#when will my writing time return from war?
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X-Men '97, Post-Episode 7, ~2500 words Morpherine established relationship, missing scene (unless the show actually does explore what happened during that fight, in which case boy is there egg on my face).
I follow established show canon by referring to Morph as he/him in diegetic works (fanfic and fan art) and they/them in non-diegetic works (my episode analyses and reblogs), because that's the stupidest option and, like Morph, I am also an enby with a terrible sense of humor.
Now come watch me struggle to write two whole lines of dialogue for one of my favorite characters in the series, Beast, because Me Too Stupid to Write Smart Talk Good.
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“You wanna explain what the hell happened back there?”
Although he considers pretending he didn’t hear the question, Morph reluctantly glances across the center aisle of the Blackbird to see Logan glaring back at him with an expression as hard as the adamantium underneath it. Although it’s a look he’s seen plenty of times before as an innocent bystander, Morph has only been the target of that glare on a handful of occasions. Usually when he’s severely fucked something up. Or when Logan is completely out-of-his-mind, cuckoo-bananas worried about him.
Morph suspects that this time, it’s a little Column A, a little Column B.
A wiser person might realize they were in a hole and stop digging; Morph smirks and asks, “What, the Summers Family Reunion? Well, you see, when a man and the clone of his wife love each other very much…” Morph chuckles. “By the way, this might be a bit creepy to say as one of his honorary uncles, but Baby Nathan grew up to be a serious hottie—emphasis on serious.”
No laugh. Okay, maybe that wasn’t his best material, but not even a lip twitch? Logan must be pissed.
Morph sighs and slouches in his seat. God, he doesn’t want to talk about this right now. Or maybe ever. He can feel his throat literally closing up to stop the words from coming out.
When enough time has passed that what little patience Logan had left in the tap completely runs dry, he goes right for the jugular: “I thought you were dead. Again.”
Morph winces.
“I saw that… ‘Trask Sentinel’ blow your goddamn head off. Then, next thing I know, you’re up and walkin’ around like nothing happened.”
“Not that you’re complaining, right?” Morph asks with a weak attempt at a laugh. “You know what they say about gift horses. Although, you’d think the lesson from the Trojan War would be that you should look gift horses in the mouth.”
From the seat behind him, Morph hears: “Although it’s a common misconception, that phrase actually has nothing to do with the Trojan Horse. The proverbial ‘gift horse’ is a literal, living horse, and to look it in the mouth—”
“With all those books you read,” Logan grumbles, “I thought at least one of them would've taught you it's rude to eavesdrop.”
“It would be difficult not to overhear, given the two of you are speaking quite loudly in a confined space while surrounded by people,” Beast points out. “Have you considered that this perhaps isn’t the best venue for a private conversation?”
“He is a super-genius. We’d better listen to him,” Morph tells Logan. “We’ll talk later, okay big guy?”
The stubborn set of that heavy jaw says Logan knows damn well ‘later’ means ‘never,’ and he isn’t gonna let Morph weasel out of this that easy. “If you ever want me to let you off this plane, you’ll talk now.”
“Let me?” Morph scoffs. He transforms into Quicksilver, puts on his best smug speedster grin, and says, “Just try and stop me, slowpoke.”
To his shock, Logan actually flinches. It’s a subtle thing, Morph might not have even noticed if he didn’t know Logan so well. The cause eludes him, however—until Morph remembers that he looked like Maximoff when the Thrask Sentinel… when everything went dark and quiet for a few seconds.
Funny. There was a time when Morph, blinded by youthful naivety and hero-worship, would have insisted Wolverine wasn’t afraid of anything.
Returning to his default form, Morph mutters out an apology. He tries to imagine what it would be like to see Logan die, only for him to get up a few seconds later and act like nothing happened. With that healing factor of his, they’ve gotten damned close to that exact scenario more than a few times.
How much worse would it feel, if Logan had kept his quick-healing abilities secret and Morph had to find out the hard way?
Morph takes a breath, looks out the window at the black clouds rushing by, and starts from the beginning.
“You know how most of us don’t know we’re mutants until we hit puberty, and our powers manifest? Well… I didn’t have to wait that long. Problem is, since I was just a baby, I had no idea how to control my powers—no more than a normal baby is born knowing how to walk or talk.
He holds out his hands with his palms cupped together to form a shallow, makeshift bowl.
“When I was born, I looked like a wriggling lump of white clay, about yay-big. No arms or legs, no face, no ears, no eyes. Just a mouth that would appear somewhere on my body whenever I was hungry or wanted to cry.”
Whatever Logan was expecting to hear, from the look on his face, it clearly wasn’t that.
“But even at that tender age, someone clearly recognized my star potential. I was only two days old when I made my media debut: Severely Deformed MUTANT Born In Pittsburgh Hospital.” Morph shrugs. “Not the most positive review, I’ll admit, but you know what they say: all publicity is good publicity. After all, that’s how the professor found me.”
Logan’s frown returns, more confused than angry. “You told me you didn’t meet Xavier until you were thirteen—after your mom passed.”
“That’s when I moved to the Institute. Turns out we actually met quite a lot earlier than I remembered, which is pretty embarrassing. Ideally, you don’t want to meet your future high school principal, college instructor, mentor, and world famous civil rights leader while wearing a diaper. Even worse, I was wearing a diaper, too—and I told him, mister, one of us is going to have to go home and change his outfit and it sure isn’t going to be me.”
That gets him a smile and a huff of a laugh, which would be an encouraging sign if he didn’t know how the story ends.
“So Xavier talked to my parents, explained the whole ‘mutant thing.’ Dad wasn’t happy. Then again, I’m not sure he ever was. He would have been disappointed to have a girl—a sentient lump of polymorphic biomass was right out. Thankfully, Xavier was able to use his telepathy to coach me through my very first transformation. He showed me how to turn into a normal baby boy, who would eventually grow up to look like this.”
Morph transforms into his old default, the one he still uses whenever he wants to pass: pale (although not that pale) skin, brown eyes, brown hair, hooked nose, pointed chin, gaunt cheeks, arched brows. Not exactly Fabio, but it’s the face Logan used to know him by—the face he sometimes worries Logan might secretly still prefer.
“Then he put some psychic blocks in place to limit my powers to something a bit more… manageable. Don’t give me that look. It sounds shady, but the professor messing with my head was the only reason I got to have a normal, happy childhood with my parents. God only knows what would have happened otherwise—if I’d even be alive now.”
The worry and suspicion that appeared on Logan’s face at the mention of psychic tampering grudgingly fade away. “When did you find out?” he asks instead.
“A couple months after the professor… y’know,” Morph sighs. “I hacked his personal files. Since he wouldn’t be around anymore to help you recover your memories, I hoped that maybe I could find something small he overlooked, some clue that might give us an idea where to look next.”
Logan’s eyes widen and his mouth goes slightly slack. “Morph…”
“I didn’t find anything, before you get excited. Not about you, anyway. Sure found out a lot about myself, though—a lot more than I was bargaining for.”
“That’s when your default form changed,” Logan realizes.
“Yeah. It was kind of hard to think of this,” Morph replies, gesturing at the face of his human-passing form, “as my ‘real’ face after that. Not that my new look is any more real, of course.”
“Who else knows?”
“Other than our friends listening to this conversation right now?” Morph asks pointedly, causing an entire plane full of X-Men to each make their best attempt at looking busy. Nightcrawler’s method of peering thoughtfully at the radio controls with one hand on his chin is particularly masterful—Logan mentioned he used to perform in a circus, so it’s no wonder he’s got such a good instinct for stage-business. “I told Hank and Moira not long after I found out. Seemed like a bad idea to keep that information from my doctors. Especially when one of them is also my therapist.”
At receiving a glare from Logan, Beast develops a sudden and convenient fascination with the view through the Blackbird’s window.
“But you didn’t want anyone else to know.” Logan could accept that, even if he doesn’t like it. Nothing personal. A man’s business is man's business, after all—even for a not-quite-man like Morph.
Too bad it wouldn’t be the truth; no more ‘real’ than any face that Morph wears.
“I didn’t want you to know.”
Morph can handle Logan’s anger, no problem. That’s almost charming, after all these years. But it’s the flicker of hurt, just like that little flinch earlier, that really cuts him to the quick.
“Not because I don’t trust you, or want to keep things from you or anything, it’s just… I didn’t—I couldn’t—”
He sighs and looks away again. He transforms back into his new default: smooth white skin, mask-like face. Obviously inhuman.
Still a lot more human than he looked when he was born, though.
“So, yeah. That’s why I’ve apparently gained the ability to survive having my head blown off. It sure would have been handy to know that my organs were optional the last time a Sentinel put me down. Now, instead of being out of commission for two years I’ll never get back, I can just squish myself back together and keep on keepin’ on.”
Logan doesn’t respond, and slowly, the mutter of other conversations step in to fill the void. Morph stares at nothing, sick with nerves. It’s deeply unfair that he can still feel nauseous even though he doesn’t have a stomach anymore.
He would say it’s all in his head, but if he can survive without one, maybe he doesn’t have a brain, either.
Badum-tch.
Good line. Hopefully he’ll remember it after the existential horror wears off, in the brief window when things will be funny again before the heartbreak sinks in.
Because there’s dropping a bombshell on a relationship—then there’s dropping a fucking nuke.
Oh God. There isn’t going to be a window, is there?
“Morph. Look at me.”
Although he considers pretending he didn’t hear the command, Morph reluctantly glances across the center aisle of the Blackbird to see Logan looking back at him with an expression as soft as the heart he usually tries to hide.
“No matter what you look like, there’s one thing you’ve never been able to change,” Logan tells him. “That’s real enough for me.”
A wiser person might realize they were in a hole and stop digging; Morph can’t stop himself from opening his big stupid mouth. No wonder that was the one feature even Baby Morph knew to give himself. “There are more blocks Xavier left behind that I haven’t pushed through, yet. Maybe I’ll even figure out how to change my scent, someday.”
From the look on his face, Logan clearly hadn’t considered that possibility. Morph immediately wishes he could take it back, feeling like he’s just tarnished something sacred.
It’s always been strangely intimate, the way Logan can recognize him by scent alone. Even from the beginning, when Morph decided to pull a prank on the grumpy new recruit, only for Wolverine to sniff him out mere seconds into his planned routine—it was as if, like the Emperor’s New Clothes, he suddenly realized he had been naked the entire time.
Another, smarter shapeshifter might have avoided Logan after that; Morph couldn’t get enough.
One-sided pestering turned into an unlikely friendship, turned into friends-with-benefits, turned into… whatever they have now. That which dares not speak its name.
The thought of losing that connection, the idea that someday he may be able to change himself so thoroughly that even Logan won’t be able to recognize him anymore… It’s too awful. Cursed knowledge. Like learning about the solar cycle when he was a kid, and suddenly having the horrible realization: if even the sun is going to die someday, what makes him so sure Mom will get better?
Out of the corner of his eye, Morph sees Logan’s hand start to move, stop, then start again, reaching across the aisle towards him. For a insane, terrifying moment, he thinks Logan’s about to hold his hand, outing them in front of God, the other X-Men, and everybody—but of course, that enormous, rough mitt lands on his shoulder instead. Perfectly platonic, approved for all audiences by S&P.
Though they’re shooting through the air at supersonic speed, under the heavy weight of that hand, Morph feels rooted to stable ground. He closes his eyes and takes a few slow breaths he doesn’t actually need, with lungs he only has when he remembers to make himself some.
If there are any people left when the sun finally burns out in a few billion years, they’ll still be telling each other jokes as they go into that endless good night. Just think of the money we’ll save on sunscreen. Maybe, but you know the light-bulb companies are gonna take us to the cleaners. Ha ha, freeze frame, theme song, end credits.
Even as her body slowly wasted away under the combined onslaught of cancer and chemo, Mom always laughed at his jokes, no matter how many times she heard the one about the chicken who crossed the road. His most appreciative audience, to the very last curtain call.
The world is pretty fucking scary right now, and only getting scarier. Sinister. Genosha. Losing Gambit. Sentinels again, in all new and even more monstrous forms. Even worse: total war between humans and mutants looming over the horizon, shaking the ground with each step, getting closer and more inevitable every time someone mentions it, like a demon whose power grows every time you says its name.
But just because things are scary doesn’t mean the world's turning into a horror movie, and just because things are sad doesn’t make it a tragedy. Everyone gets to choose the genre of their life story—and Morph will always pick comedy.
He gives the hand on his shoulder a friendly pat, and uses the motion to disguise a slightly more-than-friendly squeeze. “I’m alright, just a little airsick. I think it’s making me maudlin.”
As he pulls his hand back, Logan frowns a little in confusion—he knows Morph is experienced enough in the air that he shouldn’t be getting nauseous over what are, for the Blackbird, barely above pleasure-cruise speeds.
“How unfair is that, by the way?” Morph asks. “I don’t even have a stomach right now.”
Logan chuckles. Nah, baby, don’t give it up for me that easy, Morph thinks, fighting a grin. You gotta make me work for it a little…
He needn’t have worried, though. When he does make it to the punchline, Logan laughs so hard that he snorts, the laugh-lines Morph has personally carved into that seemingly indestructible face creasing and growing deeper still. And as their friends who Definitely Weren’t Eavesdropping join in—even Rogue, so teary and congested that her laughs would sound like sobs if she wasn’t smiling—Morph knows all their attempts to hide their relationship have been for nothing, because there’s no way that all the love he feels for Logan in that moment isn’t writ large all over whichever face he's wearing right now.
That’s real enough for him.
#x men 97#x men#morph#wolverine#morpherine#my stuff#wait what this actually ended up good#have I actually been a good writer this whole time and just too depressed to notice?#what the fuck that's not fair
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A/N: And I am back in my "Nessian with RED (TV) fic titles" agenda. They are just so RED coded and I had been dying to write something related to this album it is one of my fav albums of TS tbf.
This one shot is more Cassian centric, and it is also a type of fanfic I had been meaning to write for the longest times. I just feel like the fandom overall forgets that Cassian has a lot of trauma and insecurities, and I wish we saw more of that.
Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound
Nightmares were not unusual to Cassian. He had them for as long as he could remember.
He had them when he was a mere child living on the outskirts of Windhaven, blowing on his hands to try and keep himself warm.
Had them when he was a young warrior, taking part in the Blood Rite, fighting his way to find his brothers alive.
Had them when he took part in the First War and saw deaths far more gruesome than what he had experienced at the Blood Rite.
Had them pile up after each war, each battle he took part in. Dreamt about his soldiers dying, about having to give their families the news and be met with sadness, anger and resentment. That they were gone and would never return. That while they had died he, a mere bastard born nobody, an orphan, had not.
He grew used to nightmares. Usually he would wake up with silent tears and a sense of regret and failure over his heart, spending the rest of the night awake, going over reports. Those were the good nights.
And on those rare times when his mind was particularly evil and wanted to punish him deeply, on those nights he would wake up with his heart racing, the urge to throw up taking him out of his bed to leave him retching over the toilet, the need to scream at anyone and everyone consuming him. To scream in anger and despair. Those were the bad nights, the ones who made him go to the training ring and rip the punching bags, made him stay there until the sun was rising and he would pass out with tiredness, no dreams, good or bad appearing for him.
He was so used to his nightmares that he knew what to expect, knew how to recognise when it would be a bad or good night.
And then he met Nesta and his nightmares changed.
Now he dreamt of his failures with her. Not being able to stop her from being thrown into the Cauldron, not protecting her from Hybern during the War, not helping her heal sooner after the war, letting her be kidnapped again and thrown in the Blood Rite.
Nothing could have prepared him for those nightmares, nightmares that got worse after they finally got together.
Because finally being able to be with the love of his life, his Nesta, his wife and mate… that made him incredibly afraid. Afraid that the happiness he had never felt before would be stolen from him, leaving him empty, a sad and lonely youngling in the bitter snow all over again.
The first time Cassian had a nightmare after he and Nesta had wed, he had woken up in a cold sweat, heart beating so loudly on his ears that for a second he thought he was hearing the Illyrian war drums. He had dreamt of the night she had been Made, of dragging himself over the cold floor of Hybern’s throne room, the pain of his shredded and bloody wings almost non-existent at the face of Nesta’s despair. At her screams of rage as she was dragged under the cold dark waters of the Cauldron.
He had only calmed down when he realised Nesta was safely sleeping beside him, arms around him tightening and her sleepily mumbling at him.
“Where are you going?”
Cassian had considered untangling himself from his wife’s warm embrace and going over some leftover documents, silently keeping watch over her. But one look at her sleeping face had his resolve weakening.
“Nowhere, Nes” he had settled beside her, dropping a kiss on her forehead “Go back to sleep”
Whenever Cassian had a nightmare, he would try his best to not wake up Nesta. He did not want to bother her with his worries and fears. And somehow the Mother must have taken pity on him, because he was scarcely having any bad nights since they'd gotten married. Sure, he still had nightmares, but those made him want to rip his own heart out had stopped.
He took that as a small blessing. He would take the good nights over no dreams if that meant that the unbearable nightmares would be kept at bay.
However, Nesta was not oblivious that something preyed on her husband’s mind. She had noticed how worn out he was, how when he smiled at her and said nothing was wrong his smile did not reach his eyes.
But Nesta wanted Cassian himself to tell her what was happening. Wanted him to open his heart about what was making the circles beneath his eyes darker with each passing day without her having to dig it out of him. He had told her months ago during that hike at Illyria that she could be silent and he would be waiting for her to open up when she felt comfortable, as long as she did not shut him out. Now Nesta would do the same. She would wait beside him, offering her support however she could until he was ready to talk.
“You are unusually quiet today,” Nesta noted. They were resting on the sofa in front of the fireplace — Nesta reading a book and Cassian lying down, his head on her lap — having a quiet late evening after the training session with the Valkyries in the morning.
“Missing the sound of my lovely voice, Nes? Should I read out loud a paragraph from your book?” Cassian teased, opening an eye. He had slept poorly the night before, and the quiet sound of the embers crackling on the fireplace and his mate absentmindedly running her free hand through his hair had him battling sleep.
“No,” she closed her book, “it was merely an observation.”
Cassian closed his eyes again, smiling softly.
“Are you sure? I am certain the House would love to hear all about your newest smutty book”
The faelights flicked twice, as if agreeing with him.
“Oh hush now, you can read it after I am done with it. ” Nesta said, glaring at the ceiling “I never knew a sentient being more impatient”
Cassian laughed. At first he had been surprised when Nesta talked to the House, but he had grown used to it, even talking to It on more than one occasion.
“Do you want to move to our room?” Nesta asked, gently running her hands through his hair “it is more comfortable than the couch”
Cassian merely sighed “No, I am very comfortable like this” he turned on his side, arms circling her waist and wings dropping a little on the floor “I am afraid I will keep you hostage while I nap.”
Whatever Nesta meant to say was lost when she noticed how his breath had eased, her mate having already fallen asleep. And before she could even ask, the House flicked off the faelights, drawing shut the curtains of the room they had turned into their living room.
“Thank you,” Nesta found it quite endearing how the House had grown to care about Cassian as much as It cared about her. In the beginning, It liked to play pranks on him and even sided with Nesta whenever she and Cassian had an argument — once It locked Cassian outside and only let him in when he apologised. Over time, however, they had formed a rather close friendship.
Nesta opened her book again, turning on the small faelight that Azriel had gifted her on Solstice. She had just gotten to the juicy part and she knew that little light would not wake Cassian any time soon if the way he was softly breathing was any indication of how deeply he was sleeping.
She had read half of the book when she felt an uneasy feeling through the bond. She looked down at Cassian and saw his breathing getting uneven, his arms tightening around her waist.
“Cass?” Nesta whispered softly, setting her book aside. She could feel his fear and anguish through the bond, and it pained her that she could do nothing to ease his pain.
Cassian whimpered, and although Nesta knew better than to wake up someone having a nightmare, she could not stand to see him in such pain.
“Cassian, wake up, please” she tugged on her end of the bond, her hands cupping his face. He woke up gasping, hazel eyes huge and scared.
“A bucket,” he managed to say as he scrambled up, his breathing erratic “I need—”
No sooner had the House made a bucket appear than Cassian was on his knees, emptying his stomach. Nesta kneeled beside him, holding his hair back and rubbing his back.
“It is okay, everything is fine now” she said softly.
The House made a glass of water and a towel appear, Nesta thanking It quietly. Cassian had closed his eyes, breathing as if he had just learned how to.
“Hey,” she grabbed his face “open your eyes Cass.”
His hands came up, grabbing her wrists like he was wandering at the sea and she was his lifeline.
“That is it, just look at me” she said softly yet firmly, his scared hazel eyes meeting her blue-grey ones “Breath, Cassian.”
Nesta took a deep breath, holding it in for a few seconds before letting it go slowly. Cassian copied her, and after a few minutes his breathing had become normal again, his racing heart also slowing down.
“I am sorry,” that was the first thing he said, voice hoarse “I did not want you to see me like this”
“Nonsense,” Nesta dismissed, giving him the glass of water and making him drink it “you have seen me in much worse conditions”
“Are you ready to tell me what is going on?” she asked.
Cassian nodded his head, biding his time by taking another sip of water and using the towel to clean his mouth.
“For as long as I could remember I’ve had nightmares,” he began “There are the good nightmares and bad nightmares. The good ones usually wake me and leave me with a feeling of failure.”
Nesta remembered the nights in which she would wake up to an empty bed, Cassian going over reports — she would sit on his lap and give remarks as he went over them — or just standing on their balcony. On those nights she would go over to him and bring him back to bed.
“I am cold” she would say, and he would hug her tightly and Nesta would let him think that she did not notice how he needed the hug more than she did.
She could always feel his sadness through the bond, no matter how hard he tried to close his end of that golden thread that binds them together so intrinsically.
“And the bad ones?” Nesta quietly asked.
“The bad ones leave me like this,” he said with a self deprecating laugh “A complete and utter mess, barely functioning.”
“You have been sleeping poorly for a while now. Why didn’t you talk to me?” Cassian must have seen the hurt on her eyes, felt it through the bond, because he grabbed her hands, squeezing them.
“I am not good with words, I am sure you have noticed that,” he smiled weakly “I wish I was half as eloquent as you are.”
“You managed just fine in our wedding” she said with an arched eyebrow, and that got a real laugh out of him.
“I was inspired that day, I will admit.” he got serious again “But I think that maybe spending a lot of time being alone and angry did not help with my inability to find the right words to express what I am feeling. And to share my problems with others.”
Nesta had noticed this particular trait of Cassian, especially after she had stopped keeping him at arms lengths and had finally allowed herself to admit what she felt for him. He loved his family deeply, would put himself at risk for others in a heartbeat, would always have a happy face and joke to lighten the mood.
He cared for and about everyone, but what about him? Who did the same to him?
Nesta wanted to be the one with whom he could discard his happy mask and show a range of emotions.
“You can always talk to me Cassian,” she said “Anytime, no matter what.”
“I don't want to burden you. You already went through so much that to further worry you with something as silly as a nightmare—”
“I cannot believe you are saying this,” Nesta said, and Cassian could feel her anger and disappointment through the bond “You could never burden me and for you to even suggest otherwise—”
“I am your wife, Cassian. Your mate. If I don’t care and worry about you, who will?” she continued after taking a deep breath to calm herself “Besides, it is not a silly nightmare if it affected you this way”
Cassian stayed a few minutes quiet, mindlessly playing with her wedding band, brows furrowed in concentration.
“Another reason I was hesitant to talk to you about the nightmares is because— because now I have nightmares about you, Nes” he avoided her eyes while he talked, still focused on her hands “The good nightmares are the ones about my failures with you. Not stopping Hybern, not helping you sooner…”
Nesta’s heart almost broke when he said that. How could he think that about himself when he had been the one to tell her months ago when they visited the old shabby cottage she had lived with her family in poverty that there was nothing she could have done to stop Hybern and save her father?
“And the bad?” she asked, wishing he would look at her.
“The bad ones are about you dying in my arms. About you realising I am nothing more than a bastard born nobody, who is not deserving of even the air you breathe and then leaving to go travel the world, to marry a king from the continent or from other fae lands.” his voice got quieter, almost a whisper, as if he was afraid of telling her what he saw on those nights “Of you simply leaving me and never looking back.”
“Tonight— tonight was a bad one,” he finally looked at her and his face was so utterly wrecked with pain and desperation that Nesta wanted to tell him that she would stop his nightmares, that she would bargain with the Mother and even that blasted Cauldron to leave him alone.
“I dreamt that when Briallyn ordered me to kill I could not turn the knife on myself. So I killed you. And she got the Mask and kept reviving you so I had to kill you over and over and over again” silent tears started running down his face and her heart truly shattered.
She hugged him tight, Cassian burying his head on her shoulder.
“Shh xe nhia, I am here,” Nesta knew a few words in Illyrian, and she hoped that the use of them, the familiarity that they brought, would help Cassian “I am not leaving you. Not now and not ever”
“However, if you keep trying to spoil my books I might become Ems’ newest house mate” she joked, making Cassian laugh.
“I would be completely lost without you Nes,” he said with a weak smile.
“I know,” she tenderly brushed his cheeks, drying his tears “Promise me something?”
“Anything you desire”
“Promise me you will wake me up when you have another nightmare, be it ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Promise me you will talk to me and let me be beside you when you are in need.” she pleaded.
“I promise” Cassian kissed her cheek, gathering her in his arms and walking towards their bedroom. Reluctantly setting her down, he went to their bathroom to freshen up while Nesta changed out of her dress.
Cassian walked back in to find her wearing one his favourite sweaters.
“I had been looking for that sweater”
“You were? Funny how it ended up in my drawer. Maybe the House put it there by mistake” Nesta shrugged, knowing very well that she had been the one to steal it. She was constantly stealing Cassian’s clothes.
“You do look better on it than me, so I think I can forgive that small mishap” he said, getting under the covers and hugging Nesta close.
“I love you, Nes” he whispered in her ear “And thank you”
“I love you too, Cass,” she replied, snuggling closer to him.
And that night, for the first time in a long while, Cassian had no nightmares.
•
tag list: @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @arinbelle @letstakethedawn @katekatpattywack @nestaarcheron @imagine-me @sv0430 @starryblueskies7 @live-the-fangirl-life @valkyriewarriors @readskk @wannawriteyouabook @imwritingthesewords @rainbowcheetah512 @moodymelanist @castielspelvis
[Reblogs/likes/comments are always welcomed!!]
#nessian#nesta x cassian#nesta archeron#cassian#acosf#a court of silver flames#post acosf#post a court of silver flames#sarah j maas#sjmaas#acotar
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#76 broken pieces for whatever two characters you would like, please.
I have a brainwave that these two needed to share a scene - so here they are.
This was the third date this month.
It felt funny, saying that, that Molly was going on a date, but Billie wasn't sure she had any other word for when a fellow dropped by in a nice suit, picked up a girl in a nice dress, and the two of them went out to dinner.
A date. Could you even imagine? It was Berlin and the war was over and they were going on dates again, real dates, where you spent time cleaning yourself up first and the fellow actually had a front door to show up at. Not like they'd done during the war, where a date could be meeting a guy for dinner in the next foxhole, or sharing a blanket, or watching a fire. Any spare five minutes alone.
But here he was, on the front mat, shoes shined and hair combed. She wondered what they were paying him - his suit looked too nice for Berlin. Everything here was shabby after six years of war, and he looked out of place in the hallway. "Mr. Rosenthal." She opened the door and let him inside before returning to her seat at the table.
"Sergeant Mitchell."
"She's almost ready - she found a run in her stocking and had to change."
He shrugged. "We're not in any hurry."
Billie nodded, and returned cagily to her magazine, glancing up to follow his eyes around the room, taking in the small bits of art on the walls, some of it stuck up with tape, the calendar in the kitchen, the dishes in the drainer by the sink.
George Stout wasn't ever one for running a really military outfit, and the fact that they were Army without the Army meant private billeting rather than barracks. It was just the two of them in the apartment, though there were several other officers in the building, which was run by an absolutely ancient little old lady who knew very little English. (Molly was trying to learn German, just to get by a little with her, but the Army phrasebook wasn't getting them very far.)
He looked a picture, standing there in the front room - you could say that much. He would have looked even more handsome in class As, with that dark dark brown bringing his eyes out in full force and the mustache that made him look like Tyrone Power. An easy charmer, one of the gang would have said. But she'd known easy charmers before. What do you know about him, Mol? Like, really know? Apart from the blue eyes and the curly hair and the manners and the smile and the fact that he can't sing? He's been coming here for a month and what is he? A hotshot pilot and a lawyer and what else? What's he hiding? Where's the catch?
Because there's always a catch, isn't there? With a boy like that. He's too good.
Billie rose from her chair and moved to put her now-cold cup of coffee in the sink. "I don't think she ever told me where you're from, Mr. Rosenthal."
"Brooklyn - Flatbush."
Billie had a sudden desire to call up Ruth and ask her what she knew about flyerboys from Flatbush. "And you still have family there? Parents, siblings? Girlfriend?"
He nodded. "My mother, and my sister." He smiled a little. "And no girlfriend."
Notice I didn't ask about a wife. "You still close with them?"
His smile never wavered for a moment. "My mother writes me nearly every week. Sister less often, but she'll put a word in Mom's."
"And your firm, are they - are they taking you back, when this is over?"
"I'm sure they will be." He moved closer to the kitchen and looked her in the eye. "You know, I could provide personal references, if that would take less time, Sergeant. Former commanding officers, friends - my rabbi." He smiled at her surprise. "I'm a lawyer. I know what an interrogation looks like."
Billie squared up, her eyes meeting his with no hint now of gentle prying. If you thought the rabbi was going to trip me up, I'll tell you now I don't care. "I like having all the facts." And the fact is that I don't know you, Robert Rosenthal, and I don't like that.
"And the fact that I like Molly an awful lot?"
See, you say that and I believe you, and I hate that I do. "Lots of guys can say they like a girl, Mr. Rosenthal. Maybe even use the word love. Doesn't mean a thing later. I'm trying to establish intention and motive." There's been a war on. People say things they don't mean all the time. Isn't that why you have a job?
He was watching her with a kind of respect in his eyes, smile tugging at his mouth. "Have you ever considered becoming a lawyer, Sergeant?"
Billie felt off balance at the compliment. "The bar wouldn't have me."
He laughed at her casual brutalism, and glanced down at his shoes, considering his next words very carefully. "When you fly a bomber, the only guys you trust are the other nine in the plane with you. Imagine it's the same in a foxhole."
"After they've given you a reason to, sure."
"Guess I'll just have to work on that, then."
It was then, of course, when they were nose to nose and eye to eye that Molly walked in, beautiful in her dress uniform. "Billie Mitchell, are you interrogating him?"
Rosie stepped back, supremely unconcerned by all of it. "It's all right, Mol. We were just talking. It never hurt to have friends who care."
He calls her Mol. And he calls me Sergeant, because he knows we're not friends yet. That's what Ron did, too.
Billie met Molly's eye with a clenched jaw, almost afraid of what she'd find there. It's what you did for me, isn't it, care? And I never listened. But you're smarter and better than me, and you deserve better, too, better than broken promises and broken pieces of a heart. And if he is what he says, you deserve him, Molly. You deserve the world. And if he's not then I'll bury him.
"No," Molly said, softening a little, realizing what they were saying. "No, it never did." She sniffed and checked the fastening on her purse, fiddled with a button. "Will you wait up?"
Billie shook her head. "You'd better take the key. I'm not going out."
Molly nodded, grabbing the key and its chain from where it hung near the door and closing the door behind her as she and Rosie left. He would ask her, at dinner, what that had all been about, and perhaps Molly would tell him - or not. She fell in love with a guy she thought she knew. It ended like you think it did.
#asked and answered#noneedtoamputate#i have written a thing#mercurygraypresents#tds cinematic universe#masters of the air OC#masters of the air x oc#molly mahoney#molly x rosie#billie mitchell
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Find a cure for my heart | hobbit
pairing: Thranduil x human fem!reader 👑
On the eve of the battle, you and Thranduil spent a night that spurred a flurry of letters while Dale grew as a city and you both grew too, first apart, then closer again. However, you couldn't bring yourself to burden him with the truth that your health was deteriorating with each passing day.
warnings/tags: sickness, angst, mentions of death (reader is actively dying but only realizes after Thranduil helps) hurt/comfort, happy end
words: 5,6k
an: finally finished this fic after working on it since January. If you are interested in being tagged when I post new fics– comment that under this post or send it to me in my inbox!
+ masterlist + rules
🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3
Contrary to general belief, the elves did not return to their forests immediately after the battle.
In the stories told, there would be remarks, on how the Elvenking offered his help to the yet-to-be-crowned King Bard once more, bringing aid with however warriors he had left for disposal to search the endless chaos and ruins of Dale for survivors until many sunsets later.
They would speak about the sorrow of losing friends and family and neighbors to a war that had been won at costs no one could comprehend yet, and they would mention how the great Elvenking guided them through the darkest of nights for he had experienced this all before; the grief, the helplessness and the colossal question of What now, who's to say we haven't lost ourselves as well as those we have to bury?
Many had their own experience with the Elvenking, whether it was a hand pulling them off the ground, a loaf of bread delivered to them after days of fighting, or a warm blanket to huddle under to finally lay their body to rest under the watchful eye of Elves that had sworn to protect them.
You had your own story. A different one.
But it wasn't one with the Elvenking, no; the night before the battle, where the air was filled with the sound of blades being sharpened and children crying for their parents, you had met Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves but most importantly: a set of strong arms that caught you as you stumbled out of Bard's tent.
You needed to run away from the discussions over how to draw the dwarfs out of the mountain.
You'd been a friend to Bard for many long years but standing in that luscious tent, being offered wine as the Wizard, Bard, and the Hobbit pondered over what was about to happen while you weren't sure your mind caught up on what had happened already, there was no room for friendship inside your panic-riddled chest.
Just as you flung open the tent flaps and tried to dash away to get some air, your foot caught on a root, and had it not been for Thranduil's fast reflexes, you surely would've planted your face into the dirt and mud.
Up until now, you had no idea what had transcended between the two of you at the moment where his arms held you up, his softening face looking down at your widened eyes filled with tears and your tongue too tied up and heavy to say anything other than: "Air– please"
Whatever it had been, likely an unspoken wish – by Thranduil or you, or maybe you both; it didn't matter – for someone who would not pass judgment over the urge to disappear from your skin and role and crown for one night, a fallen star flung across the darkened skies at the right time.
It felt as though Thranduil had pulled a sheet over your heads; your world narrowed down to this other soul and how beautiful and divine his body felt on yours as you found a way to survive the night before life as you knew it turned once more and the solid ground beneath your feet shifted and broke.
A few nights, while unforgettable and brooding with feelings neither of you admitted to, did not change that you had to move on somehow.
Although the Elves did not depart for Mirkwood immediately and Thranduil and you were given time in the aftermath to find the other in the cover of the night and under the pretense this was nothing more than mere distraction, a wishing star could only do so much shining before dimming out.
The day you awoke to a sunrise bathing the debris of Dale in a pinkish and warm light, pillars being rebuilt dipped into molten gold, and the cracks glued together, Thranduil's strong arms were wrapped around your middle as if he wanted to hinder you from sneaking away, you knew it was him who would leave you before the day was over.
And so he did.
Sunrise came and went and soon enough all the tents were packed up on horseback and wagons, leaving flattened grass as the only reminder they had been there at all if and there were goodbyes, political between Bard and the Elvenking who parted from the weary man and his children with the promise of support, and between you and Thranduil in the form of a slow nod.
Thranduil sat high on a dark stallion, dressed in silver and long robes that hid fingerprints that spoke of an attempt to cling to transience. His chin lowered, though his eyes were fixed on you.
You knew that nod carried the conversation you had whispered into the morning mist.
And it was all that wasn't said that motivated you to step away first and turn your back on the caravan that took away a King and a Lover.
There was much to do, the looming task of building up Dale needed everyone's full attention, and that included you.
Especially you.
There were houses to plan, accommodations to be made so that no one needed to sleep under the stars.
No one could ever pry the reason why you were keen on getting a roof under everyone out of your hands; a lonely part of you wanted the stars to remember you and Thranduil lying in the grass. And no one else.
The first letter arrived a few weeks after you hadn't had the heart to watch him go and threw yourself into one task after the other, dismissing even the smallest hint of sickness, like the heaviness inside your chest every time you lifted something heavy, or tiredness crashing down onto you in moments to catch your breath, to continue working, that you wouldn't find a moment to admit how much you missed him.
That utterly ridiculous mindset stopped as soon as the messenger Elf rode into the city and hand-delivered you the first of many envelopes with the nearly indecipherable handwriting of Thranduil.
Or the Elvenking.
Because the first letter, despite being addressed to you as well as Bard, who wouldn't have been able to read it in the first place, was a list of things the King would send and a question of what else was needed that he could provide.
"It's fine," you said to Bard through a smile that didn't reach your eyes as you read aloud the letter twice, from the greeting to the last paragraph that was signed 'the Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion, Lord of Mirkwood and friend of Dale'.
In the flickering light of the candle dripping wax onto the table between you, the dark circles under Bard's eyes were all the more prominent than when he was running around the city and there was a bottomless pit in your stomach that wouldn't want to add to the many things he was already worrying about.
"It's totally fine," you said to Bard when he asked if you had skipped over a private note from Thranduil or if there truly wasn't one (there wasn't, you had turned the letter over and over in your hands until the edges became soft and wrinkled) and you both knew that to be a lie.
You answered the letter in the same professional manner because even though you wanted to, you couldn't send a letter to a King helping however he could and expecting nothing in return with a smeared "I wish for your heart and our nights and for your voice to tell me we are alright" written under tears in another sleepless night.
The next few letters follow the same pattern, Elvenking Thranduil Oropherion would inquire if there was anything Dale needed and answer Bard's question on leadership and share his knowledge of what was fundamental for a new King, and you would write for Bard on the other side.
The weeks passed and so did the hope of rekindling that fire you had thought to burn in the both of you.
That Thranduil didn't see the need to reach out was a punch to the gut that left little room for anything else but disappointment of putting your effort into pulling on a rope that wasn't attached to something on the other end.
Why waste the dwindling energy of your exhausted body on someone who would live longer than the memory of you?
Every time a new letter arrived by messenger you would find Bard until one late evening you opened the letter by yourself and saw your name written in that beautiful sharp handwriting, not Bard's added in front or behind; only your given name and not your title.
Your hands shook as you stood in the frame of what was to be your house and the ink glued together the cracks of your heart.
'Forgive me for not writing to you sooner and for how sentimental I must sound. It has been weeks since I last saw you and every time I wander through my familiar halls, I find there is no soul around that could understand me how you did, whom I could tell what plagues my mind. The time we spent together has not left my thoughts. Neither has the promise to not grow apart too much and I apologize for not contributing to that. Now, if you would still have me, I would like nothing more than to hear how you are faring. As for me…'
Nothing had the power to stop you from running off that giddy feeling that spread through your chest as Thranduil, finally Thranduil, wrote about the happenings in Mirkwood; not even the cough that sat deep where suppressed laughter spilled into the grass you fell into– the letter clutched into your hands.
Thranduil and you fell into a routine then, one that was no obstruction for the many tasks at hand but made room for each other to hold on to the promise.
You would send out two letters, one on behalf of Bard whom you taught his signature as well as a few more words every fortnight you sat down together, and one addressed to Thranduil, filled with all the thoughts that ran through your mind that you wanted to tell him.
It was by no means as precious as the talks you had now many weeks ago, not when there were days you had to wait for a response instead of seconds.
You appreciated them all the same, every bit of himself that Thranduil wrote into his messages was countered with a confession of your own.
When he said he wished to know where his son had disappeared to or rather if he followed the direction Thranduil had given to him, you admitted to the nightmares that still plagued your mind, the dreams of fire and a monster that still rested in the lake.
You offered piece after piece, chipped bits of your heart into every letter that you sent away, and after a few weeks had passed, and Dale was taking shape with its houses raking their roofs to the sky and its people planting seeds and flowers, rooting themselves into what now was theirs, there was not much left of your heart that was completely yours and not Thranduil's and the letters of his proved that the same could be said about him.
What you did not mention, not with one drop of ink, was that the nightmares were no longer confined to the few hours of sleep you fell into.
There was a dragon, not just in the cold lake where your old home lay in ashes and was drowned in the ruthless darkness, but by the heavy weight on your chest, it felt like there was one inside you as well.
You were coughing as if there was smoke blocking your lungs, blackening out what little air you heaved for when a coughing fit took over your whole body.
It started small, a cough then, a sleepless night there; both accumulated to an uncountable amount and it got only worse as the season changed and the autumn winds lost their last warm touches and the trees bared their wooden arms.
You waved it off as a common cold, nothing that would hinder you from your tasks to becoming a liability the city didn't need in its time of growth.
Then, the coughing got worse, rougher, sometimes taking your voice for a moment until you found some water although that only helped for a small moment, like trying to extinct a burning building with just the water your bare hands could carry.
The worst part was the blood that stained the cloths, the sweats that not only held you awake at night but weakened you at day as well.
"I'm better!" you promised Bard on a night when he had to sit next to your bed, wringing out the cold cloths that lay on your fevered forehead.
His voice was a low whisper when he dabbed away the sweat, pushing your wet hair back with hands that were far too gentle for what you deserved for rotting in bed and not pulling your weight, "You're not, an' that's clear for everyone but you. Did you tell him?"
"Yes," you lied through your teeth, eyelids dropping close from exhaustion but you knew sleep wouldn't come, "he said it would pass, nothing to worry 'bout."
Three days later you were on your legs again, if not a bit shaky and needing more breaks than ever.
You sat in Bard's kitchen, a warm bowl of soup in front of you that tasted like ash and firewood, and ignored the silent pleading in his eyes to tell him what was going on and why you could barely lift the spoon of a soup that you clearly did not enjoy.
Winter wore your body down like rough sandpaper on soft oak, the cold winds and dark hours an enemy far worse than what you had to encounter on the battlefield. This had no logical explanation, nor was there an enemy you could see.
Your own body betrayed you and you had no idea what you had done to deserve it.
You knew that somewhere was a solution to it all, that was the string of hope leading you through the snow outside and the fire in your blood and bones, singing down what little fight was left on the days when the sun pushed away gray clouds and you felt normal and healthy.
The sole reason why you lied in letters filled with otherwise honesty as pure as heaven's snowflakes was that you did not want to be a bother.
Thranduil wrote how much of his time the dwarfs and their trading demands swallowed; he did not need another burden and you would be damned if he came because you had a small cold you couldn't get rid of.
You had promised Thranduil to visit him in spring when the soil was rich enough for the seed to take and the livestock could roam the meadows. If you weren't better by then you would ask him.
Until then work demanded all of you. Even if that was through a white knuckle grip on the last bits of health in aching bones.
⸺
Spring brought forth daffodils pushing through the cobblestone streets. Tilda, the youngest Bardling and a wonderful distraction on the days when getting out of bed was the hardest bounced excitedly beside you and pointed at the flowers.
"Like stubborn trumpets proclaiming winter is finally over!" she said as you followed her outside. "Spring is finally here!"
You disregarded the pain echoing through your body, the weight of guilt forcing you to spend the day with the girl.
She had been knocking on your door every morning, angelic eyes asking if you wanted to come and play with the lambs that she had taken too and this morning, you couldn't disappoint her.
"Aren't they just so pretty?" Tilda crouched down, gently cupping one of the blossoms in her small hands.
Lowering your gaze from the burning brightness of the sun you got a short glimpse at the yellow dots decorating your doorstep.
Then, suddenly, black spots appeared on the edge of your vision, taking you by surprise though they have been your companion for the better part of the last few days.
"Tilda–"
You tried to hold on to your doorframe, bruised hands frantically searching for a grip on the warm wood but they slipped and caught only the edge.
The last thought that crossed your mind was that you should bring Thranduil some of those flowers before you blinked and crumbled to the ground.
⸺
You woke up to the confusing taste of grass on your heavy tongue and the dizzying realization that you were not spread out on the street but tugged inside your bed.
Above you, moonlight fell through the opened window in the slanted roof above your head and you immediately closed your eyes again.
This had to be a dream.
Though your dreams had not been like this in a long time.
Peaceful. Comfortably warm. Silent except for the croaking of toads, the buzzing of insects outside, and the laughter and clattering of your neighbors probably enjoying the night more than you.
A groan passed your lips as you tried to sit up; a seemingly impossible task with the heaviness of your bones as well as the mountain of blankets that covered you.
"What do you think you are doing?" a voice you knew all too well sneered.
For a second you thought it to be a hallucination, a projection or your dazed mind still lulled in the fog of unconsciousness.
The bones in your neck cracked as your head snapped to the other side. There was no way you did not imagine the tall figure that should be across the woods in his palace; not in your bedroom.
"What are you doing here?"
"Merely strolling through the neighborhood," Thranduil's voice dripped with sarcasm, yet a subtle tension marked his stance beside the bed. "Now, enlighten me. Did you conveniently forget to mention this sickness in your letters?"
Ah, straight to the point.
"It's trivial," you waved it off, attempting to assert yourself by sitting up.
Naturally, consciousness promptly slipped away once more.
This time you were not that surprised by the sharp taste of grass on your lips when you came to your senses once more, pushed back into the pillows that had never felt this stuffed. You were still unable to move your leg more than from one side to the other under the blankets and Thranduil was still there, glaring at you through dark furrowed brows and hardened eyes.
You wanted to say something to break the heavy silence but all that passed your lips was a giggle that was more desperate and closer to insane than amusement.
One brow lifted. "Oh, how glad I am you are entertained by this," said Thranduil. He was as rigid in a frightening calm way but all of that was overshadowed by the cloud of confusion that muddled your thoughts.
"Noo," you drew out the word and continued giggling. This had to be insanity. "You jus' look very out of place here – wait. Turn around? I need to make sure you're really here."
He didn't fit into the cramped space of your house, his fine clothing stood out against the poor backdrop of crooked furniture, used towels hanging over stools, and the small layer of dust that covered the areas you hadn't been able to clean in a while; which was most of the bedroom and you didn't dare think about the state of the kitchen.
Where he deserved a throne out of gold you could only offer the chair next to your bed, the one that was crooked and leaned heavily to one side.
That being said, nothing took away the sheer amount of power he radiated.
It easily filled every nook and cranny or tight corner of your humble house, his voice as well as the image of Thranduil, King of the Elves, towering over your bed in long robes and bathed in the light of the night sky, glittering silver like the moon knew the importance of the Elf in front of you.
Thranduil remained stoically still. "I will definitely not do that," he said. "I am here. Where I should have been a while ago."
The accusation would have hit harder if you weren't drugged up on whatever medicine he had apparently fed you while you were out cold.
You shrugged your shoulders as well as you could with your arms bundled under the blankets. "I saw no reason, it was just a cold. Nothing I couldn't manage."
Well, you hadn't managed to handle it, that was the worst realization of the whole lie.
"Clearly," Thranduil said sarcastically and ground his teeth against each other. His arms were behind his stiff back and the way he tilted his head down to you made you feel like a child being admonished for bad behavior. "Do you know how much despair I felt when Bard's letter arrived this morning?" His voice was even but there was a resonance in it – a deep rumble akin to the ominous approach of distant thunderstorms over the sea. "Nearly indecipherable scrambles where he begged me to come; telling me that you have been asleep for two whole days?"
A crack in the form of a small tremor broke through the mask of the all-mighty Elvenking.
"This morning?" you asked, caught up by the first part and ignorant of everything that followed after, and you huffed while running the calculations through your head. "Thranduil, this can not be, the journey is not manageable in one day."
"Is this truly the point you consider most important?" He closed his eyes as a pained expression passed over his face. "You deem it impossible, yet I assure you, nothing could have hindered my arrival here; the boundaries of possibility, for once, were not a barrier but an aid. It reveals your scant regard for your circumstance if your worry fixates on my journey through the land. Not on the sickness that nearly stole you from this world. Two days –" Thranduil took a deep breath, "two whole days where those around you had no idea if you would ever awake again."
"But –"
"No, you can speak when I am finished," he commanded sharply. "You were reckless. Ignorant of your health as if your life was not precious." Thranduil spat the words out cold yet they burned. He was blind to the way you flinched and lowered your burning eyes to the blankets.
You shrunk deeper into the pillows, a hollow ache inside your chest that had felt empty from the pain ever since you awoke the first time.
"But –" you repeated helplessly. This time, he allowed you to continue and you did so in a whisper: "I didn't want to be an inconvenience."
"An inconvenience?" he sneered back at you, the flickering lights of a few burned-down candles casting shadows over the creases of anger edged into alabaster skin.
He took a step toward the bed and you saw a twitch in his lips that had you blanching.
The fury brooding inside him was not new, you had seen it on the battlefield before. In ice-cold cuts of his sword as he flawlessly executed the most brutal movements while his face resembled a mask of the most dangerous kind of rage – stillness.
Now, there remained little of that stillness.
"You were a greater inconvenience by nearly throwing away your precious mortal life, all because of your unfathomable stubbornness!"
"There was lots to do!" you snapped back. Shortly but surely, you were fed up with his anger and the insults he was throwing at you. "This town was suffering far more than me and don't you dare tell me I'm wrong," you had to bury your teeth into your lower lip to stop it from shaking. "Dale needed me!"
The pale skin was flushed red around his heaving chest and delicate ears. "And I do not?" Thranduil road and his voice boomed through your little bedroom loud enough for the cicadas outside to fall silent.
Immediately, your eyes watered. You felt trapped under his gaze, engulfed in pure heat hotter than any dragon fire.
You searched for a response inside you but found none.
All there was was chaos – the loud beating of your heart against your chest like iron being beaten and shaped though all that was formed was pain sharp like a sword edge; cutting through the layers of protection you had wrapped around your heart.
Thranduil slightly lifted his nose, staring down at you through thick eyebrows and a clenched jawline. "You were dying," he said and his nostrils quivered. "I can not fathom how you through that would not have been a greater inconvenience.
His expressions made up in sound for the lowered voice he'd used to speak about what you previously refused to acknowledge.
Never before had you seen him this out of control of his emotions, not even on the nights he had bedded you where he still had a hold on himself.
The way he stood before you, dressed in fine robes not fit for riding, the hem of them stained by dirt, his boots muddy, and his face full of anguish, it was as if he could have been kneeling at your feet.
You ignored the tears slipping silently down your cheeks. "It wasn't that bad, was it?"
"It was indeed, and far beyond that."
The tears made it impossible for you to continue looking at him and your head dropped down as a sob broke through you. "I didn't know," you panicked, "It didn't happen fast so… so I thought it'd pass but – and then it got worse and worse and I was so afraid to speak to anyone about it." The words tumbled into your lap, where, under the blankets, your hands were balled to fists now that the strength to do so had returned to your body, "I – I couldn't," the night air stung as your breaths turned into gasps, "They – Bard was exhausted and –"
Thranduil's face softened ever so slightly, pushing away the furious frown. "You are too pure for this world," he said quietly and – dealing a fatal blow to your ever-fragile heart – slowly went down on one knee next to the bed until you were eye to eye and his cold long fingers could gently caress your wet cheek.
He stopped, most of his fingers covered in the glistening tears he'd freed you from and his thumb rested on the plushness of your lower lip. "The world would have lost its sunshine had you perished," his robes rustled as he drew closer, silver hair falling onto the blankets like stars flying across the skies, "You must promise me to be more careful or darkness shall be my companion from that day on."
How could you do anything else but break into tears once more?
They flooded your face too fast for Thranduil to catch them with his hand and he did what seemed more reasonable yet utterly out of character: he rose to push away some of the blankets and sat down on the mattress.
While his face showed some revelation of his thoughts at the meek bed of hay that surprised him, he said nothing except for a lowered: "Hush now, shh." while his arms found your shaking body and pulled you into his side.
He cradled you until there were no more tears to cry, until your cheeks hurt and your lashes clung together awfully damp, and then some more, his hands on your back, cooling down the firing heat that spread through you and the other in your hair. With tenderness, he massaged his fingertips into the areas where your head throbbed uncomfortably.
You cried for all the nights where you had suffered, drawing closer to a death you hadn't seen coming.
You cried out of relief that this was finally over, that you could breathe and inhale only the rich scents of Thranduil instead of smoke.
You sobbed uncontrollably long into the night, not caring one bit that by the time the wailing grew quiet and exhaustion rendered you weak enough to fall into his chest even more, Thranduils robes needed to be padded dry.
"Thranduil?" you asked and burrowed your nose into a spot of fabric that wasn't salty. "Can you tell me what was happening to me?"
He didn't start directly. Thranduil waited, his heart stuttering for a second that made you marvel that the muscle was affected by you at all despite the many proofs he had laid to your feet.
Were it not for the pounding headache you fostered and tried to push away by shutting away all the lights and leaving your eyes closed, you would have looked at his face to check for those minuscule expressions he only showed to you.
"At first I could not figure it out," Thranduil admitted at last and his previously stilled hand continuing the circular movements against your scalp, gathering hair between his fingers, "and that frightened me more than anything else. There was not a scratch or a wound, nothing that explained why you were hardly–" he flinched and his other hand held your waist tighter, "hardly breathing. Bard was the one who explained how much you fought against this illness all winter, ever since autumn to be precise. He spoke of the meals you denied, the coughing and shaking, the blood-soaked cloths, and how.. how you rarely slept and if you did, he told me he heard your whimpers and sobs whenever he passed your door."
"He noticed it all?"
"He loves you," Thranduil said, "He loves you just as much as his offspring."
You shut your eyes even closer, turning your head more into his chest as another layer of protection against the feeling of pain that flinched over your face like a stone skipping on water, leaving ripples of agony at the memory of the many times Bard had pleaded you to talk to him. "I never wanted him to hurt at my expense."
"He is aware you thought it to be better this way," Thranduil lovingly stroked your hair – and it was love, soft and beautiful like the elf who abandoned his kingdom to race to save you – "To go against his word to you declares him a strong man and leader, Dale will flourish under his guide and your gentle hand will provide your people all they will ever need."
"So what was it?" you asked the question eating away at you, "This sickness?"
Thranduil's fingers twirled a lock of hair as he hummed lowly, "The beast in the lake is at fault," he said, "and its body infesting the in any case dirty water that you used to still your thirst."
You lifted your head at that, staring up at Thranduil whose gaze was already on you. "The dragon?" you repeated perplexed, "I got sick because of that damned dragon?"
Thranduil nodded, "I sent out the order to have its carcass removed this instant, so no one else has to suffer this fate."
You drew your eyebrows together, the hard crease between them immediately found by Thranduil for him to smooth the frown away with his thumb and a soft click of his tongue.
"So I was the only one?" The conclusion was confirmed by another nod that sent you down another spiral of confusing thoughts and loose threats of a riddle that made no sense to you.
"A mystery," Thranduil said as if he could read your thoughts, "There is no explanation as to why you solely were affected and quite intense at that. I was glad to have brought Asëa aranion with me – although you required more than a handful until your heart finally calmed."
In a moment of contemplating silence, you barely managed to stifle a yawn.
Now that your body seemed to be fine again, all your muscles yearned for the sleep that had evaded you for the longest time.
Thranduil's pleasantly warm body around you lulled you into a state of calmness, his body heat and the memories of his touch you replaced with the feeling of his strong chest in your back, and his hands threading hair through his fingers.
He was curled up in your bed, in your home, not some tent under the stars though you could see them if you looked up and through the window.
As you did so, your eyes didn't travel further than Thranduil and the watchful look on his face.
"You're as beautiful as the day you left," you remarked in a whisper like a slip of your tongue but you meant every word.
While your body ached and wore new scars his hands and mouth hadn't explored yet, he could've been away for a day or less.
You lifted a hand to stroke over his left cheek, over the faint scarred muscles that you knew by whispers hid what he deemed hideous.
Thranduil caught your hand before it reached his cheekbones and his lips pressed a light kiss against the calluses, the signs of hours of work.
"Rest, meleth nîn, you need it."
There was no denying that the elvish words had meant something important, that was clear by the way his tongue had wrapped around the words and breathed them out like a kiss but his lowered lashes and downturned lips hindered you from asking what he had said.
This was not the time to question what was probably just for him.
Later, when you were not falling into the depths of sleep cuddled against Thranduil's chest, when you would step outside your house with his looming presence in your back ready to help you with every foot you set on the grounds, there would be stories awaiting you.
Stories of the Elvenking storming into the city on horseback and all alone, the wind seemingly carrying him faster than possible and the fury and worry on his face lowered all citizens to the grounds as he yelled for their King.
They would speak about the way he nearly broke down Bard's door and how he carried your unconscious body in his arms to your house, demanding for the crowd to make themselves rare before he had them all seized and locked into his halls for obstructing his path; and even though he had no authority, Bard was close on his heels and no one dared to object.
You would hear about the day he sat by your side, caring for you and barking out orders for more water, not the one from the lake but from the springs, and how Bard and his children were the only ones allowed to visit – explaining the yellow flowers that took up every single glass your house had to offer.
Thranduil would tell you the meaning of the words he had said that first night he had spent in your bed, fully awake and watching your sleeping form in his lap until the birds woke you up in the morning; and he would say these words on all the nights that followed.
With him in Dale, or you in Mirkwood – never apart from then on.
#thranduil x reader#thranduil fanfiction#thranduil x you#thranduil#thranduil oropherion#king thranduil#king of mirkwood#the hobbit x you#the hobbit x reader#the hobbit fanfiction
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Abdudygsdn I was gonna start writing again but then I got scouted by a little game studio that really liked my portfolio but wants me to learn a different engine in like a month so they can hire me as a junior programmer and aaaaaa it’s very exciting but also I want to write again and jhkdasdvd pls someone hook me up with time powers I need at least 40 hours a day to do all the stuff I want
#when will my writing time return from war?#never apparently#on the other hand job opportunity! and an actual in indistry job!! very exciting!!!#just gotta spend a few weeks teaching myself a new engine and a new language… easy right?#hsudhfbdbjd#sorry I’m excited and stressed so rambling#personal ramblings
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read my differently sized gif captions boy
#watch my bertie wooster gifs boy#nobody shouldve introduced me to the do [x] boy meme i love it too much#bertie wooster#jeeves and wooster#gif#dear god the timing on the first two was so shitty i had to redo them#but the internet here is dogshit so it took ages#now the first two are slightly lower quality but idk if you can tell#its hard here in the gifmaking business...#writing these tags while the gifs are loading#been sitting here for minutes#when will my husband (bertie wooster gif) return from the war (be finished uploading to tumblr.com)#YESSS FINALLY#FUCK FUCK FUCK I JUST REALISED THAT BECAUSE THE LAST GIF IS FROM A DIFFERENT EDITING. BATCH IDK THE FONT IS A DIFFERENT SIZE#FUUUCKKK THIS IS SO ANNOYING RN. FUCK FUCK FUCK#but no im not redoing that now#read my differently sized gif captions boy#wait im putting that in the caption idc i can do what i want this is my post.#please show this gifset some love its been through shit its seen things
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last words
empires superpowers au masterlist (currently out of date)
dedicated to everyone who asked what lizzie said that made jimmy stop trying to kill her :)
cw: past abuse, scars, reference violence
~
It’s been bothering Scott for a while, honestly. Several months. And now that he and Jimmy are . . . trying things out, it feels like the perfect time to ask him.
They’re in bed together, and it’s late morning on a day that Scott doesn’t have to work. Jimmy’s still staying at Lizzie’s place for the most part, but date night had gotten a bit . . . steamy, so Jimmy had texted his sister denying the need for a ride home and promising to return the next day. She had responded with a string of scandalized emojis that had made Jimmy blush and turn off his phone.
Jimmy’s been awake longer than Scott has, scrolling through his phone and snorting occasionally at whatever it is he sees. Scott watches him for a moment, eyes tracing across his bare chest and the scars found there.
He’d told Jimmy last night that his body was beautiful, perfect, gorgeous—even his scars. His many, many scars.
Most of the time, he can forget why they’re there. Some of them make that a little more difficult.
Even with the blanket pulled up nearly to his pecs, Scott can see most of the letters. Property of Xornoth, it reads. Somehow, it’s not even the one that makes him the angriest. The one on his back, the one that reads curious little bird, is one that he can hardly stand to look at, and the most confusing one is the small, even surgical scar just behind his ear. He loves Jimmy though, and loving Jimmy means loving all of him.
Impulsively, Scott presses a kiss to Jimmy’s shoulder. His partner starts, surprise quickly giving way to a smile.
“Hey, you, don’t go starting things again,” Jimmy tells him, poking Scott in the chest with his phone. Scott gestures to it, the question that had been nagging at him for so long coming to the front of his mind. He pushes it aside once again.
“When’s Lizzie coming by?”
Jimmy grimaces. “Don’t know. She didn’t much like me ignoring her last night, so she’s decided to ignore me.”
Scott had never had siblings, so he doesn’t know if this is a normal sibling relationship or not. Well, probably not ‘normal’, exactly, what with their past and their powers. But Jimmy doesn’t seem to find her behavior out of the ordinary, so Scott has to assume that it isn’t.
Which still, of course, brings him to his question.
“Can I ask you something? No obligation.”
No obligation is a system that works for now, but certainly has its flaws. They’d set it up on literally the second day of their relationship—if one of them asks a question with that clause, the other doesn’t have to answer if they don’t want to. Of course, Scott’s done his best to impress upon Jimmy that he has no obligation to answer any question, but that’s something they’re working on.
Scott never wants to pressure Jimmy into answering a question just because he forgot to add those two words that meant Jimmy didn’t have to answer. Hopefully, in time, they can progress beyond a need for it.
“Go for it,” Jimmy responds, and Scott can see on his phone that he’s closing the social media account he’d been browsing in favor of opening up his sketchpad app. He draws a couple of smiling turtles while Scott tries to figure out how to word his question.
He ought to have it figured out by now, seeing as he’s imagined asking it countless times. Now that it’s finally time for an answer, though, all proper words seem to have fled his brain.
“So . . . the fight. The big one, at the end of—everything. When you—and Lizzie—” Scott cuts himself off as he feels Jimmy stiffen beside him, finger frozen on the screen. “Sorry, it doesn’t matter,” he amends, reaching for his own phone.
“Wha—no, it’s fine!” Jimmy sits up, sheet slipping down to his waist, revealing the painful-looking ropey scar that curves down his side. He takes one of Scott’s hands in his, smiles with what appears to be a considerable amount of effort.
It feels stupid now, though. Stupid to bring up that day, or that time in general. Still, Jimmy wants to try to answer, so Scott makes himself finish the question.
“What did—well, you were fighting Lizzie, there at the end of the overall fight, just before—um, she said something to you. Can I know what she said?”
Jimmy starts to answer, stops. He doesn’t seem . . . distressed, so to speak, other than the crease in his brow and the tense grip on the sheets he has. He frowns, lips turning in an adorable little pout that Scott is struck by the urge to kiss right off his face. He restrains himself.
“When, exactly?”
He hadn’t wanted to specify. Scott has this terrible feeling that the moment he brings up any particular points of the fight, Jimmy will be thrown into a flashback or panic attack. Still, he asked, and the words on his back make Scott hesitate in spurning any question from him.
No obligation is a system that he needs right now, too.
“Um, well—they had ordered you to—you know—so you attacked Lizzie, and you had her on the ground—” he runs a hand down his face, trying to figure out the kindest way to word it— “Well, you were about to . . . take her out, and then—I was too far away to hear, but I saw her lips move. And you stopped the attack.”
He’s monitoring Jimmy for any signs that he should stop, but so far the man is relatively calm, nodding along with the story. He’s still frowning, though.
“I was told to kill Lizzie,” Jimmy says, and Scott flinches. Jimmy doesn’t seem to notice, because he continues his train of thought. “And then when I had her on the ground, and I went to hit her again, she . . . said something? And I stopped?”
“Yeah,” Scott tells him. “Yeah, she said something, and you, like—froze, almost, then jumped off her. And that’s when—you know. The next part happened.”
Jimmy doesn’t answer. Instead, he absently draws something on his phone, eyes lost in a distant gaze. Finally, his face clears and he nods.
“Right, right,” he says, adding a dot to his drawing. His face turns rueful when he looks up to meet Scott’s eyes. “I think I remember. She, uh . . . she didn’t say anything.”
That can’t be right. Scott saw it, he saw her speak. He opens his mouth to continue arguing his point, but apparently something in his face tips Jimmy off and he pats Scott’s arm gently.
“Maybe she did say something, but I didn’t notice. I wasn’t looking at her. It hurt too much to look at her. All—all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears. . . .” Jimmy shudders, taps his phone a couple of times.
Scott really should stop pressing. He really should apologize and do something to help Jimmy feel safe. He really should get up, fix them both something to eat, and move on.
But he’s always needed to be right. One of these days, that arrogance is going to kill him.
“What made you stop, then?”
Jimmy squints his eyes shut, takes a deep breath. Scott starts to say something—an apology or retraction, he’s not sure—but Jimmy speaks before he can.
“I was killing her,” he says, voice utterly devoid of emotion. “And I knew I would do it. And I knew they would keep telling me to kill. For the rest of my life, I would just be a weapon. Killing the people I care about.”
He opens his eyes and stares out into the middle distance, expression unreadable. Scott doesn’t move.
“You were defeated, and I was about to kill my sister, and something broke inside. And finally, I decided that—that I’d rather die trying to stop them than kill so many people. They—they were going to make me kill so many . . . I killed for them without a thought and soon there would be no more thoughts to have . . . I had—I—”
A tear slips down Jimmy’s cheek, and Scott holds out a hand. Jimmy takes it instantly, collapses onto Scott in a hug.
“I’m sorry,” Scott murmurs into his neck, holding Jimmy as tightly as he dares. “I shouldn’t have pressed. I’m sorry.”
“Feelin’ floaty,” Jimmy mumbles, adjusting so that his hands curl around Scott’s shoulders.
“That’s okay. What do you need?”
Jimmy shrugs.
“Okay. Do you want to shower?”
The apprehension that ripples through Jimmy’s body is palpable, and he seems to shrink against Scott, nails digging into Scott’s shoulders. “No, n-no—”
Scott swallows, tears of his own building at the fear in Jimmy’s voice. “We won’t, then. Um—your journal is at Lizzie’s, but if you want to keep drawing on your phone—”
“Lizzie’s okay,” Jimmy mutters to himself, his grip loosening. “Lizzie’s okay and Scott’s okay and I’m okay.” He breathes deeply, clearly still upset, but beginning to recover.
There’s an almost imperceptible buzz through the air, and Scott braces himself—Jimmy gasps—the lightbulb in Scott’s bedside lamp pops out, bounces off the table and lands on the carpet with a soft thump.
“Mm, good job,” Scott praises, planting a kiss on Jimmy’s cheek. “Nothing’s broken, it’s all okay!”
For once, Jimmy seems to believe him, lifting his head to reveal a hopeful smile. “Yeah?”
“Of course,” Scott reassures him. “It was a good way to redirect your anxiety without hurting yourself. Remember that you feeling safe is a higher priority than any accident that occurs.”
Jimmy sighs, and Scott continues. “I’m sorry for pressing. I should’ve stopped when I noticed you were distressed.”
“No, I wanted to talk about it,” Jimmy says, picking up his phone from where he’d dropped it, hands still trembling. His smile turns sly. “Had to prove you wrong.”
“Oh, that’s—now I’m going to ask Lizzie about it, I know I’m right—”
Jimmy’s laugh isn’t quite right, and the tension in his jaw belies any attempts at acting calm, but he’s okay. And really, that’s all that matters.
Scott does ask Lizzie, later, when Jimmy isn’t around. She fixes him with the same blank stare that Jimmy had, confused until he goes into further detail. When she finally understands, she laughs, claps him on the back.
“Right. I don’t really remember saying anything, but maybe you saw me . . . I don’t know, moving my mouth for no reason? Spitting out blood? I was pretty out of it, Scott, but I didn’t say a word.”
#empires smp#empires smp fanfic#jimmy solidarity#scott smajor#flower husbands#empires superpowers au#esh au#mas writes#this has always been true by the way#it's not something i retconned in my own fic#i intended this to be the answer to that question the whole time :)#080823#anyway. you've been fed for the month#if you're reading this i haven't returned to tumblr yet#when will /i/ be back from the war...#anyways lmk what you think#love you guys
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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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IM SO TIREEEED
#spent all night thinking abt gay shit#i’m like 3000+ words deep into an actual lil story i’m writing w lux n tana#it’s crazy because i’ve like NEVER written actual longer stories w dialogue n shit#i’m so excited to get to drop this on anethia when he returns from the war….#i know he loves my writing and this time i’ve got like. SO MUCH
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Vague temptation to write a new Reader/Donna Beneviento series where they have an arranged marriage (MM’s idea to make the Lords seem more ‘approachable’) and they really don’t like each other at all in the beginning 🤔
Also kick my ass to write the BelaDonna soulmate au sometime this century.
#resident evil#grad school is in less than a month this is a terrible time to start new fics#also when will i return from the war to work on my gamedev projects#beladonna fic would come first because i have it all planned out already#but i had so much fun writing the lady’s laundry I’d love to write another series
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Since u've already had the topic a few times abt the way the framing in totk is. Here's another one: It feels moreso than in botw, like everyone is acting AT Link, instead of INTERACTING with him. It's like Link is there, but he barely is ever really acknowledged. Even when others talk to him, they just talk AT him.
It worked more in botw maybe bc the entire game was built around Link being "new" in the world. But in totk you're meeting Link's "friends" and it just feels sterile, and like Link doesn't matter.
I think one of the issues of TotK's storytelling in general is that it often gets really busy explaining contrived lore that never really deepens the world or the characters and their relationship, and that a lot of cutscenes (in the main quest, I think sidequests are infinitely better at this and makes the world feels more lived-in) are focused on re-explaining the status quo, restating things that just happened or making strange connections between unrelated events to tell the player it's time to go from point X to point Y (thinking of the Zora questline, which got a looot of those).
So I agree that it ends up being a looot of telling, without a whole lot of showing, and even less playing (= here I mean playing as in, doing gameplay actions that are meaningful to the story, character development or themes). And Link do end up taking the blunt of it.
(the widespread use of his little "explaining" animation was kind of a huge indicator to me that maybe this game is a little too focused on re-explaining things that just happened and aren't that complicated or interesting for its own good, while also not following up on the new developments re: Fake Zelda and Dragon Zelda in a organic and revelatory way, among other things)
#asks#thoughts#totk#totk critical#link#writing#see it's hard to go at games neutral as a game writer/narrative designer#because when you start to notice patterns you Can't Unsee#it's kind of a curse honestly ;_;#(unless the game is well managed and then you marvel at everything all the time and it's wonderful)#I am Unbearable to my entourage which is partially why I don't consume media around people usually :((#sorry for being Like This#when will my brain return from the imprisoning war...
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Okay so I may have gone overboard………
But also I love these guys and cannot be stopped!! Theres a lot going on, so close-ups and transcripts under the cut :]
You know the drill by now, reblogs help me likes do not, and I’ll love you forever if you put tags on the rb <3
Drew most of these while watching the Oni trilogy, and a bit during s11/s12 if that means anything. Three notes about the piece before we get to the transcript/description:
1. I recently encountered the Lloyd-with-prosthetic-arm headcanon and had to draw it!
2. The way Kai is animated in the oni trilogy makes it look like he’s chewing the inside of his cheek whenever he’s thinking. Which is beyond charming, hence, the guy!
3. I think I need to say that none of this is intended to be ship art, however I have no qualms with you if you wish to interpret it that way!
Okay so, now that that’s out of the way, Transcript for my writing below:
Image 1, top left corner, is a note in blue that just says “note to self: use blue for water, not gray <3”. There is also a note to the top right corner of the image that has a cartoon figure saying “woag!” And the exclamation “ZAP!” By a lightning bolt.
Image 2, top right corner, has a memo in black and highlighted in orange, that says “*windows startup noise*” with an arrow pointing to a doodle of Kai. There is also a few colored pencil swatches with names below that same doodle.
Image 3, bottom left corner, has no text except for color names next to colored pencil swatches.
Image 4, bottom right corner, has a text bubble in red, pointing to a doodle of Cole who is holding a mug with difficult-to-read text. The bubble conveys that “His mug says ‘don’t talk to me until I’ve eaten this entire mug’”. There is also a doodle of Lloyd to the right, who looks sheepish and is saying (in light green) “thanks for the upgrade!” The response, in teal which indicates it is Nya speaking, comes in two speech bubbles. The top says “no problem!” The bottom says “just, please, stop wrecking them…”
#I’m so scared tumblrs not gonna post this and imma have wasted all this time formatting and writing this#anyways I’ll work on the expressions asks tmrw#cause it’s like 9pm and I have to get up early tomorrow and have soo much to do still#frick#actual tags:#remy rambles#remy doodles#art#my art#ninjago#Lego ninjago#ninjago fanart#ohmygod I forgot to mention that I found my own art while going through that tag it was so weird#jay walker#nya jiang#Nya smith#Kai Jiang#Kai smith#cole brookstone#when will my typos return from the war…. why does cole autocorrect to come#I meant coke#anyways#Zane julien#lloyd garmadon#jay ninjago#Nya ninjago#kai ninjago#cole ninjago#zane ninjago#lloyd ninjago
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Things I need to write
- full blown game romance for Raphael
- part 3 of Raphael being horny and mad at Tav
- part 2 of Raphael and the belly button shot
- rewrite of the haarlep sex scene where they are actually good at sex
- Raphael in the bath with his hair getting all curly
- Ascended Astarion vs Raphael: who is Tav's daddy?
- Tav loses HOH battle and is forced to take Hope's place
#when will my ability to write return from war?#so many ideas and so little time#my writing#and this doesn't include any ghost stuff o still have to finish
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hot take/call out of all youse: "slightly chapped lips" is the "tongues battling for dominance" of the 2020's
>.> look I won't turn this into a ted talk but here's a hot writing tip I paid $150k for: be intentional. Ask yourself: what purpose is this line/description/word/phrase serving? If the answer is solely something like "random filler" or "fanfic prose conventions" (includes carding one's fingers through someone's hair, toeing off one's shoes, tongues battling for dominance, canting one's hips) CHUCK IT IN THE BIN. IF you have a good reason for using any of that, by all means, go for it. But have a reason. (I see you, contrarians, "well what if I don't wanna have a reason!? What if I just wanna put it in there because you told me not to? Well. Babe. That's still a reason)
Unless you are going into further detail about the feeling of one character's lips or it has narrative/character building utility (i.e. they were just hypothermic or they've been dehydrated for some reason or they are kind of a mess with questionable hygiene) leave it out. You don't need it. You really just don't. It draws too much attention to the idea that the kiss is in some way uncomfortable and I don't get the sense that most of you are trying to convey anything other than These Characters Are Men And Men Do Not Have Nice Skin And Have Never Heard of Chapstick.
Not to harp on that one too much, but just... use your brain. Consider what details you're using and why. And don't rely on fanfic prose norms because a lot of them are stupid.
Oops I turned it into a ted talk. I'm being a bit snarky here, but I'm genuinely serious about this tip... and about paying $150k for it P: please let me use my useless degree somewhere in my life
#P: never mind that my lips are often slightly chapped#but I'm not in danger of kissing anyone any time soon#unfortunately... P:#but I've also known many cishet dudes who use plenty of chapstick or carmex or petroleum jelly... one went through Burt's bees like crazy#TO SAY NOTHING OF GAY CIS MEN#tongues always battling... when will the tongues return from the war?????#philosophy tube wants to 'give away' her philosophy degree#I'ma give away my creative writing one#it's the slightly that gets me honestly....... why? if they're slightly chapped you can just leave it out... or lean into it all the way
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Yes I am working but mentally I am scooping Fealdwulf up and planting a big kiss on the top of his head
#like you do w a cat or a small dog#do not think abt him being a 6'3-4" man#he is my little puppy dog and i will kiss him between his ears while he pretends to hate it#but his tail wags the whole time and he screams if put down#dem speaks#when will my writing time return from war 😔
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i started reading Firebreak by Nicole Kornher-Stace and i am kind of annoyed at how predictably i got hooked into it
#what can i say i'm a simple guy... i see evil megacorporation and conspiracy theory i go feral#chay's shenanigans#it's also making me wanna work on several of my wips at once but my will to actually write still hasn't returned from the war 🙃#and who has time to write when i have a gazillion christmas gifts to crochet
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demonfowl
🦚Bastich🦚
giliath
like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid
radiohostsoot
benji ¡!