler and you had no doubt his bite would be worse than his bark.

As soon as you were escorted into the vault meant to store customers' safety deposit boxes, the arm hauling you along dropped to let you stumble. Thankfully, only your wrists were bound in zipties, leaving your wobbly legs to hightail it back towards the entrance before the collar of your shirt was seized. With a grunt, you were thrown against one of the metal tables, taking the brunt of the impact with your hip. You were caged in between thick limbs on either side, allowing the robber to crowd your space and practically swallow you whole with his massive build.

This close, you could smell the gunpowder and ash that clung to his jacket. Somewhere deep within the caverns of the mask's eyeholes, you might have been able to catch a wisp of pale lashes. But you weren't too concerned with that right now, not when you knew good and well that you had earned the ire of a dangerous man.

"What the fuck was that?" he hissed, having to lean down to accommodate for the difference in height. You could only curve your back so far against the blunt edge of the table to make distance.

Initially, you weren't going to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Not that you didn't want to, of course; a scathing fuck you burning on the tip of your tongue. You were smart enough to know that a tiger would only tolerate being poked so many times with a stick. The fact that you tried to sabotage the dye packs when his back was turned was more akin to jabbing a stick straight into its eye. It was a miracle you weren't shot dead then and there.

Your lack of response was grinding further on his nerves, made evident when his gloved hand grabbed you by the jaw. His fingers dug into the hollows of your cheeks, sure to leave little purple bruises around the outline of your teeth. The last time he held your face like this was to forcefully pucker your lips, now free of their gag, to share a mock kiss between you and the plastic mouth of his skull mask before your were shoved out of a moving getaway vehicle. A quick peck probably wasn't on his mind right now, though.

"No, really," he insisted with the same, clipped edge in his tone, "I want to know what the fuck was going on inside that empty little head of your's to think that was a good idea."

Even with your face being squeezed, you managed to talk around his fingers, hoping that your matching glare would make up for any slurred speech. "Would'a made y' eas'er t'catch."

Oh, if masks could speak, there was no doubt the Rottweiler sharing his face would be latching its teeth around your throat with a snarl. In fact, you almost thought that was what the criminal was rearing to do when he briefly freed you from your prison to straighten his stance. No sooner had those arms released you was one swinging down from your peripheral, too fast for you to consider dodging. The butt of his gun cracked against your cheekbone, your teeth cutting against your already bruising flesh and threatening to loosen from the gums completely.

The pain took a few seconds to register after the initial hit. For a moment, you worried that you had been shot rather than pistol whipped with how your vision flashed white and your were deafened by the ringing in your ears. A moment later and a fiery ache bloomed across the entire left side of your face. Pain throbbed with each heartbeat that echoed in your head, tingling from the roots of your teeth and the expanse of your lower jaw, only tapering out somewhat under your eye.

Blood welled on your tongue, thick and bitter, from a cut or something broken you couldn't be certain of yet. Not only had you been rendered speechless by the agony coursing red hot under your skin, but the knock to the head was more than enough to make your knees buckle in a dizzying daze. You tipped forward, almost about to faceplant right into Rottweiler's bulletproof vest, but instead he let you stumble hard onto your knees in front of him. Well, at least being on the partially on the floor meant you didn't have to mind where the glob of saliva and blood landed when you spat it out.

You couldn't help but groan, not sure if your swollen tongue would be able to make anything else coherent enough. What was there to say, anyways? More taunts, a string of expletives, apologies meant to plead for forgiveness? There was nothing you could think of with how your thoughts were too rattled in your brain. Nothing worth the pain of opening and closing your mouth with cracked teeth, that is.

Leather fingers buried themselves deep in your hair, grasping at the roots to ensure a tight hold when they yanked your head up and back. You gasped, a sudden wave of nausea hitting you just as hard as the glock had. Stars had to be rapidly blinked away before your vision could focus on the Rottweiler staring down at you. If he wanted to, he would be able to snap your neck with just a flick of his wrist. Hell, he could have always done that whenever he wanted to, just as he could have shot you or stabbed you or strangled you at any point of your hostageship. Both current and previous.

But he didn't, even when you knew you deserved it. Even when you knew other innocent bystanders had suffered for lesser, if any, infringements during a heist.

Again, the gun made its appearance out of the corner of your eye, taunting your with its proximity. Rather than bash the other side of your face to even out the damage, the cool metal of the barrel pressed sharply to the cheek that was just assaulted. The molar under it shifted, causing your eyes to water. You really hoped the dental insurance your employer offered covered this kind of work.

"If you didn't look so good on your knees, I'd pull the trigger," the robber sneered. If your face wasn't already burning with pain, it would be running twice as hot with shame. "Now don't make me find a better use for that mouth, love."

Tomorrow sounded like a good day to call out sick.

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blueberrypancakesworld · 6 months

Text

Ramón Salazar - In a relationship

warning : obsession, angst, implied murder, Ramón being Ramón minus the romanticized aspect

------------------

°His love and his duty are the madness he has to live with. If he had been born into a different family who loved him as he was, he would probably never have become like this.

°But he wasn't and after laying his eyes on his beloved. He would have her brought to him and would use all the weapons, troops and powers of the cult to bring her to his castle. He would indirectly conquer her like the handsome prince in the fairy tales.

°He would understand her confusion, fear and anger, but as a casteal he had many ways to make a woman of her status happy. Despite his painful childhood and his upbringing, he held on to the image of the noble prince. The image of his ancestors as his father had wooed his mother he would also woo his love.

°He would always be around her, always amusing her from her room with activities and keeping her entertained. Whether it was walking through the castle gardens. Showing her the flowers, writing poems for her and having picnics. But the fact that he had kidnapped her and is holding her captive is something he overlooks.

°For him, she was voluntarily with him, a meeting of a lifetime, love at first sight. And he would do anything for her, his patience would be immeasurable and he would have new dresses brought to her every evening, made of the finest and most expensive fabric, to dance with her.

°After every dinner they would sit down quietly at the big table. For him it was the beautiful idea of togetherness, not seeing how the crockery on the plate clinked lightly, she had to hold back her tears again and again.

°When she cried for fear that he would lock her up (which he never does, he loves her), he tried to calm her down by offering her a handkerchief and holding her in his arms. But he doesn't see her shocked look. He would try to calm her down with music and his lady realised that his love was serious after all.

°He wouldn't let her go, which would only make her tears even worse.

°But his patience would come to an end if one day you were no longer there. If Leon had not only freed Ashley but also you, even if you weren't actually his mission. But when he realised that you were the daughter of the house that had disappeared a few months ago.

°,,I have done everything! Everything for you, my princess! And this is how you thank me?" they heard the castellan shout, but they were almost out of the village and couldn't follow him so quickly. Until they saw the creature coming through the forest, tearing up the trunks and ramming through the houses. He had become a monster and you knew it was no different from the man who held you captive.

°But luck doesn't last forever, and by the time he had taken Leon and put him aside, you knew it was over. Dragged back into the castle was the only attention from Ashley, who was just as frightened. However, she would be taken to the cult while his beautiful princess would remain locked in her tower forever. He had the key and he controlled her process but it was all because he was afraid she might slip away again.

°Maybe in the end he wasn't the prince but the dragon who kept the princess as his treasure.

------------------

@goldenponcho, @xgrisleyx , @fandoms-are-my-medicine , @illyspine ,@speckle-meow-meow , @ghostssi , @loruleanheart

#re4 #re4 remake #ramon salazar #ramón salazar #ramon salazar x reader #ramón salazar x reader #resident evil 4 #resident evil 4 remake #reader is female

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traumxrei-archive · 2 years

Note

Ok! I've got it! I've decided that I'd like to request Jamil for #5! 😤 I am looking forward to reading all of these!!!! -Jamil Lover anon

【 danse macabre (a dance with death) 】

prompt #5: It’s time to fight an overblotted person and if he don’t tell them something now, he might not live to tell them later

gender neutral! prefect, includes overblot spoilers for book 5, 600 followers event (closed)

author's note: HELLO JAMIL LOVER ANON !! so sorry that it took this long for me to put this out hhh i wanted to wait for book 5 to finish before finally publishing this,,,,truthfully it's been sitting half-finished for a long while before i finally finished it today ^^ i hope you enjoy it nonetheless ^^

[ or read it on ao3 (coming soon) ]

Blot.

Jamil knew the touch of blot more intimately than others. He had felt it upon his own skin, myriads of black ink webbing around his body; giving way for his anger and resentment to burst forth. He remembered the monster that loomed over him, one borne of greed that would take and take and take until he was left an empty shell with no magic left to give.

Now there was no denying that Jamil saw the signs. The furrow in Vil's brow that never seemed to go away. The tick of irritation in his jaw whenever the word "beautiful" was uttered towards his rival. The venom dripping from his mouth as he exchanged pleasantries with the RSA student— who really genuinely thought they were friends.

It was pitiful; almost akin to seeing a mirror of himself just months ago. Struggling to walk the line of right and wrong. Struggling to hold in all the deeply seeded emotions. Struggling to breathe correctly without feeling suffocated.

So when he saw Kalim running for the dressing rooms, he made his move and just prayed that nothing too bad would happen. Especially since the Prefect wouldn't be able to protect themself from any of Vil's curses.

Snake Whisper proved to be useful once again, and that Neige LeBlanche kid? Even if he was a pretty face, his magical abilities didn't hold a candle to anyone from NRC he met so far. It was too easy to manipulate him into gathering the crowd, easier still to shout of Neige performing outside and to convince the first years of the necessary actions to be taken.

Jamil got on top of the magic carpet, speeding into the hallway. An instinctive fear washed over him as he felt a strong pulse of magic close to where he knew everyone would be.

Purple fog slowly rolled out of the hallway, and Jamil could see four figures standing in front of dressing rooms, but he was already too late. Whatever Rook and Kalim had said, it only seemed to quicken the effects of blot that had already taken root somewhere deep inside of the third year.

Jamil watched as that inky blackness seemed to drip out of Vil, enveloping him like a cape, golden feather protruding from his head as he laughed; frantic and freed. This was worse that he could've ever expected.

"Hop on!" He yelled, grabbing Grim by the scruff as the others clambered onto the carpet. He went as fast as he could, away from the stinging dizziness of the fog and into the coliseum's vast center.

His three passengers were still coughing as they got off the magic carpet. Jamil rummaged through his pockets, taking out some simple all-cures he had made.

"Kalim!" He tossed two at his ward and Rook, before approaching the Prefect and Grim, who somehow looked worse than ever. "Drink these. They're all-cures and should get rid of the poison's effects temporarily."

The Prefect smiled; a shadow of their usual smile, but they thanked him nonetheless, "Thanks, Jamil. I knew Vil disliked Neige, but...it seemed that his dislike ran a lot deeper than I expected."

"Yes, well," Jamil pulled them up to their feet. "We never know what a person is going through after all." Good, the color was returning to their face. Even Grim looked more like himself when he complained about how bitter the potion was.

"We have to evacua— Eh? All the people are gone?" Kalim tilted his head and Jamil resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Just how many years have I followed you around?" Jamil wrung out his hands, feeling a slight headache as he kept up his unique magic's effects. "I had everyone evacuated with the help of the first years."

As if on cue, the three first years made their way back, voicing their concerns of a purple fog around the coliseum. Jamil cursed under his breath. He knew that the stretch of power between him and a third-year student would've been different, but to think Vil was capable of trapping them so quickly—!

A loud boom sounded before chunks of rock came flying out from the hallway where Vil was left. It seemed that he wouldn't be going down without a fight.

"The hell's happenin'?" Epel shouted as the ground shook, stones cracking under the sheer pressure of Vil's magic.

"Save the explanations for later!"Jamil shouted, tightening his grip on the Prefect's wrist. "First, let's dodge his attacks!"

It was fitting that he said that, because right after, Vil launched a large orb of magic right at them. Jamil jumped to the right, dragging the Prefect with him. The resounding boom of the attack left a crater in the ground, scattering dust and rocks into the air as if it was nothing.

He scrambled to get behind a bigger chunk of debris, wincing at the scrapes he got as he sat up, "Hey, are you okay?"

"'M fine," They said, the dust already caking their clothes. "I should've said something earlier..."

"You couldn't have avoided this outcome," Jamil said cautiously, peeking over the rock to see the others frantically dodging Vil's attacks. "Now, please look at me."

The Prefect kept their eyes closed for a moment, "If I do look at you, please don't use your unique magic on me."

"Prefe—"

"I can't just...run away while you guys are forced to fight." Jamil felt a rise of searing anger at the base of his throat. How could they be so stupidly unaware? Even if they were there, there wasn't much they could do to help considering their severe lack of magic.

Then he remembered the stubborn set of their eyes as they fought against him, not once backing down from his spells nor the hypnotized students flocking around them. Even if the students from Octavinelle were dubious at best, they had stuck by them throughout the whole of the overblot. And he realized then and there that was nothing that could convince them to do otherwise for this overblot, especially not when their closest friends were involved.

"You..." Jamil pressed a hand to his brow. "I won't use my magic on you. Instead, you promise to stick close to me so I can at least protect y—"

There was a loud crash as magic collided with magic, and he could see Rook's light magic tangling with the darkness of Vil's tainted spells. Jamil dragged himself behind one of the stone pillars, breathing out harshly as he faced them.

They were looking at him now; properly meeting his eyes in a show of trust that somehow made Jamil's heart ache. And he faintly wondered if he would have another chance like this. What if this battle were to be his last? Could he really let them go without at least...saying something?

"...Prefect, I..." Jamil for once, was at a loss for words. What do you say to someone who mattered? Someone who mattered so much that it even hurt to think of being without them.

What would you say to someone who you might be seeing for the last time?

"I..."

The words wouldn't come. He was stupid to think that they would come easily, especially after he spent so long denying it himself. He met their eyes once more, and he faintly wondered how he looked to them. Was it pathetic, to hide away like this when everyone else was out there fighting?

"Jamil," His eyes met theirs. "You're...shaking."

He...was? Him? He brought a hand to his face, and found that yes, he was shaking. The grip on his sleeve tightened just a little bit.

"Are you exerting yourself too much?" Their voice continued. "You're still using your magic on Neige. And..."

There was a hand covering his, and when he looked up there was this gut-wrenching smile on their face, "I know. You don't have to say it here."

Jamil frowned, "But—"

"We won't die," The way they said it was so firm. Like they had utmost confidence in their words and their words only. "You can tell me after, I'll...I'll pretend I didn't know."

His throat burned as he swallowed, "I just...don't think I can leave without saying it. I like you," Jamil shook his head, holding onto their hand lightly. "No, it's more than that, I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want to lose you."

"I won't get hurt," There it was. That conviction once again. "You promised that you'd protect me. So let's go." They were right. He knew they were and yet he couldn't help but want to hold on to this just a little longer. Just for a little while.

"Okay," He said, drawing in a deep breath. "Let's beat some sense back into Vil-senpai. And we'll talk again."

"Right," They nodded, taking his hand and pulling them both into the fray of battle. Jamil pulled out his magic pen, immediately putting up a barrier as Vil launched another attack.

"Oi! What took you!?" Ace asked as he dodged more rubble.

"It seems trying to convince this one to leave is an impossible task," Jamil said, hoping that he sounded more calm than he was.

"Of course! My henchman's not the type to leave people behind!" Grim said, clinging onto the Prefect like a leech.

"Let's get Vil-senpai back," They said with a squeeze to his hand. "And after we'll have a grand afterparty, and we'll make him treat us."

"I second that!" Kalim said, looking as bright as ever even with the current situation. "Let's host it at the practice room!" Jamil inwardly sighed, knowing that the responsibility for cleaning up would somewhat fall onto him.

He felt lighter, even as he let go of their hand to take a more offensive stance, "Remember your promise."

"Yessir, I'll stick to you like glue."

"This isn't the time for..." Jamil had to turn his head to hide his smile. "Nevermind. Let's just get this over with."

He set his sights towards the blot-riddled Vil.

Blot.

Jamil knew the touch of blot more intimately than others. He would never let it happen again. He wouldn't let this overblot end everything. Not when he had something that he chose to protect. And especially not when he finally had feelings that were finally his own.

thank you for reading this...kind of fluff, kind of angsty jamil fic !! i hope you enjoyed, and if you'd like to see more, go on to my masterlists :DD

#/trau writes #/trau fics #jamil viper *sobs*#twisted wonderland #jamil viper #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jamil viper x reader #jamil x reader #twst fanfic #twisted wonderland headcanons

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separatist-apologist · 11 months

Text

A Fragile Little Flame

I know places we won't be found

Summary: Cassian has survived two wars and knows a thing or two about going up against a powerful adversary.

Nothing can prepare him for Nesta Archeron

Read more: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3| AO3

Nesta wrapped a scarf around her neck and hid her face beneath her hooded cloak as she made her way into town. Emerie had brought her, well aware Cassian would never agree. He’d left that night to see Rhysand and returned to bed smug—though he wouldn’t say why. He’d merely made love to her until he was certain he’d exhausted her, and then crept out to see Azriel.

Nesta had done the same—though she’d gone to see Emerie. She couldn’t marry Tomas and had to get Feyre out, too. All she’d thought about those last few days was Feyre’s hollow stare—and that bruise.

If Feyre didn’t want Rhysand, well. Nesta couldn’t blame her for that. There were more than two options, and way, way at the bottom was Nesta’s current plan.

Drug Feyre. Take her to Elain.

It wasn’t elegant or particularly well-thought out, in retrospect. It merely solved two of Nesta’s most pressing problems. It freed Nesta from Tomas and Feyre from Tamlin. She trusted Elain would have better luck talking sense into Feyre, and Lucien seemed on the outskirts—and was, perhaps, feral enough to keep Rhysand from banging down their door.

Nesta fidgeted with the bottle in her cloak pocket, her fingers slippery from her nerves. Nesta turned it over and over, letting the slosh of liquid settle her. Dawn had just slipped over the sleepy city, letting her slip through the streets without drawing too much attention. The last thing she needed was to be intercepted by someone who knew her—who might tell Tomas she was around.

The manor was in worse shape than before. Nesta drank in the dead garden, left unattended when Elain had been dragged off before being wholly abandoned when Elain had returned, marked in gold. The front door was splintered and the little glass panes above it broken. When Nesta pulled open the door, her boots crunched against broken stones and more glass.

“Feyre?” she called. Every light was on, burning so bright Nesta could see dust motes hanging in the air.

Wood creaked above her. Cold slithered down Nesta’s spine as she turned for the spiraling staircase and carefully began making her way up. Having grown up in the crumbling estate, she knew exactly where to put her feet so she didn’t make a sound. As a girl, she’d done this when her parents had one of their screaming fights, tiptoeing down so she could listen.

As she came closer to the landing, she could hear the soft sound of crying. Mouth open, Nesta was about to call for Feyre again when she heard another voice.

“Who did you tell?”

Her blood turned to ice. Sliding her hands over her body, Nesta fumbled for the dagger hidden in her boot. She’d left the sword Cassian had given her at home, certain traipsing through her old home armed to the teeth would betray her far more than the red scales ribboning her body.

She regretted that decision now.

“No one,” Feyre whispered. Nesta gripped the handle of her weapon, creeping down the hall. The hall branched and Nesta darted down the fork, back to the wood when Feyre’s door flung open. Pine green eyes set in a haughty, handsome face swept through the space, missing Nesta by sheer luck. Her heart pounded wildly in her throat, a near match for the heavy pound of Tamlin’s boots on the wood floors. And it was Tamlin, if his finely tailored jacket was any indication. No scales, no pointed ears. Just a human man bent on tormenting her youngest sister.

He was Graysen, and yet somehow much, much worse.

Feyre appeared a moment later looking so much worse than she had before. Months looked as if they’d passed between their last vision. Nesta pressed her hand against her mouth to keep herself from saying something.

“It’s probably just Elain,” Feyre said, wiping her eyes on the back of her frail hand. She looked sick. Bruises ringed around her throat, mocking what Feyre might have had if she cared even a little for Rhys.

Tamlin’s boots thudded down the stairs. “Why is she here?”

“She checks in,” Feyre warbled, shaking out her hands like they burned. “Both of my sisters do.”

“Whores,” he spat, his voice echoing off the walls. Feyre’s eyes slid to the floor, her bottom lip trembling. Nesta waited for his shoes to fade before scrambling from her hiding place.

Feyre’s eyes widened when she realized it was Nesta who’d come. Nesta winced—she deserved that, she supposed, given how bad their last meeting had gone.

“Come on,” she whispered, reaching for Feyre’s wrist. Her fingers spanned the entirety of it and gods, how was Feyre standing? “We need to leave.”

If they ran, they’d be outside in broad daylight before Tamlin could intercept them. Feyre looked up at her and for a moment, Nesta was certain she was going to tell her no. That she’d demand she stay and Nesta would have to drag her out kicking and screaming.

Her hands were cold when they slipped into Nestas. “Take me away from this place,” she said. Feyre’s moonbright eyes filled with tears and Nesta had to swallow the urge to fling herself around her sister's body.

Nesta nodded, well aware she was wasting time. There would be time to debate the merits of Windhaven or Elain—for now, all they had to do was get through the front door. Feyre’s head tilted toward the stairs, listening like a rabbit searching for prey. They hadn’t always been like this, Nesta thought.

Though, they’d never really been safe, either. The one thing they’d always had was each other and they’d lost that, too. If Feyre was willing, she’d take her to Windhaven and beg Emerie to let her stay, too. Emerie was already housing one human.

Or, if Feyre wanted, she could stay with Nesta and Cassian. As long as Cassian agreed his loyalty was still to her and not his king, Feyre wouldn’t have to see Rhys.

Nesta was so lost in her planning that she forgot to remind Feyre about the creaky steps. Unlike Nesta, who had never wanted to be caught by their furious mother, Feyre hadn’t cared. It had been almost a dare.

Notice me, notice me.

So different from Elain who never wanted to be noticed at all, and Nesta who felt like she had no choice but to be seen, and so she tried very hard to make it so people saw only what she allowed. Feyre merely stepped in her haste to escape, still clutching Nesta’s hand. The groaning wood might as well have been a lightning crack for how loud it seemed to fill Nesta’s hand. They both frozen, gripping the other tighter.

No Tamlin. Nesta forced herself to breathe, tugging Feyre to come with her. Emboldened, they both crossed the steps for the landing.

“That doesn’t look like Elain,” Tamlin commented from the hall. He’d watched them creep down wordlessly, waiting for them to arrive before announcing his presence. “That looks like Nesta.”

Nesta kept her grip on Feyre’s hand. He wasn’t married to her yet. He had no claim to her time, her home, her anything.

Nesta lifted her chin and adopted her haughtiest stare. “And?”

His expression flattened. He didn’t like women, which meant he didn’t like Nesta or her willingness to look him right in the eye. She still held that dagger in her other hand and it hadn’t escaped his notice. Still, Tamlin kept his spot leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Should I ring for tea?” he asked, looking around with raised eyebrows. It was meant to shame Feyre and perhaps remind her of her place. She needed him. He was, Nesta assumed, unaware his king would have gladly crawled at her sister's feet if she ordered him to.

“I’m taking her out,” Nesta informed him, which was more courtesy than he deserved.

She turned, heart thudding against her ribcage. They took one step to the door before Tamlin asked, “Does Tomas know you’re here?”

Nesta’s head whipped around. She hated these men. “How is that any of your concern?”

He shrugged, pushing off his perch to walk toward her. “My fiance’s family is my family, after all.”

“Tamlin,” Ferye whispered, squeezing Nesta’s hand so tightly Nesta thought she was constricting blood flow.

The fury in his gaze silenced Feyre’s protest.

“Feyre and I were in the middle of something. Why don’t you go visit your beloved, and visit us at my estate later this afternoon. I’ll be better able to receive you.”

“No.”

Feyre tugged on Nesta’s hand, pulling her for the door, but Nesta didn’t budge. Tamlin’s anger rippled over his features. “No?”

Nesta wasn’t afraid of him—or any of them. “I told you. I’m taking her out. You have overstayed your welcome and you impose your presence on a lady. Get out of my house.”

“Women can’t own property,” Tamlin reminded her, advancing toward them. Nesta let Feyre pull her toward the door, thinking of Emerie, who would be waiting in the woods.

“Evict me, then,” Nesta dared. It wouldn’t matter. Let Tamlin have this rotting piece of land. They wouldn’t be here to challenge him. “Marry Feyre, if you want to order her around. Until then—”

Tamlin lunged for Feyre. Nesta reacted, dropping Feyre’s hand and raising her dagger. She only meant to scare him—to wave it in front of his face until he backed off. She was more scared than she was angry and Nesta just wanted to get back to Windhaven before Cassian realized she wasn’t in bed.

Warm blood sprayed against her face, pulling Nesta from her fantasy. Tamlin’s eyes had gone wide and somewhere she could feel the way muscle and tendons gave way beneath the sharpened edge of her blade. He stumbled backward while Nesta released the handle.

Feyre pulled again. “We need to go,” she whispered. Fear slithered through Nesta at the sight of Tamlin—a lord—bloodied as he sank to his knees. If they stayed, they’d be put to death. Nesta yielded a step, and then another before she turned her back to him, keeping pace as Feyre began to run.

“How did you get here?” Feyre asked, squinting against the golden light of the rising sun.

How had she gotten here? Nesta blinked, but couldn’t clear her head. Feyre repeated her question with more urgency.

“Emerie,” Nesta choked. “In the woods, Emerie is in the woods.”

“Oh, thank the heavens,” Feyre muttered. Color had returned to her cheeks—though it might have been faint splatters of blood. It seemed only one of them could fall to pieces at once, and now it was Nesta’s turn. She only made it to the treeline because Feyre refused to drop her hand or slow down long enough for Nesta to start panicking.

“What happened to her?” Emeries voice cut through Nesta’s frantic thoughts.

“Nothing that was her fault,” Feyre said softly, eyeing the iridescent scales gilding Emerie’s skin.

“We should go,” Emerie said, shifting into her scaled form. Feyre took a healthy step backwards while Nesta nearly crumbled at the sight.

“Take me—take me home,” she said, scrambling to climb atop Emerie’s back. Feyre came with her, letting Nesta secure her with her arms. Emeries glanced up, snout huffing with what Nesta thought might have been amusement.

How long before someone found Tamlin? How long before—

“Thank you,” Feyre whispered, twisting around to throw her own arms around Nesta’s neck. Emerie took off, wind whipping their hair. Nesta held her back, burying her face in the crook of Feyre’s neck.

“You don’t have to go back,” Nesta told her, praying Feyre didn’t want to. The truth was, Feyre couldn’t go back. Nesta had gotten what she’d wanted, even if it hadn’t been exactly the way she’d planned. Feyre wasn’t going to marry Tamlin—because he was dead.

And she had to come to Windhaven, at least long enough to get to Elain. Life as she knew it was over. More of Nesta’s guilt crashed over her until she was suffocating, drowning in the realization that everything she touched, she ruined.

Nesta didn’t realize she was shaking until Emerie brought them to Windhaven. Nesta had never been so happy to be anywhere than when she saw those steepled rooftops come into view. Snow capped mountains loomed in the distance, and somewhere up ahead was where she and Cassian had been sleeping.

And Cassian—Cassian was standing just outside Emerie’s shop, hazel eyes burning with fury as he faced off with Gwyn and Morrigan. Nesta would have given anything to know what they were talking about, even if that argument had clearly concluded.

Feyre came down first, taking in Windhaven with new eyes while Nesta stumbled after her.

“What happened to her?” Cassian demanded, striding toward Nesta before her legs could give out. “Who did this to you?” he demanded, hands on her face looking for the source of the blood.

Nesta was shaking so hard she could hear her teeth chattering.

“I did it,” she told him, leaning into the warmth of his calloused hands. “I killed him.”

The hands on her face slid around her body. “Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“But—”

“You let me handle it, now.”

Nesta pressed her head into Cassian’s chest. Trust. He was asking her for trust.

And so she nodded. “Okay.”

CASSIAN:

Cassian had to fight to keep still. Behind him, Azriel paced back and forth while they waited. He should have been on his way to find the missing human princess—this was more important.

This was about Nesta.

Rhys was late, which didn’t bode well as far as Cassian was concerned. Feyre had come up to the House of Wind with them, looking as if she’d just barely escaped a war prison. Cassian had been tempted to demand she strip, if only to catalog every bruise on her body. She was underfed and exhausted.

He’d put them both to bed after ordering them into the bath, and when he’d returned intending on holding Nesta, he’d found her and Feyre curled up around each other. Emerie had left to retrieve Elain, and Cassian was here, a floor away from his mate, waiting on Rhys to tell him just how important that lord was.

Very important, if Rhys’s prolonged absence was any indication. They were already treading dangerous water, given the missing princess and Azriel slaughtering that male from the village weeks before. Cassian rubbed his hand over his eyes.

“How fucked do you think we are?”

“Very fucked,” Rhys intoned, striding into the room. Azriel quirked his eyebrows up silently, stilling as they waited for Rhys to sit. He tossed a blade to the table, causing all three of them to wince as it clattered against the wood. An Illyrian blade, still coated in blood, damned them all. Nesta, in her panic, hadn’t pulled the blade from Tamlin’s neck.

“Fuck,” Azriel whispered.

“She did me a favor,” Rhys told Cassian, reclining in his chair casually, fingers drumming over the arms. “Is Feyre—”

“She’s safe,” Cassian said curtly. “Sleeping with her sister.”

“And—”

“Elain will be here before nightfall,” Cassian continued while Rhys rolled his eyes. They both knew Feyre didn’t want to spend her time working in Elain’s vegetable patch or running after however many kids she and Lucien had now. It was an empty threat, and still polite enough to remind Rhys that until Feyre invited him, he was, technically, supposed to leave her alone.

While ignoring that neither he, Azriel, or Lucien had done the same.

Cassian doubted Rhys would, either.

“Good,” Rhys said flippantly. “Keep her here.”

“And Velaris?”

“Rioting,” Rhys said with a heavy sigh. “It’s been bubbling since that first attack on the city—since they realized we were numerous, and their women might prefer us.”

“This was how it started last time,” Azriel reminded Rhys, his eyes darkening. He had his own mate to think about—and a child that would be coming by the end of the year. No one wanted a repeat of before. Of leaving for war only to return to find their mates and children hunted and killed.

“We need allies,” Rhys said with a heavy sigh. “I don’t…I don’t want to wipe out humans but waiting costs us.”

“Eris?” Azriel asked, making his way toward the door.

“Yes,” Rhys agreed. “But given the state of the streets, I think for tonight, we need harsher enforcement. I want to lock the city down with a curfew.”

“What happens if someone breaks it?” Cassian asked casually.

Rhys’s eyes flicked to his face wordlessly, earning a savage smile from Cassian. It was to be like that, then.

“I’ll round up my best.”

“I want you in Windhaven,” Rhys told Cassian. “Run your soldiers through drills, put them in the air and on the streets. No one comes within five hundred feet of the city without my express permission. Execute anyone without it.”

“Done.” Cassian would have agreed to far worse.

“No one leaves,” he added pointedly. “Not without my permission.”

Cassian understood that perfectly well—Feyre was to remain in Windhaven. Rhys always got his way, and Cassian imagined it was merely a matter of time before he got Feyre, too. Cassian vowed to stay out of it, so long as it didn’t harm Nesta.

With their orders well-established, Cassian brought Rhys to the barracks and allowed him to handpick a unit of fifty.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to join you?” Cassian asked, only a little disappointed he’d miss killing the same humans who’d scared his mate. He was imagining hunting down Nesta’s former betrothed and ripping his throat out with Cassian’s teeth.

Someday, perhaps. Maybe Tomas would get stupid.

Maybe Cassian would get lucky.

Well—luckier than he already was. Because when he came back home, his thoughts still tinged bloody, Nesta was waiting in his favorite chair, curled up beneath a blanket. She had a mug of tea curled between her hands, her pretty lips puckered as she blew steam away from her face.

He wasn’t being theatrical when he gripped one side of the doorframe so hard the wood groaned, the other pressed to his heart. “Look at you,” he murmured while Nesta rolled her eyes. It was half hearted at best, and, in his opinion, an invitation.

“How mad was Rhys?” she asked when Cassian propped himself up on the arm of her chair.

“Delighted,” Cassian replied with a smile. “He owes you a favor and if I were you, I would milk it for all its worth.”

She took a sip of her tea. “And the…”

He considered lying to her, if only to spare her any more guilt. Nesta carried so much and sometimes, Cassian didn’t know how she managed to stand, burdened as she was. His silence was damning, and before he could come up with anything convincing, Nesta sighed.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“It’s been brewing for months, sweetheart,” Cassian assured her gently.

“But I—”

“What would have happened if you hadn’t?” he interrupted, trying not to let himself imagine that scenario. “If you’d let him…get that close to you. Would you still be here?”

She looked down at her mug.

No.

“I know you’re berating yourself for this, but consider several things,” Cassian began softly. “He should never have been so close to you that you could jam that blade into his throat, to start with. And had he touched you, I would have set that cursed city ablaze. I would have made each and every one of them feel my wrath. I would have hunted them down one by one and I would have enjoyed every second of it.”

Nesta shivered. “Okay, Cassian. Calm down.”

“You did them a favor. One dead human for your life—or your life for every single one of them.”

“Would you really?”

Cassian scoffed. “You doubt me?”

That, he thought, hurt more than anything. Nesta shook her head, tucking thick strands of her long hair behind her ear. He so rarely got to see her like this—Nesta was so carefully controlled, so immaculate in her presentation. He loved that about her.

And he loved her like this. The side only he was allowed to see.

He loved her.

The words were sticky in his throat. Cassian blinked, trying to figure out how to tell her before he lost his nerve. He’d been telling her, in his way, and it wasn’t enough.

“Nesta, I–”

“Will you trade me places?” she asked almost shyly. Cassian nodded dumbly, watching as she rose from her chair in nothing but a little slip that offered him a more than perfect view of her ass.

He all but fell in that chair, reaching for her waist and pulling her into his lap before she could sit on the arm of the chair. Only when he had her curled against his body did he realize this was exactly what she’d wanted.

“You look better,” he said, kissing her forehead. One hand had come to her neck, fingers stroking the red scales burned against her skin. Nesta arched into his touch, her lashes fluttering shut.

“It wasn’t what I wanted,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing beneath his touch. “But Feyre is here and I…”

Cassian pressed his lips behind her ear. “And you’re mine.”

Nesta could never return to Velaris, and with her sisters tucked away safely she’d never have to. She scoffed, but she couldn’t deny he was right. Not with his scales branded on her neck. Still, he had to ask.

“Are you happy?”

Nesta nuzzled into his neck. “It feels wrong to admit I am. I’m so relieved I don’t have to go back, even if I…”

Even if she’d killed that male. Cassian wondered if this was the wrong moment to admit how the image of Nesta bloodsoaked made his whole body tight. He’d been scared at first, so afraid she’d been hurt, but now? Knowing his mate was just as vicious as him?

Cassian shifted in an attempt to hide his erection. He didn’t want to ruin the moment with his cock, though he desperately hoped she might touch him.

“Saving your sister was more important than him. Don’t spend a second grieving him—he would not have offered you the same.”

Nesta took a steadying breath. “He would have killed her, too. Slowly, Cassian, her face—”

Cassian’s growl silenced her. “He should be grateful it was you offering him a quick death instead of Rhys.”

“I suppose,” she agreed softly. “I’m glad she’s safe.”

Cassian was glad they all were, though mostly glad for Nesta. And maybe it was foolish of him, but with his nose buried in her hair, he whispered, “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

Nesta pressed closer, nuzzling against his chest.

“I know, Cass. I…I love you, too.”

Cassian would hold those words forever. He knew all too well that Nesta didn’t say them freely, nor did they come lightly. He’d earned them, much like he’d earned his scars in battle or his status among his men.

And Cassian wore her love like a badge of honor.

He might have taken her to bed, if only to spend one last night before he was dragged into another war, but a soft knock at the door pulled him away. Nesta, too, looked up as her younger sister stepped in, mate walking just behind. The scent of a new pregnancy made the hair stand on the back of Cassian’s neck, and judging from the wildness on Lucien’s face, the other male didn’t like it, either.

The Archeron’s couldn’t be stopped. He knew that well.

“She’s upstairs,” Nesta told Elain, unaware of Lucien’s discomfort. Elain swatted her mate away when he tried to join her, leaving him standing awkwardly in ill-fitting clothes. Cassian never knew what to say to Lucien. The male was just unusual, raised alone out in the woods and tormented by the humans for so long. The fact that he’d managed to convince someone to love him was, Cassian supposed, a testament to a female’s willingness to overlook obvious oddities.

Cassian cleared his throat. “Ah…congrats?”

Lucien nodded curtly. “Thank you.”

“I uh…I hope that’s me, soon.”

Lucien’s nostrils flared. “I’m sure it will be.”

Cassian scrambled to think of something else to say—anything that would make the tense silence bearable. He was spared by a scream of fury, followed by the soothing sounds of Elain.

Nesta’s furious feet on the stairs drew Lucien, and then Cassian who bared his teeth at the male.

“Not in my fucking house,” he warned. Lucien snapped in response, but stood down just in time for their mates to flood back into the room.

“She’s gone!” Nesta said, looking at Cassian with accusation. “And I know Rhysand took her!”

Lucien frowned. “So?”

Elain pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lucien, remember, we’ve talked about stealing women–”

“It’s wrong,” Lucien finished, though he didn’t sound like he believed it. Cassian, too, wasn’t surprised.

“If Rhys has her, she’s safe,” Cassian assured Nesta, reaching for her gently. “He wouldn’t harm her.”

“But–”

“You know she didn’t want to go with Elain. No offense,” he added as Lucien’s lips peeled away from his teeth again. Mother spare him from territorial males with pregnant mates. “Maybe she went willingly.”

“I want her back,” Nesta hissed, but Cassian knew Rhys wouldn’t return with her until she wore his scales. He didn’t blame his brother, either, even if it enraged Nesta. There was simply too much to worry about.

“We’ll find her,” he promised, cutting a glance at Lucien to get out.

“I’m sure she’s safe,” Elain added gently. “If he took her against her will, Feyre will live to make him regret it. You know that, Nes.”

Nesta took a breath, nodding her head. “I hope she gives him hell.”

Cassian had no doubt she would.

It wasn’t until later, when they were alone again—sitting, this time, atop the roof overlooking the Illyrian Mountains, that Nesta seemed to relax a little.

“He wouldn’t force her—”

“No,” Cassian assured her, reaching for her hand. “There are laws, even for kings.”

“Elain is right. If she didn’t want to go, she’ll punish him for it. I just…I was hoping she’d have more time to adjust before he came looking for her.”

“Maybe he panicked,” Cassian murmured, thinking he might have done the same. Certain he’d done the same. Hell, he still dreamt of killing Tomas, who lurked in the village below, likely whipping up the humans into the same murderous frenzy they’d already once endured. Cassian would take his revenge eventually, even if it meant standing behind Nesta while she drove that knife through his heart.

“Are we safe here, Cassian?” Nesta asked him, twisting to look at his face. Cassian thought she could see the truth of him even in the dark, which made lying utterly useless.

“As safe as anywhere else. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promised, drawing her closer, until her back was pressed to his chest and his thighs were tight around her.

“And who protects you?” she demanded. Cassian smiled.

“My mate protects me.”

Of that, Cassian had no doubts.

#nessian #vibes felt right guess ill finish this

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everlastingdreams · 5 months

Text

The Weeping Monk x Reader : Born In The Dawn Chapter 11

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Story Summary: Locked inside a dark room in a dungeon, kept alive only for your power, you believed you’d never see the daylight again. That is until the Weeping Monk finds his way down and steals you from your captors. It is the beginning of a journey that leads you through hardship and newfound hope, but nothing is assured in a world that is changing for the Fey. The magic that runs in your veins is drawing out the worst the world has to offer, does it include the man who pulled you from the dark?

Chapter Title: A Common Goal

Notes: /

Warnings: Violence. Torture. Sexual Assault. Rape Threat. Gore. Enemies To Lovers. Pining. Trauma. Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Gore?. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn…

Word count of this fic: +190K

Chapter: 11/ It’s a secret.

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All through the night you rode at a steady pace, anything faster than a trot would go beyond the strength the Monk still had to hold on to the reins of his horse.

The only small conversation was coming from Squirrel and him, you did not seek it out yourself.

“What was your name, boy?” He asked Squirrel.

“Squirrel.” Was the answer given by the boy.

The Monk thought about that for a second. “A squirrel is an animal. What name were you given?”

You knew the boy disliked it when it came to his real name, and you had never pressed on when it came to the matter.

“I don’t like that name.” Squirrel told him.

“It’s still your name.” The Monk was persistent.

The boy rolled his eyes, sensing that this man would not stop questioning him over it. “Fine. It’s Percival.”

Did your eyes play a trick on you, or did he truly smile a little when he got the boy to tell him his name?

He repeated what the boy had said, hoping he had heard it correctly, “Percival.”

Squirrel saw the door open to ask him a question too, “Do you… have a real name?”

You looked at them from the corner of your eyes, seeing how the Monk had a sudden melancholic look in his.

“Lancelot.” He answered it like a weight had lifted off his shoulders. “A long time ago, my name was Lancelot.”

It was hard to ignore how his voice had carried a sadness too, not just an audible sense of relief. As if the sound of his actual name unburdened him of the title they had put on him.

Squirrel looked back at him. “Yours is worse.”

It took you a second to understand what the boy had done and you forced yourself to hold in the laugh.

There was a scoff from the insulted Monk, still he forgave the boy for his bluntness.

You did not know what to think now, to see the Monk without his usual stoic behavior was strange. It was unknown ground and you did not know where to tread and what was safe.

Now that you were free, you saw no reason to be around the Monk for much longer.

Once you had Squirrel with you again, it was time to go.

Yes, he had freed you and fought to keep Squirrel save, but you did not know what his motives were. You were Dawn Folk, many had betrayed your kind, it was in your nature to be careful. With his appearance he would certainly draw attention, if you wanted to avoid the Reaper or his Brother’s finding you, you needed to keep a low profile. The Monk did not fit in that category.

The Monk looked your way when you got close and touched Squirrel’s arm, because he looked close to dozing off.

You believed he might have a concussion. “We should let the horses rest once we are behind that rock formation over there.”

You could not have made it anymore known that you would have highly preferred him not to be there too. It was in your eyes, in every look his way.

He was not happy with the situation either, but still stood behind the decision he had made.

The Monk was quite aware it had been the only thing you had said to him so far, apart from some ‘yes’ and ‘no’ answers.

Once behind the rock formations, you halted and dismounted your horse to tie the reins to a tree. You felt one of the wounds on your back begin to bleed again.

“Y/n, the boy…” The Monk rarely used your name and it was still strange to hear him say it.

You helped him to get Squirrel safely to the ground and inspected the darkening bruise around the child’s eye. Those cowardly red drapes had found it necessary to hit a child like this.

Instinctively you put your palm against his face and let your magic flow through your fingers, the bruise vanished from his skin and the cut on his cheek healed.

Squirrel stumbled back upon feeling it and his markings reacted to it, “Did you just heal me?”

It was the first time you had needed to do so since meeting him. “I did.”

The Monk had watched it happen and struggled terribly to dismount Goliath, by being to proud to ask for help for himself he ended up falling to the ground.

The poor horse was quick to turn around to try and aid his rider.

Squirrel hurried over to him as well.

The Monk had held on for as long as he could, but the injuries had done too much damage to go on much longer.

Those injuries, the state he was in…

This healing would draw a lot of energy from you and you weren’t looking forward to it.

The Hidden would not leave you alone if you’d refuse to heal him.

“Y/n! Help him!” Poor Squirrel was in a panic.

You took off your vest, knelt down next to the unconscious Monk and turned him to lay on his back, putting your propped up vest under his head.

“It’s going to be alright.” You reassured Squirrel.

You put your hands down on the Monk’s chest and barely had to focus, the Hidden were but all too happy that you were doing this without having to torment you for it.

It took longer than you had anticipated and you wondered how the bloody hell he had even lasted this long.

You held on as long as you could without collapsing yourself, then scurried away from him.

A sudden wave of nausea hit you and you crawled a bit further away from them and tried to get yourself off of the ground by pulling yourself up with the help of a young thin tree.

Squirrel hurried to your side and helped you.

Once on your feet, you fought of the weakness and took Squirrel by the arm and began to lead him towards your horse to leave before the Monk would wake. “We need to go now, before he wakes.”

Squirrel ripped his arm from your hold. “What? No! He saved us!”

You shook your head. “Only after getting us into the trouble we were in.”

The boy was appalled by the choice you were making. “The Green Knight said that all Fey are brothers, is that a lie?”

Time was running out. “We can’t trust him, Squirrel!”

The Monk jolted back into consciousness and coughed heavily.

You could not prevent Squirrel from running back to him, and watched the boy help the man like he had known him all his life.

This could not be happening…

You remained at a distance and leaned against a tree close to your horse, fighting to not let the loss of energy break you now that freedom was there for the taking.

It still took him a moment to understand what had happened, then the Monk looked around for you and found you looking back at him with uncertainty. “You…”

You shrugged your shoulders in response and looked to the ground instead of his face.

Squirrel was still worried, “Are you alright?”

He nodded to the boy and put some effort in to stand up from the ground.

Goliath was right there to offer him the support he needed to stand until his legs did not feel unstable anymore.

Your vest was on the ground…

Had you…

You did not wait to inform him of your plan, “I am leaving with Squirrel.”

The frown on the Monk’s forehead appeared instantly.

The boy wiped that idea off of the table, “No, you’re not!”

You tried to reason with the boy, “Squirrel, we have to leave. We can’t trust him.”

Squirrel only grew more stubborn. “He’s Fey! He’s one of us!”

You lost some of your temper. “He’s the Weeping Monk!”

Your eyes snapped towards the Monk as the words sank into all who had heard them.

He looked to the ground now, it appeared your words had indeed gotten an ill response.

What was your plan? Pick the young spirited boy up and run off with him? By the look in your eyes he could tell that it was certainly something you were thinking of doing.

Squirrel chose his side in this. “I won’t just leave him! He didn’t leave me either, or you!”

It hurt to see Squirrel choose to stand with the Monk on this, after everything you had been forced to live through.

You knew you were blinking faster to not let a tear form.

Instead of telling the boy all the reasons you had to hate him, you chose to keep quiet and let the boy scold you…

Why did you spare him? Why not tell the child the reason for your anger?

Perhaps it was kindness…

The Monk picked up your vest from the ground and got close to you even when you looked like you wanted to back away from him, he offered the vest right into your hands, “You have every right and reason to hate me. But I owe you a debt for healing me. Would it not be easier if there were two to protect the boy until you have returned to your people?”

Your eyes locked on his face, “Once Squirrel is safe, you’re out off my way?”

He could smell the blood on you now that he stood close, it distracted him for a second, “Agreed.”

Here you were healing both him and the boy, while suffering injuries yourself.

You took a step back. “We need to keep moving.”

Squirrel looked relieved that you seemed to agree to keep the Monk around.

He agreed with that. “The Trinity Guard will be looking for us, it will not be long before the Abbot spreads the word across the land.”

“It’s not just the Trinity Guard that worries me.” You mumbled through your teeth.

The Monk hit the nail on the head with his guess, “You believe Soran is hunting you?”

Was it not obvious to him, the interest that bastard had shown in you? “I never heard a story of the Reaper skipping over one of my kind, Monk. He has seen my face, knows what I look like. He’ll have his Brothers looking for me.”

An idea came to him, one you would perhaps not like.

You mumbled your irritation, “I can’t believe I am letting you come along. You were just going to leave me there anyway if Squirrel hadn’t made his demand.”

He dropped his eyes to the ground. “Look inside my horse’s saddle bag”

A frown creased your forehead, “Why?”

He arched a brow, practically challenging you to do it.

With an annoyed sigh you made your way over to the horse. “Your horse does not like me.”

“Goliath.” Squirrel said.

“What?” You asked.

“The horse is named Goliath.” The boy explained.

One look at the Monk confirmed it was true.

You began to search the saddle bag. “Well, Goliath does not like me.”

The Monk disputed it, “That is false.”

Goliath would not be so calm and let you just touch that saddle bag if it were true.

You presented him with the facts that led you to believe otherwise, “Your horse never allowed me to mount him.”

His eyes narrowed at you. “So you have tried to take my horse.”

You deadpanned, “Obviously. Why wouldn’t I?”

Almost did he roll his eyes before looking off to the side.

You took something out of the saddle bag that was wrapped in a linen cloth, you did not need to unwrap it to know that a pastry was inside of it, the scent gave it away.

It was the same kind of pastry you had grown fond of during you stay in captivity…

But this did not mean that he had planned ahead, this pastry could have just been in there for a different time or reason.

“This means nothing.” You tried to brush it off and broke the pastry in three. “Besides, one pastry will not keep the three of us alive for long. We have to head to a village or a market soon.”

You gave Squirrel a piece, and then the Monk.

He sounded disapproving of the idea, “Why? To steal?”

You did not want to hear him be judgmental considering he was in the same situation, “Yes, to steal. Unless you plan on eating grass?”

There was still the bow attached to Goliath’s saddle.

“Hunting is an option.” He said.

You ate your part of the pastry and pointed out the problem, “We would need to make a fire to not eat whatever we catch raw. It would draw attention.”

The Monk saw your point. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am.” You said.

Squirrel sighed a little at the way the two of you just didn’t get along well.

As did the Monk, your feisty nature only increased now that you were free. “There is one place I know of that is not easy to be found by those who do not know it exists.”

You heard how he was being careful with what he was saying. “What place?”

His eyes fixed on the trees. “Where I found you.”

So that was why he had been speaking with caution, rightfully so.

“If the boy was not here now, I would hit you!” You seethed at the mere suggestion.

He tried to make you see his point, “Think of it. Did anyone find you before I did?”

You refused to listen and walked away a bit.

He turned, eyes following you. “I only found you because I caught your scent.”

That got Squirrel’s attention “You what?”

You gestured in the direction of the Monk. “Oh, yes. He can smell us from afar. That’s how he finds the Fey.”

The boy scrunched his nose up at that, “What sort of Fey are you?”

He looked at Squirrel, it took him a moment to answer, “I was born from the Ash Folk.”

You could not hide the sheer surprise on your face, “What did you just say?”

The Monk looked more uncertain to see your response to it. “I am Ash Folk.”

The name sounded familiar, but the Ash Folk had been gone from these lands for centuries. They were considered a legend…

Yet, here he was. Now you understood why the Hidden insisted on his survival.

You were collecting your thoughts after that news. “Don’t tell anyone else. If the Reaper or his following hear of what clan you are, they will come for you too.”

Squirrel looked at him very curiously. “I never heard of them.”

You offered what you knew, “It’s been centuries since they were seen. At this time, most of the Fey believe the Ash Folk were nothing more but tales.”

A tale that stood right in front of your nose now.

“Is that why you look so strange?” The boy bluntly asked.

You looked off to the side upon seeing the look the Monk had on his face now.

“The marks by my eyes are the marks of my kind.” He admitted in a rather shy manner.

A questioned popped into your mind, “The Abbot knows you are Fey. How did he know? The marks?”

“Soran?” He guessed.

If the Reaper was indeed working with the Abbot, it would come as no shock that he had spoken of any suspicions to him “It’s possible. He must suspect something. Unlike the Church, the Reaper wants to use the Fey for their power instead of just wiping them of the map. No Fey should ever end up in his hands.”

The Monk stepped towards you. “Therefor we must find shelter where they cannot find us. A place where you can rest.”

You sensed where this was heading again. “I’ll live.”

By the look in his eyes, he doubted it. “You are bleeding and wounded.”

The nasty cut Soran had made on your hand, that bruise on your cheek, and the wounds on your back from the lashes. And on top of that you had used your energy to heal him. He believed the only thing that kept you on your feet now was the fact that you wanted to protect and look after the boy.

He was trying to convince you of the idea, “If you want to survive and stay with the boy, that dungeon is the safest place to regain your strength.”

Squirrel chimed in and came to your side, “Maybe he’s right.”

You looked down at the boy, who was starting to look rather tired. “Alright… fine then…”

Still, you hated to return to that wretched place, it would only bring back terrible memories.

You walked past the Monk and towards your horse, he’d better remember well where the place was, because you didn’t.

The Monk felt the eyes of the boy on him and looked down.

It puzzled the boy why you were so cold to him. “She is very angry with you.”

He knew not what to say…

A nod was all he could give the boy in reply to that, while seeing you make sure that the sword you had stolen was still safe on the saddle.

The Monk helped Squirrel up on his horse and took the flask with water from Goliath’s saddle bag.

You saw him approach and sighed, keeping your eyes on the saddle.

He still went ahead and held the flask under your nose.

Well, you were thirsty, so you took it out of his hand. “Still feigning kindness to keep me pliable I see.”

Then he made the mistake of trying to explain himself for all that had happened, “I only followed the orders I was given.”

Your thirst was gone in a second as you fought off the rage the claim had caused inside.

You smacked the flask against his chest and saw him struggle to catch it before it could fall.

Not even an apology for all he had made you go through? Even if it was true that he had only followed orders and did was he was taught was right, it still did not make it right.

When you tried to move past him to your horse, he made the mistake of taking hold of your arm.

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice rose quick, and you ripped your arm free.

He recoiled like you were about to physically hit him.

There was a moment where you held back all the things you wanted to spit in his face for what he had made you go through.

It was like he knew that the only reason you were holding back was because of Squirrel being present.

He took a step back, letting you pass.

A short uncomfortable silence passed between you whilst you calmed down.

You mounted your horse and steered it away from him, breaking the silence, “Do you believe we will get there before dark?”

He did not fail to hear the cold tone. “I believe so, yes.”

The Monk returned to his horse and mounted as well, poor Squirrel looked like he would fall asleep. “I-”

You didn’t want to look at him. “Lead the way.”

The horse turned around and walked in a normal pace, you followed them.

He knew then, that nothing he said to you could ever make up for what had been done.

Taglist:

@ourlazydetectivekitten @the-great-adventures-of-me @linkpk88 @fxrchxldws @elenaoftheturks @slytherlight @beananacake @crystallizedtime @moonlightaura03 @angrygardendeer @have-aheart @5am-cigarette @arcanenature @thewinterskywalker @notyourwildestdream @coloursforyourportrait @koressecretidentity @nike90 @n1ghtlux @rachlovesactors @luckyzipperscissorsbat @morena-doing-stuff @the-fangirl-diaries @gipsydanger17 @heavenly1927 @phantasmalbeiing @labyrinthonmymind @asarcastic-thiamstan @rainyv-skies @kissingandromeda @stclairesplace

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story.

#the weeping monk #lancelot #cursed lancelot #the weeping monk x reader #weeping monk #cursed netflix #cursed #weeping monk x reader #lancelot x reader #weeping monk x you #daniel sharman #daniel sharman character

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gravyhoney · 5 months

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Hot Take:

Regardless of how great a character has been developed and hoe they've been redeemed they still did what they did.

Zane still tormented the habitants of the Never Realm (even if he was being manipulated and it couldn't have been avoided), Misako still abandoned and manupulated Lloyd(even if the alternative was having Wu raise Lloyd, which from Misakos POV was probably worse because *Morro*), Garmadon still caused mass tragedy(Even if it was because of the great tyrant/the overlord), Lloyd still freed the serpentine (Even if he was hung from a 2-3m tall roof for god knows how long while 9 adults watched a laughed. Even if he was a kid) and so on. And people should stop saying "X character doesn't deserve so much hate!", or "It was an accident" The ninja, at *least* 16 (at most 20) hung a CHILD from a roof. Misako manipulated Lloyd to the point he fears himself and is mad at Garmadon but doesn't even know why(If you see Crystalized he yells at Garmadon but everything he says applied to Misako too. Harumi wasn't the only person that went crazy after the great devourer.

People absolutely have a right to hold a grudge over someone's head.

Ok you had me with that first paragraph, I’m so serious. But also that first paragraph wasn’t even an opinion that was a statement. ‘They still did the things they did’ ……………yeah.

So it sounds like your thesis is that people still hold the right to be upset and hurt by things that happened to them even if the person who did them was being manipulated/controlled/didn’t have a choice in the matter. Which, yeah. The formlings definitely aren’t gonna be like ‘ahaha whoopsie Daisy, I guess he was being controlled and it wasn’t really him we forgive you’ they suffered a really severe collective trauma, and of course they’re still going to hold some of that resentment towards Zane, that’s just a fact. Lloyd has the right to not forgive his mom for abandoning him (I have NO clue what you are talking about with the manipulation bc that DEFINITELY didn’t happen but ok.). And this might be controversial, but even with the venom, Garmadon still made all of those choices and a lot of those actions are honestly, kind of unforgivable. Give him credit though, he held out for a looong ass time with the venom. I am so honestly going to pretend like you didn’t say that Lloyd was totally wrong and deserves hate for opening the tombs. Dude was prepubescent and as someone who works in childcare, at that age kids still have very little sense of what’s right or wrong and honestly just work in their own best interest. Trust me. It’s frustrating but true. Once again, I’ve got NO idea what you’re referencing when you say that Misako manipulated Lloyd?? And also it’s a little hypocritical to say that ‘people should stop saying X character doesn’t deserve so much hate’ and then immediately turn around and say essentially ‘it was fucked up for Lloyd to yell at his dad in Crystallized’.

All in all, I’m not going to stop saying Misako, Garmadon, Wu, and so so many other characters don’t deserve so much hate. Because they don’t! Y’all go CRAZY on that shit and have to remember that they aren’t real characters.

Im sorry but you can’t come into my house.

#ninjago #lego ninjago #mason posts #mason talks

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janehaster · 1 month

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Solas is not the Dread Wolf

Since Trespasser, everyone is departing from the assumption that Solas is the Ancient Elven God known as Fen'Harel. What everyone should be asking, though, is: where's the evidence?

Solas claims a lot of things when we meet him again in Trespasser. He also claimed he was a harmless apostate that used to live in a secluded village during our first dialogue interaction with him. Throughout the game, he makes tons of statements which later prove to be false or misleading. And when confronted with the possibility that he's not who he claims to be, you earn disapproval from him.

(Remember the dialogue after the Wicked Eyes quest, in the rotunda at Skyhold, where he disapproves if you hint at how odd it is that he misses court intrigue if he'd never been in a court before?)

Now, Solas made several wild claims to the Inquisitor about his identity. However, we know for a fact that he is a mitomaniac (the habit of lying, of fabricating untrue stories to manipulate people's perceptions, either about the subject in order to cast them in a favourable light or to alter their perception of reality and facts), a tendency closely associated with narcissists, psychopaths and megalomaniacs. This is highly relevant to DA4 because, if he indeed isn't who he claims to be, then he is more dangerous than we realize.

Let's assume Solas isn't Fen'Harel. Instead, he was a mage living in the times of Arlathan. We can attribute his knowledge of the Evanuris to him living or working closely to and with them. Maybe he was a servant? An escape slave, freed by Fen'Harel? And in the process, he may have met Mythal and became her follower, even a close ally. That would explain why she calls him "old friend".

Solas, being simply an ordinary servant of the Evanuris, knows everything about where their power truly comes from. He knew about in uthenera, the sleep of "immortality", and so managed to wake up thousands of years into the future. He knew about the Elven orbs - the Foci - and the power they held to allow passage into the Fade from the waking world.

What he (likely) did not know is how to use some of these powers correctly. Hence, his failure in expecting Corypheus to die after unlocking the orb. In fact, the orb likely belonged to another Evanuris and he was stealing it, with Fen'Harel's followers being none the wiser.

There were other failures that Solas confesses, such as the fact that a great portion of Arlathan, located in the Fade, was destroyed after creating the Veil. Not only that, but every life form literally became Tranquil due to his actions. As he himself states, he made everything worse in the hopes of saving the world from the Evanuris. This is very telling, because if any of this is true, then it means he is incapable of foreseeing the consequences of his manipulation of magic, and he isn't such a great magic wielder as the legendary Elven God he claims to be. Or worse, he claimed to have performed these magical feats by himself when it was in fact the historical Fen'Harel who performed them.

And worst of all: if Solas isn't Fen'Harel, then he's no more than a power-hungry mage going after the powers of the Evanuris to storm the Black City and claim true godhood. That would explain why he states: "as the world burns in the raw chaos"...he doesn't really care about the consequences of his actions, not even to the Elven people, who he might be deceiving in order to get them to work for him, so long as he can control what could very well be the Heart of Thedas, the source of all life and magic and effectively become "The Maker", reshaping reality as he sees fit.

...

As usual, this is just speculation on my part. However, Solas' magical blunders and his complete lack of power after waking up from in uthenera are highly suspicious. Couple that with him being a mitomaniac and the fact that the real Dread Wolf seems to be a spirit from the Fade guarding the Black City, rather than an Elven mage and you have the perfect combination of factors for suspecting that Solas might be in fact a CHARLATAN. For all we know, the real Fen'Harel might even be trapped with the rest of the Evanuris. Until the Veil is lifted and they are freed, we won't know.

#dragon age #dragon age theory #solas dragon age #dragon age 4 #solas #arlathan #theory #dragon age lore #dragon age speculation

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tswwwit · 1 year

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Could we get a taste of that new work you started…👀

Heck, have the whole thing! This is for that AU of an AU where Ford captured Bill/Bill was his familiar, and Dipper freed him, like an idiot. Here's the first fic and here's some needed backstory.

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Dipper leans over to let his fingers trail through the water. It’s oddly warm to the touch. Bill’s voice carries, weird and echoing, over the river and through the empty city.

Which Dipper’s ignoring, for the moment.

Not like he’s missing much; he can't understand the lyrics anyway. Bill’s demonic singing continues over his inattention.

This dream is distinctly… not a good one. On the surface, at least; Dipper’s not terrified, but only because of his company.

He also might be a little jaded at this point.

Truth be told, he’s visited a lot of dreams at this point. They’re Bill’s go-to meetup spots. Though Dipper hasn’t really been the biggest fan, so far, he’s never been in any danger. That he knows of. Bill’s made sure of that.

Bringing Dipper to a dream that lacks his idea of 'pizazz', or gore, or immediately evident monsters is a new tactic - but at least it’s not a bad one.

It’s eerie, for sure. The silence beyond Bill’s yodeling adds an extra layer of ‘creepy’ - but the boat is nice, the company’s familiar. Even the water’s warm against the tips of his fingers, leaving clean, bright lines in the river -

Dipper yanks his arm back with a start, and he shakes the water off rapidly. Some of the red drops leave spots on his shirt and pants..

The broken surface of the water bleeds bright red. Like wounded flesh.

Dipper grimaces. He’d back up, but there’s no space in the gondola.

And - as a bonus - it looks like it’s attracting more glimpses of half-formed shadows. Of course. Dipper can only catch them out of the corners of his eye - dim, too-lanky shapes he never fully sees through the fog in the alleyways - but maybe it’s best to ignore those, too.

Still not a bad dream, necessarily. Things could be way worse.

But like everything to do with Bill, it’s unnerving. With a side of ‘constantly feeling you're being watched’.

“Ahem,” Said triangle clears a nonexistent throat. Bill thumps the stick on the bottom of the river, the one he’s been using to guide them along the city canals. “Hello! Listen up, sapling, I’m serenading here.”

Dipper shuffles around until he finds a shaky seat back in the gondola. Bill doesn’t bother. He doesn’t have to worry about balance, with his floating in midair thing.

“This is… interesting.” Dipper says. Bill brightens up, lower eyelid rising. So that’s a start - but he’s not sure how to follow it. He tucks his arms around his legs instead. “Why are we-”

“Vide stellas quae tremunt!” Bill continues his song without any notice of the question. Dipper tries waving at him, but he’s already closed his eye.. “Amoris et spei!”

No explanation, then. Dipper rolls his eyes.

God forbid Bill not have attention on him for ten seconds.

“I sense,” Bill says, tapping under his eye thoughtfully. “That you might not be appreciating this, kid.” Said eye rolls in its golden socket. “Why am I not surprised!”

At Dipper’s shrug, Bill grumbles something under his breath, and pushes the gondola along. Silent, for a moment.

Dipper shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Absent the music, this place is extremely eerie. There’s a light fog on the canals, and he doesn’t dare look into the alleys.

In a way, he understands why Bill’s like this. Needing company. Demanding attention. Being demanding is part and parcel of his demonic nature, and he was also stuck in a prison for thirty freakin’ years. That alone would make someone deranged.

Bill was just insane even before that.

Thankfully, irrepressible as always, Bill starts humming some other tune. Dipper’s glad he started again; he must be in a better mood. Bill’s huge eye narrows slightly in contemplation.

Then he lets out a low, self-satisfied cackle, and rubs two hands together. A third arm keeps steering the boat.

Dipper rolls his own eyes.

Yeah, this is definitely going to pan out like Bill expects. Because everything Bill’s done has worked out great for him.

Bill said he had plans for Dipper, but he’s taking his sweet time getting to them. It barely seems like there is one, most nights.

Whatever he’s after, it might work better if he focused on his goal.

Instead, he’s making Dipper focus on him.

Every time they’ve met up - and it’s been months - Bill’s clearly making some kind of effort. He’s hinted at a deeper truth, dozens of times. He taunts, and he talks, and even teaches on a whim. His methods are obscure and bizarre, they seem out of place - but Dipper gets the sense that Bill genuinely thinks it’s important.

He must really be distracted by his ego, because so far? His ‘plan’ doesn't seem all that sinister. It’s like he’s barely started it, or it’s genuinely not-terrible - which is why Dipper willingly joins Bill in his dreams.

Okay. That, plus a certain amount of sheer, idiotic curiosity. Dipper’s not perfect.

But he knows Bill’s trying to show him something.

Maybe if Dipper got it - whatever ‘it’ is - then he’d be able to thwart the plan. But until he finally gets it, or it comes to fruition or… Until something really evil happens, he guesses, then they’re just going to keep…

Meeting up? Hanging out? Dipper’s not sure which phrase fits right.

Judging by how it’s gone so far, that ‘until’ might be a while.

So long as Bill’s just reveling in attention, though - there’s no reason to stop him screwing himself over. Freedom seems like a big deal to him, and if the last few months are any indication? He’s been enjoying it immensely.

Feeding Bill’s ego a little can’t hurt, and it’s. Not bad, really.

Dipper just. Doesn’t have a lot of people to talk with who aren’t family, and Bill’s always up for a conversation. Even if it mostly devolves into bickering about stupid things, and Bill’s awful, awful jokes - Dipper’s finding he doesn’t mind that much. Bill’s quick-witted, weirdly charming for a person who’s a shape, and his magical knowledge has a depth that’s breathtaking. Even if it comes in an annoying golden package.

Whatever works, works, though. As long as Bill’s eager to hang out, then Dipper might as well indulge him.

After all, Bill could be up to worse things than bothering Dipper. And when it comes right down to it - he’s kind of fun. In an insane, demonic way.

Dipper’s still cautious. He’d be an idiot not to be.

But so far, Bill’s keeping his word.

Come to think of it, the plan must be one of the reasons Bill’s still here, in this dream. He’s making sure this isn’t a nightmare, while he tries to convey his… something. Possibly in a manner that won’t completely chase Dipper off. But if he can figure it out, before Bill manages to be super evil -

Dipper tucks his arms around himself tighter in the chill of the fog. He shakes his head to clear it.

This is novel, and interesting -

And very, very dangerous.

He’s got to stay wary. Reminding himself that Bill is absolutely insane.

“What, you chilly or something?” Bill sets fists on his angles. He was humming for a while, but now he looks curious. He even floats in a bit, while the stick keeps steering the gondola without a pilot. “This is what you get for having a crappy endothermic system.”

“Shut up.” Dipper tucks his legs together too. The temperature, if anything, seems to have dropped by a few more degrees. “Didn’t you make this dream? Can’t you control the-”

“Ahem. Unlike some amateurs, I know how to set the atmosphere.” Bill shuts his eye, somehow managing to look self-assured without a face. He wags a chiding finger at Dipper, floating close enough to flick his nose. “You wanna keep your empty nightmares on refrigerator settings. Fits the whole ‘eternally preserved’ theme.”

“And how does singing bad opera fit the ‘theme’?“ Dipper smacks Bill on the side. Dumb move, it only hurts his fingers - though Bill's not cold, like the air. It makes him pause. “...Hey. That wasn’t in Italian.”

“When in Rome, speak as the Romans do! And they were chatting in Latin before your forebears had forebears.” Bill shrugs, nonchalant. “It's the source of Romance languages!”

A minor detail. One Bill’s using to avoid the question - and he only resorts to being a pedant when he’s caught.

Dipper narrows his eyes -

Then seizes the opportunity.

And the triangle.

As Bill thuds against Dipper's chest, he wraps his arms around him tight. Bill flails a bit, muttering something impossibly muffled against Dipper's chest. How does that happen, he doesn't even have a mouth. Dipper decides to ignore the impossible, yet again. Squeezing Bill a little harder, like he could crumple him like tinfoil. Knowing that he won't.

Man Bill’s warm; radiating off him like a personal, annoying space heater. Dipper can already feel the sensation returning to his fingers, gripped tight on Bill's edges.

And frowns. “Wait. I thought this was supposed to be nightmare Venice, not Rome.”

“Cripes, what a pedant.” Bill groans, the hypocrite. Dipper can’t see his eye - he’s rotated it around to face forward - but he’s sure he’s rolling it as well. He floats lower in Dipper’s lap, and one raised finger jabs the soft underside of Dipper’s jaw. “I bet you’re a real hit at parties. I couldn’t take you anywhere!”

Bullshit, Bill’s arrogant enough to take anyone anywhere, and be smug about it.

And if he’s trying to pretend he’s not in a good mood, maybe he should stop glowing so bright.

Dipper squeezes him a little tighter. Bill’s been caught, he can’t escape - and while he hasn’t totally settled down, he’s letting his legs dangle over Dipper’s and only kicked him once. It was barely a tap.

“I get it. You’ve never spent much time in Italy.” And Dipper smiles. This’ll get to him. “Bill Cipher claims to be the dream demon extraordinaire - but he never managed to bother a Pope.”

The sharp, indignant noise Bill makes is so, so sweet. Dipper jostles the top hat with his cheek, just to bug him more, and listens to the ensuing weird burble with a grin.

In the end, Dipper gets a thoroughly informative rant about the intricacies of both Italy and Rome and parts of an empire that he’s pretty sure never existed. Bill’s alight with indignance - and amusement. Possibly at his own bullshit.

Dipper really, really wishes he had a notebook with him.

Talking with Bill is always fascinating, and infuriating. Half of this has to be bullshit. Some of it might be true. Dipper… should really check out more history books. Maybe then he’d have more chances to call out Bill’s bullshit, with facts. For the moment, questioning him on every aspect pokes enough holes to help sort out the fiction.

It’s an easy conversation, and a long one. Bickering with Bill takes ages, makes Dipper struggle for words, he’s usually a little annoyed - and it’s oddly pleasant. In that Dipper doesn’t have to be pleasant. Or even nice. Bill absorbs it all with infinite confidence, and shoots back with pointed ripostes.

“-And that’s why garum was crappy, and ya shouldn’t miss it.” Bill finishes. He pats Dipper’s arm twice, and, reluctantly, is released. He floats up above the gondola as it drifts, slowly towards a dock. “But I think we’re getting off topic.”

“How? We-” Always argue, Dipper was about to say. That was before he stood up; now he’s thinking better of it. “Shit.”

He tries to balance as the gondola shakes; some of the blood-water laps over the sides. Crap, arguing with Bill is one thing, but he didn’t want to literally rock the boat.

Bill floats up further, watching the sloshing - and starts laughing.

Dipper glares, but the stupid tiny canoelike thing is shaking under him, he grips the sides. Since they’re next to the dock, he smacks a palm on it. It steadies things, barely.

“Pfft, loser.” Bill’s lower eyelid is raised in amusement. He watches Dipper struggle for another moment - then laughs harder, before holding out a hand. “C’mon already!”

Dipper takes the offer, absurdly grateful. Bill’s hand is very warm, like the rest of him.The black void of the not-flesh is a strange non-texture under his palm, steadying him before he falls. Dipper fumbles for a moment before holding onto it tight. Even though the boat is about to capsize, Bill’s got him.

Bill brightens up and squeezes his hand back. Not hard, surprisingly, maybe a little teasingly, and it makes something flip around inside Dipper’s chest.

Bill hauls Dipper bodily up onto the dock, with surprising strength and a cackling laugh. Dipper feels a quick slap just above his hip as he briefly stumbles.

Crap, that was fast. He almost backpedaled into the canal again from sheer surprise - but his grip on Bill means he only lent back for a moment.

Bill, the asshole, thinks it was amazingly funny. He’s leaning forward, another sixty degree angle in the air.

Dipper flips him off, heart racing fast. He wonders how Bill managed - but, right. He’s a demon, of course. Physics don’t matter. Those weird, noodlelike arms defy them on the daily.

One of said arms prods Dipper in the stomach. “Man, kid, talk about clumsy!” Bill’s still chuckling. His surface flickers with amusement, eyelid raised in a smile. “I shoulda let you go for a dunk!” Then a thoughtful rub under the single, narrowed eye. “Though I do like you less dissolved. At the moment.”

Dipper narrows his eyes. His valiant attempt to crush Bill’s hand in his own fails at the complete lack of bones inside.

Bill’s insane and weird and clever. He’s the strangest being Dipper’s ever met - but whatever his motives are? It’s - so far - been fine.

Dipper’s not dunked. Or dissolved. Hell, if anything, he should always be more terrified. With what Bill does. With what Bill is.

Best of all, that wasn’t a handshake. Even though Bill’s still holding on, it’s not in the right position for one. Interlaced fingers don’t count, he’s sure.

Dipper struggles at the touch, and gets his hand back, eventually. He wipes it on his pants, trying to shake off the thought.

It definitely wasn’t a shake, because they didn’t make a deal. If they had, Bill would be gloating about it. Dipper can put that single heartstopping moment behind him.

He’s still thinking about it as Bill leads him through the city. The conversation is mostly Bill rambling, their usual light bickering.

Dipper may be wandering around a nightmare, but with his palm flat on the warm surface of Bill’s back, at least he knows nothing else is going to freak him out. Bill would get huffy about not being the center of attention.

“So whatd’ya think of the main dream? Took the blueprint off a guy with agoraphobia.” Bill tugs one one of the passing door handles - which doesn’t move. When Dipper looks closer, it’s literally painted on. “No indoors, anywhere!”

“It’s kind of…” Dipper thinks about it. Nearly silent streets, cold and misty. Even if Bill wasn’t here, it’d be… “Empty.”

“Uh, duh, that’s the point.”

“No, I mean,” Dipper scrunches his face up, trying to think of - he isn’t much for horror movies, but exposure to Bill has shown him enough. “There’s no ominous signs of who was here, either. Like, I’d think there would be… half-eaten meals on the cafe tables, or, like.” He snaps his fingers, trying to think of remnants - “A single, empty child’s shoe.”

"Oh, very nice! I like how you think, sapling.” Bill taps Dipper’s temple, twice, before patting his cheek. Dipper leans away before he can pinch it. “Even if it’s not your thing, you always got something going on in that bonebox, don’tcha?”

Dipper just shrugs. He can’t not think. A dream demon liking what he does think is… morally questionable.

And, maybe, kind of neat.

“We don’t see enough of each other these days. A few hours at a time is nothing.” Bill continues, waving over the scenery. “Not that I’m not a fan of you letting me whisk ya off in your dreams - but what about reality?”

“Nope.” Dipper drops his arm, folding both of them over his chest. “Not happening.”

Freeing Bill was…. Arguably morally gray. Dipper doesn’t regret it, but Bill is an asshole, and Ford was convincing. The main advantage of Bill’s freedom came with their deal, Bill was in a terrible position to bargain.

The second best part is not having Bill on Earth anymore. He’s still dangerous, but not immediately so.

To reality. No so much for people hanging out with him.

“C’mon, kid. We’d have way more time together when you aren’t conked out!” Bill sidles closer. One thin arm wraps a couple times around Dipper’s waist, while the other waves broadly over the scenery. “A full Europe trip, just for two.” A brief pause. “Not that you’d get this kinda quality in your mundane version of that continent, but whatever.”

“If you say so.” Dipper hedges, that sound extremely subjective. Bill blinks at him with genuine surprise; it makes Dipper fidget for a second “I haven’t been out of Gravity Falls in-” Hell. When was the last time he went back to Piedmont. Or anywhere else. “...It’s been a while.”

Bill takes another second to stare. Then sighs. His enormous eye rolls around and around in its socket, in yet another exaggeration.

“Well, think about it, kid. One of these days, we’ll get to it. Me and you, on Earth!” Bill prods him firmly in the chest, eyelid raised in a smile. “We could take a long stroll through the streets, check out a couple cafes, crush a couple local governments- Then teleport over to a boulangerie for pastries! It’d be a great time!”

Insisting on reality. Again. Dipper holds back a sigh.

Letting Bill into the world - even with the compromises Dipper managed, is a horrible idea.

But right now Bill’s off in his own little world - literally, in a way - and that concept isn’t one he’s going to accept. Not the tactic to take to argue against it.

“I guess it’s a nice thought. Or fantasy, anyway.” Dipper pats Bill twice on the edge. “You’d stand out a little too much.”

Even Dipper needed a couple weeks before he got used to Bill. He’s a giant demonic triangle made of maybe-gold. Bill Cipher, in reality, would send pretty much everyone screaming, or reeling in horrified awe.

Probably, Bill would love that. Right up until it meant no cafe service.

“Yeah, yeah, most humans have no taste. Doesn’t mean it’d ruin the occasion!” Bill wags a chiding finger. His arm slips from its loop around Dipper so he can rest a fist on his edge. “What’d’ya think shapeshifting’s for?”

“For wha-” Dipper starts - then jerking back, as Bill’s form changes.

Dipper turns his head away, shielding his eyes against the bright light. And grimacing.

This demonic drama queen. The light isn't typical for his changes, he’s doing it for show. Whatever Bill’s turning into, he hopes this shape won’t have too many limbs, or infinite teeth - or worse, pick him up again -

Trying to smack Bill is always an option, though. Especially when he’s trying to be dramatic. Dipper lands the punch easily, operating on muscle memory -

Into something warm. And firm - but much softer than gold.

Bill starts chuckling. There’s a slow, rhythmic motion under Dipper’s knuckles.

Already, it’s far from the worst Dipper’s had to deal with. Bill’s not on fire, or scaled, and there’s no huge tongues licking out between his tiers. He’s not even slimy this time, though certainly more…. organic.

Dipper opens his mouth to tell Bill off, blinking rapidly -

“So! What’d’ya think, sapling?” Bill’s grin is wide and white and close. Too close, his sudden surge in makes Dipper lean back on instinct. “Ya like the look?”

Dipper stares.

“Eh?” Bill prompts again. Now he’s wiggling his eyebrows.When he doesn’t get a response - he sticks out a tongue - a pink, human tongue, Dipper watches it flick back in. “Where’s the insult?”

Right. New shape. Bill… wants feedback, something to stroke his immense ego. Dipper should….

Say something. Probably.

He looks again at that face. A human face. Bill’s standing there, intimidating; he has eyebrows and a nose and white teeth in a wide smile on this - Dipper looks down, then slowly up again - human form, leaning over him.

“Um,” Dipper says, eloquently. He does another once over, lacking for words, until he meets that single golden eye. And swallows, once. “...Hi.”

“Not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” Bill continues. He adjusts the collar of his shirt, smoothing back his hair - then digging a finger into his fleshy cheek, and twisting it. “I think it’s a pretty accurate translation!”

Dipper nods. He opens his hand by fractions, until his palm rests flat on Bill’s chest, then thinks better and grips the shirt instead.

Okay. This. Is a new one.

Bill’s face - he has a face - is all angles, with a pleased, smug, too-wide grin. He thankfully still has only one eye, otherwise Dipper wouldn’t know where to stare - and he's very much up in Dipper’s personal space. Warmth still radiates off him, just like before.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bill says dryly. He grasps Dipper's side, just near his hip. His hand is bigger now, and - and Dipper shakes his head to clear it. “So! You and me, strolling through the city-”

Bill rambles on, per usual. The familiarity is steadying. Dipper squinches his eyes shut - then blinks, but nope. The scenery hasn’t changed.

This is. Normal. For Bill. Because this is Bill, showing off again. They can move on.

Will move on, because Bill’s looking like he wants to continue their walk. Dipper should. Follow him. That’s the right thing to do.

The first step is turning away. Easily done, if he stops gripping Bill’s shirt so tight. Forcing himself to loosen his hold works - but now he’s touching Bill’s chest again, and that isn’t great. Though it’s very solid, like Bill - because it is Bill, in a different shape, he needs to remember that. The shirt is soft, though when he strokes it. Maybe silk? Dipper -

Should stop touching it, what the hell.

Bill keeps rambling, arm warm against Dipper’s back. Dipper nods out of habit, stepping forward as Bill leads them on through the city.

Dipper forces his arms to his sides, holding them rigidly in place. He’s keeping them to himself. Thankfully, Bill doesn’t seem to notice anything odd about that.

Not that anything is, but. It might make things weird if he did think that.

Which means Dipper can relax, if only a bit. Demonic self-absorption has some benefits after all.

This is only another strange shape Bill’s taken. He’s turned into way weirder ones, for way longer - and for dumber reasons. Whatever prank he’s pulling is - Anyway, it’s only lasted maybe two minutes, it won’t be much longer. If that’s even how long it’s been.

Come to think of it, how long has Dipper been asleep? Dream time and real time never entirely track, and from this perspective they’ve been hanging out for a few hours. Longer than their typical meetup, since either Bill has ‘business’, or Dipper wakes up. Usually the latter. Eight hours real time is more like two or three in the dream realm -

…Which might be why Bill complained about it.

Bill keeps commenting on the city. Gesturing around. Possibly describing how conquerable it is, as he guides Dipper along on the midnight nightmare stroll,

Dipper isn’t sure what, exactly, the current topic is. He isn’t paying much attention.

He rubs at his forehead. He doesn’t feel much more centered, even with Bill’s arm around his waist again. Still warm, and somehow more solid. Certainly broader.

It also pulls him in and around, until he’s confronted - again - with Bill. His golden eye alight, looking him over skeptically.

“What, is this boring you?”

“I- what? No.” Dipper says. He nearly touches that chest again, and then the arm - but the biceps aren't any better. Technically speaking. He clenches his hands into fists, holding them to his own chest. “...Okay, maybe a little.”

Compared to some random nightmare city, recent developments are much more distracting.

“Yeesh, tough crowd.” Bill tuts, pulling Dipper in until their sides squish together; Dipper still doesn’t know where to put his hands, he tucks them over his stomach. “See, this is why we gotta get more hangout time!”

Bill’s other arm waves over the dream, and a space in it parts, folding up the rest of the scenery. Like opening a curtain, the city is shoved away to two sides, pleating like in a skirt.

The space opens into a void full of not-quite-stars.

Dipper leans in closer, and feels Bill’s arm tighten.

There’s a myriad of images floating in blackness. Things floating through space that’s not space, with a huge pyramid, black and ominous, somewhere in the distance.

The real heart of the nightmare realm Bill comes from, he’s seen glimpses before -

The one Ford told him never, ever, ever to take a single step into.

“You have a point, sapling. And I’ve had it with the tours of these run-of-the mill mental meanderings.” Bill never stops talking. He’s almost proud of it. “Now that I’ve cleared the squatters out, you should come crash at my place!”

Dipper yelps as he’s hauled up - damn it, he should have expected that - and braces himself on Bill’s shoulders. He nearly falls, Bill’s grip shifting, until he clamps his legs around Bill tight.

Not that he would fall - Bill wouldn’t let him - and he’s always been inhumanly, unfairly strong. The arm under his butt and the hand on his back would stop Dipper from escaping, even if he wanted to drop to the cold cobblestone ground.

“Cut it out.” Dipper kicks out from sheer indignance, anyway. Damn it, he knew he should have seen this coming - and Bill nearly stumbles to keep him in place. “What are you playing at?”

He’s done with this prank. With having to look at that face, with its. Everything. With Bill hauling him around like he’s a pet, damn it, he made that clear long ago, when Bill was still imprisoned.

Now he wants to bring him to the center of a mess of insanity and nightmares, what the hell is with that.

Maybe Bill can actually drive people insane. Because part of Dipper - the part that keeps saying ‘okay’ to their meetups has already started a horrible, insidious whisper.

Telling him everything else has been okay. Wondering if it would really be that bad.

“You clearly don’t care for the the terror atmosphere, kid. I’m fine with ditching it for the moment.” Bill jostles him in place, grinning wider at Dipper’s glare. “I got options! We can set up something else.”

“Like what.” Dipper says, flat.

“Look. Bribing you, Pine Tree? It's hard,” Bill says, with some chagrin.. “I’ve already given you power - not that you’re using it - and you got the pleasure of my company. You’ve even got some of the secrets of the universe on hand, but you keep dodging chances to hang!” His eye narrows. “What’re you really into?”

“I-” Dipper hesitates. Without a retort prepared, he’s not sure what to say.

“Name it and I’m there, kid. You did me a major favor, we’ve been walking out for a while - and I’ve been nothing but a gentleman when it comes to us.” He puts a strange emphasis on the word, one eyebrow raised. “What’s not to like?”

A lot of things, honestly. None of which Dipper can say.

Demon, for one. Dangerous, definitely. Insane, absolutely - and through all of that. Dipper has kept meeting up with Bill, even though he could use any of the dozen wards Ford has tried to foist upon him.

Bill’s hand is stroking his back, there’s an arm underneath him and it’s weird and -

God, Dipper wishes Bill wasn’t still in this shape, it’s throwing him off. For a prank, it’s weirdly well constructed, there’s no uncanny valley. Now his mind is racing

Actually, didn’t Bill say it was a translation?

Like. If Bill was a human, this would be how he looked. Still all angles, in a way. Unnaturally strong, oddly fascinating, and with amusement evident in the sharpness of his smile.

“Good! You’re thinking about it. Lemme know what’s cooking in there.” Bill’s grin is white and wild, a dangerous shape on his face. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

A smile that, now that Dipper looks at it, isn’t all that sharp. If he tugs the corner of the lips with his thumb, Bill makes a face, sticking out his tongue -

With a start, Dipper realizes he’s been staring at Bill’s mouth.

Bill snickers, but doesn’t respond. A slow smile, with his single eye half-lidded, and close enough that Dipper can feel the breath on his face. Dipper’s heart is going triple-time, and Bill’s very very close.

At some point Dipper wet his lips, involuntarily. He watches as Bill’s eye glimmers, then slowly shuts.

And -

The blare of the alarm cuts through things like a knife.

Dipper sits bolt upright in bed. Heart pounding.

For a full ten seconds, he flails at the sheets blindly, surprised - until he remembers where he is, and lets his arms drop.

He stares around his room with out seeing it. Still bleary, blinking slow.

What…?

Dipper sits there for another long moment. The sun isn’t even up, why did he set his alarm so early. He knows why he did it but. Now it seems ridiculous.

He wanted to make it less than eight hours. To make it cut off before Bill was expecting it.

Before either of them expected it, this time.

“Shit,” Dipper says.

He fumbles around for the cup on the bedside table. His mouth is dry, and he needs something to center himself, but he only manages to knock it over.

The memory of the dream - a lucid, very real event - is stuck in the forefront of his brain. Dipper can’t shake it. All of the Bill-dreams have been vivid, but this one is even more so.

He almost -

Dipper rolls over, sheets tangling around his legs, with the memory searing bright in the forefront of his mind.

Even when he pulls the cool pillow against his face, it doesn't help it feel any less hot.

That thing keeps running through his head, no matter what he does. The memory's too vivid to be anything less than real. How close he was. The warmth. How Bills eye fluttered shut, along with the vivid picture of his mouth, lips slightly parted.

He's never - but then Bill was -

Dipper hugs the pillow tighter, letting it absorb him in its comforting softness. Even the tips of his ears must be red by now.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

He should have listened to Ford. He should have taken those warnings to heart.

He’s heard so many of them.

Don’t talk to demons. Don’t get involved with their magic, don’t make any deals, don’t interact at all except to eliminate them.

And do not, under any circumstances, speak too long to Bill Cipher.

Ford's smart. He knows how to handle almost every situation, and he's cautious enough to come up with almost every eventuality.

Dipper never had a warning against wanting to kiss an evil triangle. He swears a little more into the pillow, tense and frustrated.

God, he's an idiot.

Bill’s weird. He’s insane. He’s all about every aspect of twisting a mind into absurd shapes - hell, he is a shape. Not a human. Not good.

And not into anyone, as far as Dipper can tell. On the very rare moments the topic has come up, Bill’s been disparaging at best - and even if he was, it would still be a terrible idea.

Dipper pulls the pillow tighter around him. He thunks his head-and-pillow combo against the mattress, embarrassment writhing in his chest.

He’s going to get up in a moment. First, to make some coffee - a lot of coffee -

And second, to come up with his own plan.

Bill knows about everything, or at least he claims to. He definitely likes it when people are crazy, but odds are? He won’t appreciate this kind of madness.

But with any luck - and some careful work, on Dipper’s part -

Bill Cipher will never, ever know about this.

#Me: Oh hey I could write a quick little short for this idea!!#Also me: *staring at nearly 6k* _ :(´ཀ`」 ∠):_#I invite you all to imagine the following with me #First that Dipper is going 'shit shit shit' for a long while about this revelation #He hasn't taken any of the hints for a variety of reasons. Partly self-esteem but also the triangle thing. And Bill's ALWAYS obscure #Never directly talking is 'fun' up until it isn't #And second that Bill has been going #Why'd he have to wake up JUST THEN?? Talk about crappy timing #Just a demon holding his (He thinks) soon-to-be lover. Five centimeters from a smooch #Then *pop*! He's left holding empty air #Augh!! The twenty-seventh date was going so well! Makeouts almost happened!! Oh well I'll get em soon enough #Man I am such a great boyfriend Bill says to himself very smugly #The upside of this AU of an AU is that they both had time to get Squishy Feelings about each other instead of starting off with hate #The downside in a way is that now Dipper unlike before has PLENTY of time to overthink the hell out of this #Good luck Bill you'll need it to get him into bed. Now that he's not in the moment enough to spring for an impulse driven by hate-lust #It's gonna be a while until these losers officially get together but hey that's technically the same #Just in one instance the sex came first and in this one the feelings did #Mind you any 'ily' is a long way off; they're still settling in at this point. Give em time #answers #When will my ability to write short things return from the war *wraps shawl around self and stares distantly at the wine-dark sea*#Gonna give a thumbs up to pchelaus for the kick that motivated me to finish this

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faithfromanewperspective · 29 days

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i'm not sure i have strong enough words to express just how bad it is for everyone on the planet in every possible way it is that christians are using the name of a god who became a man who humbled himself to the point of being killed by people after and during a lifetime of showing and teaching how to turn power structures on their head--just to have power over people. like, the more you understand the gospel the more you realise there are no words to describe how opposite of it what is currently happening with every self-proclaimed christian who is wanting, let alone actually expressing and getting away with taking power over another human made lovingly in the image of God. i don't know if you realise how bad it is.

it's bad for those people (well OBVIOUSLY) because their hearts aren't soft and ready to listen to God and fear is ruling and they don't know God's love, not truly, they're not able to love others, not when they think love involves wielding any power over them. it's bad for them because they are leading little ones astray. that is bad because--and you can interpret this in different ways depending on your theology of how universal salvation is and whether you believe in eternal punishment--Jesus literally says if you do that it's better to be drowned in the sea with a boulder tied to your neck. that's what they're threatened with and they're so far gone they don't realise that they might just be the ones leading the little ones astray. and how do you even get to that place? that you're so arrogant and not at all self aware? this is why it's bad for them. they just go further and further down that path.

it's bad for anyone impacted by it, obviously, oppression helps no one and also--what comfort can you offer?? i don't know how to express how doubly worse it is when christianity is presented and has been for millennia a hope for those who are oppressed now. a theology telling them they are valued when the world doesn't. a hope of an eternity of freedom and no suffering and getting to hang out with God and not have to be 'below' any classes of human just straight up dignified. a theology that when those who are 'above' them get ahold of it, they have a tendency to let them be freed or at least be a lot nicer and more respectful. how can we hold out that hope to anyone on the planet right now, when it's in the same name as something that has caused oppression for centuries? how can we let them decide if they want to choose it, how can it ever seem real to anyone, when you've got this mainstream narrative of what being a christian is, and it sucks?

and it's bad for every single christian who may not be directly oppressed by it. who might not be oppressed by anyone because they're seen as 'good' for believing the right things and they know how to be nice people and live out the gospel in ways that ordinary humans can--why is it bad? because for millennia christians have been just ordinary people who have gotten through incredible things because of hope for something that's bigger than themselves. i'm not talking about personal salvation here; i truly don't believe it can ever be the same motivator as the fact that we have a God who believes in righting injustice and who cares for every single one of us and when people start talking about him, captives get freed, people get dignity, there's a little bit more equality. and if some suffer still, they at least get the hope of an eternity where we have to deal with none of this.

but the eternity we're painted a picture of is the opposite. it's where the privileged oppressor gets to never experience pain again just because they said some words and believed some things and the hundreds of people they have driven away from being able to choose the same thing don't matter. an eternity where there is no justice, only the idea that every sin is the same and deserves mortal punishment but if you happen to be one of the few who gets taught the right things you get out of it, yippee. it's an elites club who are supposedly chosen by God to have no consequences for the way they have lived lives carelessly, tom and daisy from the great gatsby style or even worse. no consequences for the people they have killed and not thought about even offering the idea of this bliss after death to, after they took all the bliss they had in life. no consequences for how they drove person after person away from this hope through their own behaviour. no consequences for how they twisted the words of an ACTUAL GOD to mean the opposite. no, because Jesus died for them.

THIS IS THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF WHAT THE MESSAGE OF THE GOSPEL IS, AND ALWAYS HAS BEEN.

the message of the gospel is that the ways you've messed up, you can take that pressure off yourself and feel the love of a god who was willing to hang out with you and die for your sake. you can love others with that same love too, watch as they let go of the pressure as well. pressure to be a certain class of society, because all are valuable under God. pressure to please people. pressure to believe what someone else believes. pressure to be perfect. pressure to convert people ???? (like. who even added that one?) pressure to appear good. pressure to perform. all of these things. and be caught up in a wave of something that is inevitable: when people feel this kind of freedom, it's always going to catch on and spread and the source of it is going to go viral. we all want and need that. it's simple.

but then you have the people who are meant to be stewarding the source of this peace, now unable to feel it for themselves. now adding on themselves and each other all the pressures described above. now the gospel means nothing. now it's a tool used to oppress. now it drives a colonialism that robs those that have been reached out to supposedly so they could feel the same peace. now it drives weapons and wars and campaigns twisting science so taking someone's choices away somehow equals protecting them from sinning (??) as if it's not driving them away from the very thing they need, should they choose to embrace it.

i genuinely don't know how we're not all mad. but i do, and it's been a strategic game of turning the best qualities of people who want to submit to a god who loved us so much, against truth. against justice. against taking a stand. and it's happened for centuries; so long that it's become the norm that people want to 'conserve'. and i know i have a stronger sensitivity to injustice than most. but the point is that this is wrong is a fact so glaringly obvious that anyone coming in from the outside can see it. can see what's being presented is so opposite what is written in the book waved around to justify all that is being presented. and then if you're used to it you might try to explain it away. to extend grace to those who may have unknowingly perpetrated it, while ignoring all of the damage control that needs to be done that there simply aren't enough people who see through the bullshit to do.

but the gospel is also about justice. and you seek refuge from what doesn't work, find more progressive christian spaces, and when you start to question things like eternal conscious torment you might start to forget this a little. the premise of why a god would die being that humans are capable of this. humans are capable of taking something so good and using it for things so bad. so bad that nothing done by humans is going to fix it. because humans can't undo death. that's kind of the point right? and all this, everything i've described, taking away hope and a concept of equity in eternity if not now for so many is literally that bad. that Jesus had to die. something drastic had to be done to fix it. and sure, question what you've been taught on hell. but don't think that God doesn't care about this huge injustice that is being committed in his name. why aren't these people scared? that their faith isn't being proven, quite the opposite, by their works? why don't we warn them?

and in answer to that i think that they actually are scared. i think that was their problem all along, they were scared of losing power, scared of losing God, that they had to go above and beyond in such twisted ways to make sure they were in, they were better than others, and it made them so scared that they had no room left in their heads to realise, actually, the only thing they had to be scared of was losing the hope they were shown so that fear might take over in cruel, self-preservational ways and they might drag others away with them. and when that happens, that is when, yes, what they're scared of can happen. they can lose God. and they already think that it's going to be bad. but they don't even realise the extent of what they've done.

whatever befalls oppressors is up to God. may he have mercy, but have greater mercy on those who have been impacted by these fear-power-control spirals which weren't of their own making. may he have the mercy to give a humanity the tools to undo all the bits and pieces of hurt and generational trauma that get people going down this path to begin with, tools that begin at the very humanification and death and resurrection of a god who loves us. and may he hurry up. because even if you don't freak out every time a person on this planet dies and there's a possibility they'll go to hell (try not to go down that path if you're not there, nothing good comes of it and you'll just be stressed all the time) there are people being driven away from hope by people turning it into the opposite constantly. even if you're far away from the West, the minute you try to find authorities on christianity you get exposed to this and no one taught you how to be wary of power did they? no one taught any of us. that's what led us to be complicit in this for so long.

and i'm sick of screaming at closed ears. i'm sick of people saying it's not quite so bad or 'just the americans' or thinking queer acceptance might solve every problem in the church. we need to go deeper than that. question the very foundations we're built on, do they line up with what we say we believe, or what is the most effective way to get rid of ideologies and habits we don't need? we mightn't need to cut off physical hands and eyes but we need to know when to be brutal with ourselves as a community or we're never going to heal. we need solid theology that drives us from the very heart to live like it. i'm sick of arguing back an forth if a singular action is permissible or not (when did we even learn to view things so black and white?) when we need to go back to our roots; our mission.

i still believe it all lines up. the weird things we might choose to do to show our God is good, with our lives. the pattern of the powerful and cruel and careless and power-hungry with their power being shot down by God in order that liberation might occur, both in our bigger social systems and in our own hearts. i still believe that from abraham and right down to Jesus there's a hope that's going to rock the world in good ways and it's going to have no racial profile to it but it's going to be a hope for anyone who is oppressed and a kind call to work against oppression in yourself and outside for those who are not. i still believe it's not a white thing. not a thing you need to abandon your culture and its rich history and mythology for, but a straight up hope that can motivate us to love others in ways that we'd burn out from doing otherwise.

but right now we are getting burnt out. because how can I ever feel a part of something with the very people who are causing harm or are at the very lease unwilling to call it out? how can i ever rejoice in the hope i have when it seems like things are going the opposite way? how can I ever relax around anyone when i'm either doing damage control when i share my faith or i'm trying desperately to reconcile the horror i'm seeing with people who genuinely have no idea that a religion could do so much harm. and that's the thing. it couldn't do so much harm if it were not used so oppositely to what it's supposed to be. and i don't know if there's anyone else who has to see this so constantly. to try and escape with other things but it always comes back. in the way i'm desperate for justice. for kindness and equity to prevail. clinging to a belief that no one seems to see the same way that I do.

#thinking of blazing my own post bc i'm proud of this #and so glad to finally (randomly) get it all out #and i think i only wrote a swear word once #christianity #punk christianity #evangelical #religion #religious trauma #ministry #ministry burnout #nothing else does it quite the same way #colonialism #decolonise #please if you're reading this and you're in the same boat message me. we need to be friends #otherwise this is christianity in a nutshell i guess. don't believe the haters

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