#I LOVE YOU SOLOMON…..

[ryuubff]

you ever think about how much strain is prolly on the mc … although you think you’re somewhere familiar, with people whom you know and love. they don’t actually know you like You know them … and you only have one person who you truly do know and trust.

extra mimir sleeping peacefully:

i got brainworms of hc that perhaps mc getting terrorizes by nightmares and going to solomon about it sicne theyre prolly. A. Little fucked up from whats been going on esp when it happened outta nowhere 😭😭😭😭😭 like the new card got me thinking abt how maybe solomon has comforted them before….. SORRY SOLOMON ALSO GOT ME FUCKED UP!!!!

[nevvn]

pov: when mc 😳

[wheretheresawyll]

What's happening with Theo Solomon is so, so frustrating and needless and disgusting (more info can be found at this post), and I also want to acknowledge the treatment of Wyll's original voice/mo-cap actor, Lanre Malaolu.

Malaolu gave an excellent performance! His delivery and the way he incorporated mannerisms and posture into Wyll's physicality was amazing. The original characterization of Wyll was written very well and matched the general tone of the wider party/narrative.

And to suddenly have Larian, years into the project, rewrite the character entirely and then re-cast it? To have other actors talk about how Wyll just 'wasn't working' as a character? All because of fan criticism that places ridiculous (and often contradictory) standards and expectations on black characters. Even if the re-cast resulted from scheduling conflicts (as Malaolu couldn't come in to re-record), we lost Malaolu's entire performance because of a rewrite that was simply not necessary.

And after disregarding Malaolu's years of work into this character, the same criticisms that Larian caved into are thrown at Wyll's rewrite, and the same disregard is being seen with Theo Solomon again and again. As someone who started playing early access when it first came out, fans' treatment of Wyll and his actors hasn't gotten better. It's actively gotten worse.

[noecoded]

everyone thought i was too woke when i posted abt how i think sometimes the way people will refer to asmo as a GBF or see him as a "rival" is rooted in homophobia because he literally is obsessed with mc no matter what gender u are. he wants you so bad. he wants you so bad it makes him sick and crazy because hes not used to feeling this way about anyone . crazy that people feel like hes less of a romantic interest just because hes gender nonconforming & also talks abt being attracted to both men and women.. ???

[dear-tortured-adam]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 (𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮)

eden here had some major solomon brainrot out of nowhere. title credits to my homie @/ilsefieldtrip

You wished you could've predicted everything.

The little splatter of droplets against the cement synced perfectly with the sound of your shoes splashing across tiny puddles. Your grip on Solomon's turtleneck tightened, ducking your head beneath his cape.

The sorcerer must've felt your nails digging into the black fabric, as his eyes looked down towards you. "Shhh, we'll be fine," he whispered, pulling you closer towards his chest. "Almost there."

The rain continued on, each drop stinging like tiny needles against your skin. Breath hitching; the cold biting wind whipped around as you both ran. The world blurred into a smear of gray and shadow, only there were sounds the pounding of your hearts against the deafening 'splash' of downpour.

He kept a firm grip on your hand, searching for any sign of shade. Cover. Shelter. Anything to secure the both of you. The road beneath you was slick with mud and water, threatening to betray your footing with every step. Solomon wouldn’t let that happen — not now.

How long had it been? It felt like forever. Finding a place for refuge was difficult enough, yet to do it under the harsh Devildom conditions? Only a miracle would grant you leverage to not get sick.

But moments are unpredictable, much like the weather.

Just minutes ago you both were taking a leisurely stroll out in the city square. Then, you were looking through windows as one or the other shared their latest rants or what-ifs. Even the weather wanted to gossip, yet the couldn't hold their excitement any longer.

You felt his breath hitch. Only ever getting a glimpse of the cherry red aluminum roof, but in fleeting seconds you were both in safety. While a waiting shed is not the most optimal place, it was better than nothing. You carefully peeked out of his cloak, feeling his hands wrap the fabric around your body.

Solomon was shivering. The only reassurance was a small, weak smile. "I told you," he said with a tiny smirk.

Yet that didn't attempt to hide how breathless he felt. The white-haired man pants, hands on his knees, before collapsing down on one of the red chairs. Utterly Drenched.

You felt bad, but you also couldn't ignore the gush of wind pressing against your skin. Although, it doesn't take a genius to look at yourself. Your clothes, while crinkled and shriveled up from the constant running, were still dry. In fact, you never felt more than an ounce of water touch anywhere near you: skin, fabric, hair, accessories. . .

Until then. His clothes clung to his body, his hair and skin dripping wet as droplets sink towards the white tiles. Small shaky breathes escape his lips; a moment to pause. His shoes were stained by the mud, and you could see the drops form small puddles beneath his chair.

He did, didn't he?

You frowned, sitting beside him as you drape his cloak over his shoulders. He was baffled, grey eyes widened at your action. "What are you doing? Hey, you should put it back," he said.

But as soon as Solomon tried to wrap the cloth around you, you gripped his wrist. "You need it more."

He wanted to protest, but he knew how stubborn you got. That pout on your face signifies that you aren't backing down. Solomon sighs, before giving a small chuckle. "Alright, if that's what you want."

You smiled in victory as you sat together. Beneath a shared roof, gazing back at the rain. The subtle smell of dew filled the air, as the clattering down of water against metal filled the otherwise silence. Once was a foe to your walking journey had turned into an almost endearing sight. While annoying in the past, you felt calmer.

With a deep breath, you rest you head against Solomon's shoulder. The wizard shifts his position, humming along with a hand on your arm.

"When will this end?" you asked, looking up at him with those eyes he'll forever get lost in.

He shook his head, looking back at the rain. "I don't know."

You only huffed in response. Rain never went away, a melodrama of emotions. The intensity, direction, sounds: all would think that rain was a frightening sight. But at the end of it all, even if it coated the both of you a near trip to illness — you couldn't deny how. . .

You asked again, your fingers intertwining with his. "Can we stay like this?" you said, eyes still on the rain.

You may not know what Solomon was doing, yet the faint kiss he gave your knuckles sent a serene wave of comfort throughout your system. He cooed, his free hand gently caressing your cheek.

"Of course."

Perhaps there was something beautiful with the unknown.

written by dear-tortured-adam | dividers by cafekitsune

[three-realms-archive]

Just a Study

Content Warning: Spoilers for Lesson 40 of Nightbringer! Everything above the cut is spoiler-free!

The wise sorcerer watches his dear apprentice sleep peacefully, unaware of their close friend and mentor doing what he does best. Studying.

His eyes analyse the rise and fall of their chest, tracing his gaze over and across the parabolas that make up the shape of their sleeping form. The small chuckles that escape him when you snore and snort are sounds that you will never get to hear. The soft, unprecedented flushes of crimson across his cheeks when you nuzzle your forehead deeper into the crook of his neck is a sight you will never get to see. Yet your sounds, sights and touch… Solomon knows all of it. He knows the mean, median and mode of the number of hours you sleep at night; and he spends the midnight hours flipping through tomes dedicated to understanding love. To Solomon, this was all a study, really.

A study on how it would have been, if he had taken the time to know his fellow, human classmate from the get-go. How it would have been if he had taken you under his wing sooner - if he had won the race for your heart against the Seven Avatars of Sin. The data was there, in the form of the pact marks etched into your skin - placed there like perfect puzzle pieces. And no matter how much his brain wanted to process that data differently, the results and conclusion would remain unchanged.

To conduct a study, one must try to match the conditions of the experiment to the assumptions of the theory. Solomon knew this, and so he had strived to make Coctyus Hall your new House of Lamentation. He had lived with you - had eaten with you - had even slept beside you. He knew that you (more often that he liked) had shared a bed with each of the brothers before - so he had done that, too. He had taken your trip to the past as an opportunity to replicate the theory with ease, piecing together a domestic life with you that felt like bliss.

The perfect study.

It was meant to be the perfect study. For him and you.

So why?

Why did it hurt so bad, returning to the original timeline; and seeing how… easily, you fell back into your own life?

Why did it hurt, seeing you live, eat and sometimes even sleep alongside the brothers again?

Why did it hurt, sleeping beside you in your old room, when he had already shared a bed with you many times now? It hurt being with you, in this bed made for one, the pillows and blankets and your shifting form taking up room and pushing him out. Telling him that he didn’t belong next to you.

… The wise sorcerer watches his dear apprentice sleep; studying. He presses his lips gently to your temple and savours the familiar warmth that greets him, fondly. He selfishly, childishly, hooks an arm and a leg around you; entangling himself in you as you had done many times before with him. He easily finds your hand through touch alone under a blanket colder than the one you used to share; struggling to intertwine his fingers with yours properly. But he grips your hand like a lifeline when he manages to. He’s got the lines of your palm and the creases of the skin of your wrists memorised. With a small, shaky breath, Solomon uses his thumb to trace over them again, and again, and again. Studying.

It was just a study, right? A ‘what if’.

Just a study, with a simple title.

What if, for a while, he pretended you loved him?

A study compares the theoretical with the experimental. Compares the ideal with harsh, painful, hurtful reality.

You belonged with the brothers. They were your ideal.

… And his brief, domestic, blissful experiment with you was now over.

(i had started writing this before seeing that angest was ruling the poll, lol. but yayyyyyy i wanna start writing angst and romance with the characters i haven’t touched on yet, so have an angst solomon, set after lesson 40 of nightbringer)

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

Solomon who secretly enchants the ring he proposes to you with so that you mysteriously feel more clingy to him. Suddenly, you monopolize his time, you desperately yearn for his presence, and most importantly, you always choose him.

Ironically, he’s come to call this enchantment “Solomon’s Curse,” as the obsessive feelings that compel you simply mirror his own.

To love the way he does is both a blessing and a curse. A taste of both realms, above and below, that makes him crave your humanity and betray his own. And now…you, too, are subjected to the same fate.

[devildomwriter]

Yes…shove is definitely the word I’m thinking of, not choke or anything like that. That’d be silly haha…ha

[iwishiwasplayinglegorightnow]

this needs no caption

[s0fter-sin]

ghost stares at the ceiling, chest heaving in a harsh pant; sweat ice on his clammy flesh and soaked into the sheet he restlessly kicks away.

ears still ringing, his fingertips blindly drift down to trail along his vivisection scar. he half-expects blood to smear in their wake. his own line of solomon, who ordered him split in twain; half of him given to a grieving mother and half left with the grieving to be.

just for both his broken halves to be rejected.

what did it make him that his mother grieved him more than she loved him? that she begged to be relieved of him more adamantly than she begged to receive him? why did his worth spill out with his drawn blood? why was his pain lesser than hers?

his hand flexes, digging into the raised scar like it’ll part beneath his fingertips to plunge into his mangled insides. no one knows the cruelty of reforming the halved; his name, his being, not nearly as important as his body when he was stripped from himself. no one knows the pain of healing and understanding losing pieces of yourself means losing your value along with them.

how many more pieces did he have to lose before he was halved once more? before his very presence incurred grief so strong it was better to be rid of him than cradle his bloodied remains?

did the infant fight himself? did he age always at odds with himself; his halves never truly whole? he hopes he wasn’t, that he was spared the loss of self; the fear that one may be welcomed over the other.

who will he lose when the inevitable comes? when he’s ripped apart again? simon? or ghost? is it better to be cursed with choice just like his mother or live with an aftermath chosen for him? does it matter if in the end, he convinces himself there was nothing of him left to lose?

his head lolls to the side and the wild buck of his chest slows. he watches johnny beside him, his face lax with the rare peace of sleep; his cheek squished against the pillow, his lips pursed as long breaths escape him.

johnny. soap. never torn asunder but two all the same.

he carefully reaches out and ghosts his fingers along the jagged scar on his chin. even in sleep, he presses into his bloodied touch. he’s never fled his half-flesh, never shies away from his gore as it spills unbidden from his cleaved torso. he holds on where his mother let him go; cups his stomach to hold his insides in place and never minds the blood that drips through his fingers.

simon will never let him become his own solomon and cannibalise himself. he will never let him question which half of him has more value; which pieces he can afford to lose before he’s cast aside.

ghost’s soap. simon’s johnny. his.

whole, in any incarnation.

[erythriina]

Crozier: Stage manager. Runs an extremely tight ship; rehearsals start and end on time, and woe betide you if you show up late. Suffers no fools, especially when it comes to safety. Fell in love with theatre as a young kid, but became jaded after years of running into educational, financial, ‘who do you know’ barriers and dealing with the kind of bigots and assholes you only get in this industry.

Fitzjames: Originally Franklin’s AD, but is officially promoted to director when Franklin has to step down for health reasons. Used to be an actor—and a pretty good one!—but moved to directing because it seemed more prestigious and respectable. In the end, he wouldn’t choose to go back, but he will twist your ear with stories of his time trodding the boards. Studied on scholarship, does everything possible to keep this a secret.

( I went back on forth on switching these two roles, with Crozier as director and Fitzjames as SM, because in canon Crozier technically outranks JFJ. In the end though I think this is more fitting, since JFJ and Franklin may have big ideas, but Crozier is the one with his head firmly in the reality of the situation; as the SM and as Franklin’s canon second, his job (whether he gets to do it or not) is to reign him in, to make sure what he wants to happen is both feasible and safe. )

Blanky: Production manager. His job is to get the things necessary for JFJ and Crozier to do their jobs. He and Crozier have worked together for years and are a tight unit.

Little: Originally the technical director, (essentially the head of the scenic department: lights, sound, set, costumes, props). Becomes official AD when JFJ becomes official director. Briefly enjoys a stint as acting stage manager in Crozier’s stead, and by ‘enjoys’ I mean he hated every moment of it.

Jopson: Wardrobe head. Woe unto anyone who eats in costume. He and Crozier have worked together before—they come as a pair—so he becomes the unofficial liaison bw Crozier and the rest of the prod team (it’s a “dad likes you best” sort of situation). Crozier eventually asks him to become acting ASM (they didn’t have one before; Franklin didn’t think it was necessary). Did some acting as a kid/teen, but prefers production; if you hound him enough when he’s in a good mood, he will, after a long sigh, perform the most perfect triple time step you’ve ever seen.

Hodgson: Dramaturg and I won’t elaborate. Is also the fight captain when it’s called for, and is extremely good at it; he’s great at teaching one-on-one and encouraging the actors while still prioritizing safety, and his flair for the dramatic lends itself incredibly well to choreographing fights. He does, however, tend to lose it and make poor decisions when given any more solo responsibility than that.

Irving: Scenographer, in charge of the overall design of the production. Stressed out 24/7. Keeps absolutely pristine and lovingly detailed piece lists, is very good with the maths for measurements. Seems too uptight for such a creative job, but in actuality is very creative, just also very shy.

Tozer: Master carpenter. He didn’t start as master carp, but his superiors kept leaving and now he has more responsibility than he expected. Outwardly seems like he doesn’t give much of a fuck, but takes pride in his work. Main operator of the power tools; will box your ears if he catches you using them without proper PPE.

Hickey: Just kind of hangs around the scene shop most of the time. Presumably he’s in charge of gluing various bits of wood together, or something. Irving once caught him hooking up with his boyfriend behind the wall of old plywood backgrounds. Later, when Irving has an ‘accident’ one night whilst working late alone in the shop, Hickey is somehow the first on the scene…

Peglar: Master electrician, head of lights and sound. Doesn’t get to do it often, but adores operating the theater’s single spotlight (getting to it involves some climbing that OSHA would not approve of). Can untangle a mass of wires faster than anyone else and knows what each and every one of them goes to. Closest he ever got to performance was dipping his toe into standup comedy (iykyk. sorry honey you fit the type)

Silna: Perennial unwilling house manager, because her family owns the place and her dad always makes her. Basically in charge of the space as a whole. Not a huge fan of her job, but finds some amusement/comfort in getting to sit in the shadows and watch the prod team bicker and make fools of themselves, bc it makes her feel competent in comparison.

[blithesharem]

Having thoughts about how much I just love Solomon’s character, especially with how Nightbringer has developed him.

He’s a nigh immortal being with hundreds of years of loves and losses and loneliness and he fills that that gaping emptiness with an untiring pursuit of knowledge and power. He’s ambitious, needing to be the best sorcerer with the most demon pacts not for the sake of power itself but to champion humanity as a whole. And he seems to have succeeded – I personally wonder if part of the reason Lucifer dislikes him so much is because Solomon is one of the few beings that can actually pose Lucifer a serious threat.

He’s been moving through decades playing with the people around him and resisting attachments until suddenly and inexplicably one single ordinary human screeches everything to the most interesting halt. At first we’re just another toy for him, an new variable that brings some novelty to the monotony of time that immortality can bring.

But as time goes on he finds himself getting more and more attached, no matter how many times he tries to keep his heart in check, knowing exactly how this ends, how it always ends.

Then Nightbringer, where we’re ripped from our home, our family, maybe our loves, and dropped into a mirror world with hostile friends and no bonds to rely on. And he says, “Well, that simply won’t do”, and drops everything to ensure that we have at least one person we can always release our mask around and be ourselves with.

And even then he expects so little, couching his brief weak flirtations with laughs and ‘Just kidding’s’, as if to convince himself as well as us that it’s just a joke, this ache in his heart, this burning desire to claim us over the demon brothers, to be the one we favor even as we are completely consumed with trying to set the boys back on the right track. When we don’t come home because we’re stuck late with them, he goes drinking alone and gets lost in memories of the other losses he’s suffered, thinking if maybe he relives the hurt enough it will finally drive home that we can never truly be his.

But as soon as he sees us the next morning, sleepily rubbing our eyes over coffee we’re pouring for him, he topples hopelessly, madly back into love. And he thinks guiltily, self loathingly, that maybe us getting lost in time was the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

[graveyard---dolly]

Welcome to the Peaky Blinders fandom (EDITED)

[rustytrident]

seeing all these mixed opinions ab nightbringer and here i am giggling and kicking my feet cause we get to rizz up the demons all over again

[nocreativityfornames]

Solomon + Devildom lore ( An Ancient War )

This sorcerer is confirmed to be Solomon by Barbatos at the end of the Devilgram.

[angelkissedface]

considered a nice au where solomon uses his life candle to share immortality with felix out of fear he'll lose them, defying felix's own wishes. tragedy ensues ✧･ﾟ*