#whenever i think about the fact that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

charliesvarietyhour · 6 months

Text

Fallout 4 Companions and Cursing.

This came to me in a dream.

Questions answered: Do they curse? If so, how and when? Do they care about folks cursing around them? How would they react to getting cursed at? How would they react to getting cursed at by someone they care about? How would they react to someone cursing at their friends? If they do curse, what do they think about folks who are sensitive to cursing? When applicable, what are their favorite swears?

disclaimer: the headcanons that follow are simply that. headcanons. they might not be yours but they are mine. if, at any point, you find yourself becoming upset at how strongly you disagree with said headcanons, you have my full and enthusiastic permission to click out of this post and carry on with your merry way. okay. love you, have fun <3

cw: swears and generally crass language. spoilers for companion story arcs. quality not guaranteed.

Ada. Does Not Curse. Because they have not been programmed to. She does not mind cursing. Again, because she has not been programed to care. If you curse at them or their friends, she'll probably make a dispassionate comment. Something along the lines of, "According to your language, you are experiencing significant emotional distress. I recommend having an honest discussion about the source of this distress with a trusted companion, or walking away." Devastating. There is no comeback for that. As always, Ada remains The Most Chill companion, second only to Dogmeat.

Cait. Does Curse. Curses all the time. Especially when she's feeling unsafe or insecure. Even so, she is explicit and has no problem with it. Nothing is off the table for her. Of course, if someone is cursing at her and it's obvious they mean it. Well. She won't have anything to say because she's already swinging. Much more inclined to fight if you're cursing at her friends. If y'all are close and you curse her out, the severity of the swears used will determine the punishment. It ranges from a yelling match to getting your ass handed to you. As a fellow reactive person who processes her emotions outwardly, she Gets It. She would forgive you afterward, if you apologize sufficiently. (And honestly, she probably has things to apologize for, too. Unless you were being a real piece of work.) If you keep being an asshole, she'll beat you within an inch of your life and tell you fuck off forever. But literally why would you? Cait rules. Big believer in friends affectionately calling each other names, but do not try this unless y'all are close. Your funeral, if you do. She won't comment on it if you have a problem with swears, but will think you're weird. A healthy Cait will even do her best to stop cursing around you if it makes you uncomfortable. She stops cursing so much when she gets clean, anyway. I mean, she still does it, but she no longer feels like she has to constantly defend herself and gets better at articulating her feelings in a healthy way, so it just naturally peters out. Favorite swears: cunt and fuck.

Codsworth. Does Not Curse and gets very offended if you do curse around him. He is a family friendly robot, thank you very much. Comments on it every single time. "Mum, that is not a nice word." Just don't do it around him, it'll save you a headache. Uses euphemisms if he's feeling particularly strongly. The degree to which he will tolerate cursing at him varies on how close you two are, with his tolerance being less when y'all are closer. He's a robot built to be a butler. He's literally programmed to take abuse from strangers. If y'all are closer he has no qualms about letting you know how he feels about it, and he will refuse to speak to you if you take it too far. He'd likely allow you to apologize and repair the relationship, but only after a long silent treatment and lots of passive aggressive huffing. Out of all the companions, he's the most conservative about cursing.

Curie. Does Not Curse... in English. Curses frequently in French. Would/Will curse in English when taught, but honestly French curses just sound better. And, if you have an issue with cursing, she can still do it without making you uncomfortable. And she can curse you out covertly if she feels inclined to. If she transitions into a synth body, she actually curses more. Because she has Human Emotions now, and discovers the joy of calling someone an "asshole" when they're being, well, an asshole. Master at calling you the most horrendous names while sounding like she is engaging in pleasant conversation. (I mean, she was stuck in a room with a bunch of weirdo scientists who manic-pixie-dream-girl'd her. She had to be.) How she feels about different words depends on the context. Swearing in general—like after you stub your toe—doesn't bother her. She will lightly scold you if you are swearing unnecessarily in polite company. In this she's a bit of a hypocrite, because she also swears in polite company. She just does it in French so she doesn't get caught. If you're cursing at her or her friends, she cares very much and finds you to be uncouth. And she will tell you as much. If someone close to her curses at her, she will progressively get more frustrated the more it goes on. She starts off by genuinely asking after your emotional well-being. (If this solves the problem and you two work it out, she does expect you to apologize. Otherwise, she will get mad and she will let you know about it.) If you keep on and you're just being an asshole, she'll also yell and curse at you, and eventually kick you out. She'll still treat you and speak to you professionally, but she absolutely would not forgive you. This lady holds a grudge. Favorite words: merde and con/conne.

Danse. Does Not Curse. Listen. I get that this man is a soldier. I get that he spent some portion of his life as a junker in the Capital Wastelands. I get it. And still, he has a Complex about cursing. He blushes if he even thinks about saying fuck. Would rather vomit than call someone a bitch. (Also, he respects women and would never.) If he's feeling spicy, he'll say "damn" or "hell." And it gives him a little thrill every single time. Doesn't mind when other people curse around him. He is a soldier and spends a lot of time around folks who have... fewer apprehensions when it comes to colorful language. He just can't bring himself to do it and would rather find other ways to express himself. And honestly? It's always way more scathing than if he called you a name. He also doesn't care much if someone is cursing at him. Mostly because he's a Paladin and has more important things to care about than what some disgruntled Knight or civilian thinks about him. If it's someone under his station, he will go through the appropriate channels and either reprimand or report them for insubordination. And, if it's someone above his station, he will take the abuse like a Good Soldier and do his best to correct the behavior which led to his dressing-down. (He's a little more insecure post-Blind Betrayal, but only about insults pertaining to him being a synth. If someone called him an asshole, he'd probably just scoff at them and walk away. Unbothered king.) That being said, if someone he cares about cursed him out and meant it, he would think about it for days. Months, even. Don't curse at him. Both pre- and post-Blind Betrayal, he Can Not Handle It. If an argument gets nasty and y'all are post-Blind Betrayal, he probably shuts down and goes somewhere to process privately before y'all can come together and work it out. Either way, he's internalizing what you say. Is liable to put up with lots of abuse before calling it quits with someone. (But literally why would you, you monster.) Cursing at other people—especially people he cares about, but this man is committed to treating everyone everywhere equally all the time—is a sure-fire way to get yourself scolded.

Deacon. Does Curse... conditionally. Some disguises require him to be less crass with his language; others, more. Deacon Prime does curse in conversation, but he's, like, chill about it, you know? He's not swearing every other word, but he'll throw a "bitch" or a "damn" into the ring every now and again. Sometimes, when he's bored, he'll try to make up a new curse word and see if he can't get you to laugh. Or Carrington to tell him off. (Bonus points of he gets him to say "fuck off, Deacon.") Very chill about you cursing around him. Unless you are supposed to be undercover and are inappropriately swearing. Depending on the situation, a swear word can be a giant, glaring neon red flag that attracts more attention than you need. That's the only time he'll take serious issue with it. Of course, if you are uncomfortable with swearing, he's very good about censoring himself around you. Again, he has to put on lots of disguises that require him to keep it clean. It's no sweat to do it for you, his Best Buddy. He's too easy-going to really get offended when he is cursed at. (And a sick, little part of him takes pleasure in it, reminding him that he deserves every word.) If he really cares about you, it hurts far more, and almost certainly will cause him to go ghost. It's a honestly dice toss whether or not he'll come back to clear the air. In public, he probably won't stand up for a friend getting cursed at. Instead would look for a covert way to diffuse the situation that doesn't require him getting directly involved. Absolutely defends a friend should they be getting a dress-down in HQ, though. Favorite swears: damn, bastard, and whatever goofy swear/phrase he most recently strung together that got him a laugh.

Dogmeat. Dog. Wags his tail even if you call him a "stinky little bastard man." Loves you no matter what <3

Gage. Does Curse, but less than you would expect a raider to. I mean, it is still a lot. But also he has shit to do and most of that does not require him to talk. In fact, he would rather not talk. Just shut up and let him work. (No, this absolutely does not have anything to do with his mama rinsing out his mouth with vinegar whenever he swore as a child. Who told you that? Shut up.) So neutral about swearing that, if you asked him about it, he'd probably say that he doesn't curse. Doesn't even register curse words as curse words when he hears them. They're just fuckin' words, why do you have to be so uptight about them? Somehow, this changes when someone is cursing at someone he cares about. He's not liable to get into a brawl—another very un-raiderlike thing about him—but he'll absolutely get into a swearing match with the offender. Probably starts planning for an "accident" to happen to 'em later down the line, too. Doesn't care about folks cursing around him or even at him. If you're talking to him, chances are you're a fuckin' moron and your opinion isn't worth a lick of salt. Cares a little bit (a lot) more if someone he cares about is doing the cursing, but he's the King of Emotional Constipation and shoves that shit right on down to hell. He gives tit for tat. If you're getting nasty, he'll get nasty right on back. Like Danse, he will put up with a lot of verbal abuse before he's really pushed over the edge. And similarly to Cait, he thinks you're a fuckin' weirdo if you have a Complex about swearing. Unlike Cait, he almost certainly will comment on it. Absolutely will not censor himself if you have an issue with it. The hell you hangin' 'round raiders for, if you've got a problem with a few swears? Suck it up. (Even a domesticated Gage would not censor his swears. He would hang on to that little bit of crudeness as a personal rebellion, to still feel like a raider and a badass even if he's—ugh—helpin' civilized folk. Unless he's around kids. He's very strict about not cursing around kids, somehow.) Favorite swears: shit and damn. The classics.

Hancock. Does Curse. A lot. Almost like he's trying to do it as often as he can. He's not. That's just how he is after spending most of his life around the outcasts and vagabonds of the Commonwealth. Doesn't even clock swears in conversation. Second dirtiest mouth out of all the companions. Yes, he does beat Gage. (Mostly on the technicality that he talks far more than Gage ever will. But that's neither here nor there.) Like Deacon, he will also try to come up with outrageous phrases to be silly. And, like Cait, he is also a fan of affectionate name-calling, but is a lot more casual about it. This man just does not care about cursing. And if those curses are aimed at him? Sorry you feel that way buddy. Calling him names? Lmao okay. Maybe he'll make an example out of the offender, if he feels like it would be politically advantageous for him to do so. But otherwise, he just can not find it in himself to give a damn. This changes drastically if someone he cares about curses at him. Obviously, this is a grown man and he can take a yelling match if you need to get it out of your system and you two take the time to talk about it and appropriately apologize afterwards. But if you're being an asshole? If you're trying to hurt him? Jesus, it would devastating for him. Honestly, I think it would take one time. Just once for someone he trusted to curse him out or call him names and he would be almost irrevocably shattered. I don't think he'd even get mad. I think he would shut down immediately and completely. If he doesn't leave for Goodneighbor right away, he will soon. I do think you could repair that damaged trust, but it would take a long, long, long time. (And rightly so, you degenerate.) Now, should someone choose to curse at his friends while he's around? Hancock is not opposed to some gratuitous violence. He might give the diplomacy route, like, a shot. But, like Cait, he is almost immediately swinging. Or stabbing. Or shooting. If you're uncomfortable with swearing, he's going to do his best to censor himself, but is not always going to be successful. Give him a little grace. Favorite swears: hell and bastard.

Longfellow. What the fuck do you think? Dirtiest mouth out of all the companions. By miles. It's not even close. He could make a raider blush. He says words that you didn't even think existed. Deacon and Hancock combined could not come up with vocabularies colorful enough to compete with Longfellow's repertoire. Does not mind others cursing. Does not mind folks cursing at him or his friends. Does not give a flopping fishy fuck even if y'all are close and you're trying to hurt him with words. Why the fuck would he be bothered by that? What, you're trying to hurt his feelings? Son, he's seen things that would make you shit and piss and vomit all over yourself all at once. Swear at him as much as you'd like, y'all've got shit to do. I genuinely do not think you could ruin your relationship with this man with your words. He'll curse you out right back, and things might get awkward for a time; but, at the end of the day, he's still sharing his whiskey and you'll still have a place in his cabin safe from the Fog. He's too damn old to let words said in anger affect his relationships. In the Cait and Gage boat of thinking you're odd if you are uncomfortable with cursing. Will maybe comment on it once, but cannot be bothered to really care. If y'all are close, he'll try to censor himself. Of course, he does this by catching himself cursing, and then correcting himself by saying a different curse word instead. Listen. He's Surly Grandpa, what else are you expecting? Favorite swears: [REDACTED] and [REDACTED].

MacCready. Famously Does Not Curse. If he weren't so dedicated to censoring himself, he'd give Hancock a run for his money. He even censors his inner monologue, that's how dedicated he is to his son. (Aw.) He does the thing where he will start to say a swear, catch himself, and drag out that first syllable for a long time while trying to think of the alternative. Before he finds the cure for his son, he's a lot more self-flagellating about the curses that do slip through. He keeps a mental tally that he beats himself up about. Stops doing this so much after he finds the cure, and stops completely after he brings Duncan to the Commonwealth. He actually does care a little bit about folks cursing around him, only because it's harder for him to keep up his censor if the folk around him are liberal with their foul language. He would rather die than admit this. (He's still, like, 22 and wants to look cool so so bad. Please tell him he's cool.) Liable to get riled up when someone is cursing at him or his friends. Always offers to "take this outside," even though he has never won a fist fight once in his life. Also not one to get emo about a verbal argument with a friend or loved one, even if it devolves into cursing. He is actually surprisingly good at talking it out. After y'all both walk away to cool off, of course. That being said, if you're trying to hurt him on purpose, he's more than happy to tell you where you can shove it. Has a shorter fuse about you being an asshole than other companions, and is a strong contender for Curie when it comes to holding a grudge. If you're also sensitive about cursing and he thinks he can save face by doing so, he totally jumps at the chance to dump the reason for not cursing on you. "Yeah this one is pre-tty sensitive. Gotta watch the language 'round them." (Judas.) His favorite swear was (and still is) "fuck."

Nick Valentine. Does Not Curse... conditionally. Has arbitrary rules when it comes to cursing. He doesn't need to swear in order to emotionally obliterate you. Obviously he still says swears—shit, damn, hell—but he doesn't even really consider those to be swears anyway. And he's not above calling the occasional raider, "bastard." But that kind of crass language has its time and place. Does not curse in the presence of polite company. Certainly does not call people names. (Unless they really, really deserve it. Or really, really piss him off.) Hates it when folks curse heavily or are overly explicit around him. Finds it distasteful and unnecessary. Should he find it to be too excessive, he will scold you for it. Or make a snide comment. Both are painful. And don't even dare call someone he cares about—or, worse, a lady—a name in his presence. You are not surviving. Hope Dr. Sun offers therapy. Curse at him and he's not flinching. Pops has seen and heard too much in this life and the life before to not be desensitized to hurtful words said by an angry client or crook. And even if he wasn't, living openly as a synth in Diamond City has sufficiently toughened his "skin." He'll even take a bit of cursing and name-calling from someone he's close to, as evidenced by in-game interactions. He's not going to take it lying down, but it's not enough to ruin y'all's relationship. He certainly understands Big Emotions enough to know that not everything said in anger should be taken to heart. And he's level-headed enough to navigate those Big Emotions with you, whether or not you needed a moment to cool off. I think he would have a breaking point though, but he'd likely not get angry. I think it'd be a very quiet, "Now why'd you go and say a thing like that?" Very much like Hancock, I think once that trust is gone, it's obliterated. You might be able to salvage it afterwards, but again. It would take a very long time and almost certainly it would require you to make some very real changes about yourself. Now,—save for the insults found in very dredges of assholery—if you can make him laugh, he's far more lenient about your cursing. But you'd better be sure he's going to laugh before you try. In this case, if Longfellow is Surly Grandpa, Nick is Hypocrite Grandpa. (Love you, Nicky, but it's true <3) Favorite swears: shit, damn, hell, bastard, dickhead, dumbass... Seriously, Nick? It's okay when you call me a dumbass, but when I tell someone to "suck my dick" it's suddenly not okay to use "that sort of language–"

Piper. Does Curse. She's the kid who was raised not to curse, and found it unbearably funny to do so. Until, of course, she became Nat's guardian. Then she realized that– oh, actually it's probably not a good idea to swear so openly around a child. Except, she was really awful about censoring herself in that way. So instead, she'll swear, break away mid-conversation, look at Nat and say, "don't say that word," and then continue. This worked when Nat was younger. Not so much recently. ("...that fucking jerk. Nat, don't say that word." "What word? Jerk?" "Nat. You know what I mean." "Whatever you fucking say, Piper." "Natalie Olivia Wright.") Of course, Piper feels like a huge failure as a Big Sister/Parent because of it. Ow. Luckily, Piper isn't actually that big on cursing to begin with. She's a writer. And she's catty as hell. She's firmly in the Does Not Need To Swear To Ruin Your Day camp. She's not above it though, is what I'm getting at. Whether or not she cares about other folks' cursing depends on the situation. If it's excessive, or exceptionally explicit, or around Nat,—or any other children, really—she takes issue with it. Otherwise, who cares. Words are words are words. Sometimes "fuck" is necessary to communicate the right emotion. Like Nick, she is totally desensitized to folks cursing her out. She's an investigative reporter. People get mad at her. It comes with the territory. Hates it, but she gets really sensitive about it if someone she cares about curses at her or calls her names. She's the kind of person to cry when she's really angry. So if you were to insult her and really mean it, she'd start to tear up, and then get even angrier because it makes her feel stupid. This all builds until y'all are screaming at each other and lasts until one of y'all storms off. The length of the silent treatment that follows depends on the severity of the context. If y'all were arguing and things were said in the heat of the moment, Piper might go through a day-or-two long period of insisting that y'all will never have anything to do with each other ever again. And then she'll cool off and realize that– well, actually she said some nasty things, too, and maybe it would be better to talk this out than to let the friendship wither up and die. After y'all process the Big Emotions privately, she's very good at coming together and clearing the air. She'll apologize (and mean it) and you'll apologize (and you'd better mean it) and the air will be cleared. If you were just being an asshole to be an asshole though? Bye. Piper can hold a grudge forever. Contrary to fanon, I do not think she would be petty enough to write about you in her newspaper. But she is a young adult that was parentified as a child. I don't think she'd forgive someone who was trying to be hurtful for no reason, especially after giving them her trust. If someone were to curse out her friends in front of her, she would only a little bit think about running a smear campaign against them. Of course she won't, since she's such a Good Person. She'll just tell the offender off instead, but is mostly focused on pulling the two of you away from the situation. If you are genuinely uncomfortable with cursing... good luck. Piper isn't any better at censoring herself just because you're not her little sister. She does apologize profusely every time she catches herself, though. So, thoughts that count and all that. Favorite swears: damn and motherfucker.

(And here, dear friend, is where I inform you of the "Man Shall Not Call Women Bitches or Other Similarly Gendered Insults" Alliance between Cait, Curie and Piper. Call a woman an asshole? Tell her to go to hell? All fine, all good. Have the audacity to be a man and call a woman a bitch? In front of these three??? Don't look at me. I can't help you. Only Atom can help you now. Even if it was "deserved." There is no holding back with those three, and they absolutely enable each other. Your physical, emotional, and mental well-being cannot be guaranteed. You have been warned.)

Preston. Does Curse. He's just that kind of guy that won't curse until he knows what your feelings on it are. If you're uncomfortable, he will never ever swear around you. (Maybe if y'all are in dire circumstances, but come on. Everybody gets a pass in those.) If you are comfortable or swear yourself, he lets loose. I've said it before and I'll say it again. This man is a soldier and has been since he was seventeen. There isn't a lot that's off the table. Though, like Deacon, he isn't often explicit or excessive. However. He will not say bitch or any similarly gendered insults. Not even motherfucker. (I'm almost certain this goes against canon dialogue but who cares. I know this man like I know my soul. Whoever wrote that single line of dialogue was confused, and that's all I'll hear on it.) He'll say "son of a gun" instead of "son of a bitch." And even then, that's pushing it too closely for his liking. He won't say them to anybody, and certainly not to a woman. And he gets kinda itchy if he's around guys who do. He'll probably say something. (Usually a firm, "Knock it off, man.") It's not like he won't insult a woman. Just like he won't hold back if he has to fight a woman. (Because, you know, women can be raiders and Gunners, too. And he certainly has killed enough of both to know.) But he won't ever disrespect a woman. You know that scene in Deadpool? When Colossus and Matchstick Lady are fighting, and Colossus stops to inform her that her shirt has slipped and accidentally exposed herself to him? And he lets her fix it before they continue fighting? That's the energy Preston has. (Preston Garvey, Respecter of Women, your hand in marriage.) Other than that, he really doesn't mind folks cursing around him. He may take issue with it if it's in an inappropriate setting. It's not enough to piss him off, and it doesn't really offend him personally. He's just cognizant of the situation and, if it's looking like explicit language might hinder your goals, he'll nip it in the bud. He'll get annoyed if folks curse at him, but is more prone to tell them to relax and not much else. He is not above being the first person to walk away from a situation. If it's someone he cares for and trusts cursing at him, it's a little different, but not much. If y'all are arguing and it's getting heated, he would much rather take a break and then come back once heads are cooler. He's not one to get offended by heat-of-the-moment words. If you're explicitly trying to hurt him, he actually would get a little angry at you. Mostly because you're being fucking weird and what you're doing is totally unnecessary. If you back off and apologize, give him a little time to be upset and annoyed at you before y'all get back to it. If you don't? Cold professionalism. Either way, he's not afraid to tell you to fuck off. Depending on how far you took it will determine whether or not you can salvage the relationship, but do not expect him to make it easy for you. He is a Very Vocal defender of his friends when they are on the receiving end of some angry swears. When he was younger, he was more prone to fisticuffs, but has gotten better at diplomacy in his old age. (He's 28.) He's not afraid to use his body mass to put distance between his pal and the offender, and will keep his face stone-cold stoic while he calmly tells them to back off. Favorite swears: damn and hell.

Strong. Does Not Curse. Doesn't have to. If he's mad enough to curse at you, you're already dead. Doesn't care about folks cursing at or around him, because humans are stupid and half the time he's not paying attention to what you're saying. Also doesn't give a shit if you curse at or insult him. He'll laugh at you. He thinks you're funny. Why would puny human's word hurt Strong? Strong stronger than puny words. Human go away if not want to travel with Strong. Surprisingly, he actually is paying enough attention to know whether or not someone cursing at you is hurting you. And he actually will do something about it. That something is usually very bloody. Hey. Don't take Strong into bars. Even if he doesn't understand your weird, stupid emotions, he will offer you a limb from the victim to make you feel better. ...thank you, Strong.

X6-88. Does Not Curse. He's a Courser. He doesn't have to curse. If he felt the need to curse, it would imply that he felt the need to make threats. And Coursers don't need to make threats, because Coursers are threats. This does not mean that he's not a snarky bitch. But, more than any other companion, he will effortlessly find the most humiliating, scathing thing he can say in that moment and say it so eloquently that it makes you feel like you've been slapped in the face with a luxurious silk glove. A luxurious silk glove that has sliced through your cheek and now you're bleeding all over the ground. Maybe Nick gives him a run for his money, but it's close. Very close. Likewise, he doesn't care about other people cursing around him at all. Usually, those swearing at him are his victims. And he understands that swearing is a sign of weakness, and he appreciates his targets advertising their fragility so willingly. (You are thinking about fifty different ways to call me an asshole. I am thinking about fifty different ways to kill you in two moves or less. We are not the same <3) Whether or not he minds you cursing at him depends on the context. If he says something snarky, and that causes you to turn around and curse him out? A tiny, private part of him thinks it's funny and revels in this. He thinks you're amazing. He views you as this all-powerful, unflappable deific figure. And he caused you to react? You will not be able to see it—in part because he refuses to show it, and also because you are too busy yelling at him to notice—but he's over the moon. (This is only, only if you two have an established rapport. If you are not close, he keeps his mouth shut if he thinks it'll make you mad. He would not risk getting sent to S.R.B. for pissing you off.) However, if you were intentionally trying to insult him? Well, you'd never know it, but he immediately and completely shuts down. Nope. That's it, all done. No more friendship. Ever. He tried and it failed and now he knows that it's not worth it and was a mistake. Would totally end whatever relationship y'all had and any chance of him breaking away from Institute brainwashing and coming into his own as a person. (Death by a thousand molerats to you who dares bring this upon my Son. A pox on your house.) X6 is not above killing someone who curses at you. He might do it in public, or he might follow them into an alleyway later. It really depends on how much it annoys him. He, of course, won't admit that he's annoyed by it. That would imply that he cares about you. Which he doesn't. He just thinks you're Neat and it's actually an insult to him when someone insults you. Which of course he doesn't care about, because Coursers don't feel insulted. It's just that an insult to you is an insult to the Institute and it's his duty as a Courser and your Protector to deal with direct threats to the Institute. Which is what that person was. Yeah. He's not malfunctioning at all. Nope, no sir.

And, because it's my post and I want to,

My Sole Survivors and Cursing.

You can skip this part if you want <3

Ripley. Does Curse. Frequently and without abandon. Only, she just doesn't talk all that much, so you wouldn't know it when you meet her. And they really do try to be cognizant of the situation. Only, she doesn't really do well around civilized folk to begin with, and sometimes they get nervous. Be patient with them. Depending on the tone, she doesn't care much about others' cursing. Is very sensitive to it if it's angry or directed at her. She's not sensitive like, shut down and cower sensitive. She's sensitive like a cornered animal is sensitive. They get all quiet and waits to see if they need to bite. One should exercise caution when cursing at her, especially if you shout. Will not react verbally, but will go very, very still. Until you've passed a threshold, and then they attack blindly. Maybe with fists, probably with words. Very prone to saying awful things out of anger and then running away. Will not seek to remedy the situation first. If you want to fix things, you're gonna have to be the one to do it. And you must do it with all the delicacy of coaxing a frightened animal out of a corner. Watch your fingers. Will kill someone for cursing at her friends. <3 Don't fucking try her <3 If you're comfy with cursing, you actually probably don't have to worry at all. They have to talk to you to swear at you. And depending on how close you are, she would rather die than do that. And if you are close, they care very much about how you feel and would take extra care to censor herself. Favorite swears: dipshit and fuckass. (She likes combo words very much.)

Steve. Does Not Curse and will clutch his pearls if you do. He may look big and scary, but Boston's Golden Boy is actually a huge baby and is super sensitive when it comes to cursing. If the threat is physical, he can deal with it physically. If it's someone cursing at him? Baby boy needs someone to come save him, he does not know what to do. If someone he cares about curses at him? Tears. He's gone. He's in a funk for three whole days. He won't know how to address it and unless you approach him first, he's going to be super awkward around you until the end of forever. Lottie was really good for him about that. Now that she's gone? Well. He's much better about it when it's someone he cares about being subjected to angry swears. Again, the man is Big. He knows this and will Get Up In Your Face. Will offer to "take this outside." But he can actually mess you up. It's probably best if you just leave with your tail between your legs.

Lottie. Does Not Curse. Got in the habit of not cursing when she found out she was pregnant with Shaun, and it just stuck. Instead she uses increasingly unhinged euphemisms that are almost worse. ("Stick my left shoe in a toaster oven." "Crap in the corn-hole." "Shoot a root." You get the gist.) Stevie hated it when he was alive. (Oops.) She doesn't give a flack if someone curses at her. Honey, she's tangled with all sorts of bad customers in her day. You can take your bad attitude and walk backwards into heck for all she cares. Will only let it come to blows if she's really really pushed. If she's cursed at by a friend, she's more likely to escalate the situation than walk away. She's not always the best at acknowledging when it's the best time to back off. Her cool-down time is just as short as her temper, though, and usually smooths things over within the day. She's also fairly good at acknowledging where she went wrong in these situations. (You had better do the same, or y'all are gonna be right back where you started.) If you're being intentionally insulting, or being an asshole for assholery's sake, you're getting slapped. She'll forgive you, though, if you really grovel and clean up your act. Gets all up in someone's face if they're cursing at her friends. She's not a short woman. She absolutely uses her height to her advantage. And there's something particularly scary about a wasteland woman who takes the time to meticulously do her hair and nails squaring up to you without flinching. I wouldn't want to mess with her; and, if you're smart, you won't either.

Jude. Does Not Curse. Left over habit from her days trying to not get Clocked As A Communist. If she's feeling particularly angry or stressed, and she feels safe, she'll let a couple through. But otherwise, she's found other ways to... express herself. I mean, she's a little pretentious and has a degree in English Literature. She's gonna put that to use when she needs to humble a fool. Doesn't care at all if people curse around her. She used to hang out with good, honest blue-collar folk. She's so deaf to cursing, you have to point it out to her for her to notice. Similarly, she doesn't really react when being cursed at. Either the offender is upset about something—in which case, she'd rather listen than get upset. And she often tries to work it out with the person, if she can. —or they are just not worth her time, and she doesn't need to be concerned with what they are saying to and about her. If you were close to her and cursed her out with the intention to hurt her, she'd probably shut down. She would stay there and listen, of course, but she wouldn't be There. She'd disassociate until she could leave the situation and, depending on the severity of the offense, may be floaty for a few days before coming back. It would take time to rebuild the damaged trust, but it would be possible. Very quick to jump to the defense of a friend. Her first instinct is to diffuse the situation as much as possible, or at least to create an opportunity to leave. She'll put her body between the offender and her friend, and speak as gently as she can in an effort to distract and calm the offender. Favorite swears: bitch and cunt. (Only if she's feeling especially incensed though.)

157 notes · View notes

tswwwit · 11 months

Text

Here's a thing! Reincarnation of Dipper who's not in the best of situations. (A Cult)

Got some gore and knives in here so watch out!

In the room of ritual, everything is ready.

Off in that wide and majestic space, the candles are lit. The circle is drawn. The altar spread with gold and trinkets, little offerings of delight and whimsy, tomes of knowledge. Along with the remnants of the latest sacrifice, dried in long trails down the stone.

The tomes, though. If one looked closely, they would see mostly encyclopedia volumes from like, sixty years ago. Because, yeah, those are going to be so tempting for a being of infinite knowledge.

Long chanting rings through the hallways, preparing the way. The ritual is in less than an hour. In preparation for the service, the servants of their lord make themselves presentable.

Dipper adjusts his robe - too big for him, by at least one size- and pulls at the neckline. It always drags up against his throat, in a tight, uncomfortable way. He tugs it down again, glaring into the small mirror on the otherwise bare wall.

Bill Cipher is the most powerful being in the universe, and his reach is infinite and his discernment of the mind and mastery of mysteries is unquestionable, yadda yadda yadda.

Dipper just. Doesn’t know what everyone else here expects to happen. Especially with the setup unchanged from the one he saw last year. And the year before that. And the one before that.

Odds are, this ritual is going to end up the same as every other one.

Pointless.

Dipper adjusts his robes again, and smooths out the front with slow strokes. As long as this is going to happen, he might as well avoid drawing attention to himself. He’s had enough ‘attention’ for more than a lifetime.

There’s a rhythm to these ceremonies. Dipper hears the footsteps, and easily tucks the hood of his robe up, only semi-stumbling as he joins the twin lines of robed figures leading into the ritual room.

As he tucks his hands together, covering them with long sleeves - Dipper spends another moment to silently sigh.

He joins the line, ducking his head as he joins in formation. The two lines of followers shuffle on with their long robes brushing the floor. He can hear them whispering to each other; varying levels of excitement, boredom. Talking about plans for after the ritual. He thinks he picks up one of the more devout members, almost humming with anticipation.

Despite the murmurs, the sight itself could be quite impressive. An all-seeing eye, if it was real, might even appreciate it.

Still, all these dramatics are so over the top. Just as fruitless and stupid as every other prayer, or ritual. Never worked before, not gonna work now. Dipper’s not sure why they’re trying the same freakin’ thing, over and over again.

For a bunch of people obsessed with the infinite power and knowledge Cipher represents, they haven’t accrued any.

And for that matter! If Bill Cipher’s eye is truly all-seeing, why hasn’t he ever responded? His triangle is emblazoned on every wall, and on their robes. You can’t look at a surface without seeing it staring back at you, and there’s no short of devout worshipers, constantly praying and doing rites.

Dipper dares a glance at one of the long scrawls on the walls, seething slightly at the handwriting. And the grammar.

If he was watching, surely he would have spoken up by now. Even if it’s just to critique the decor, which is tacky as hell.

The main ritual room fills up with warm bodies, and Dipper stands in an inconspicuous place. Just to the left, and not quite entirely in the back. At the front of the room, he can see the priest nodding approvingly, hands tucked behind his back.

Hidden under the sleeves, Dipper clenches his hands together. Breathing out a silent prayer of his own, to nobody particular. He can stand stock-still through one or two more ridiculous rituals, if it means no more prayers to a blind idiot god.

A week. Maybe two. That’s it.

Then he’ll be out of these robes, and far, far away from here. He’ll never see these people again. He’ll never have to chant a single verse again in slightly incorrect Latin. He’ll never have to kneel, or go before that stone altar again, not even once.

The outside world is - there’s a lot of talk about it. There’s always a lot of talk, more or less colored by personal experiences and levels of permission to go ‘outside’. Dipper’s learned, now, that well over ninety percent of the gossip is lies.

If his palms still sweat at the prospect, it’s because it’s… New. Different. But it can’t possibly be worse than here, and, like. Novelty is condoned by his not-really-a-god. Trying new things should be standard doctrine - if the priest wasn’t a total idiot.

Not much longer, now.

Out there, things will be better. Out there, Dipper will have a chance at having a life.

And there won’t be any trouble, since he’ll keep his mouth shut.

��“Children of Cipher!” The high-pitched voice of the priest rings tinnily through the air. “We are once again assembled!”

Dipper bows in concert with his fellows. Staring at the ground is a good way to not roll his eyes.

A chant rises up, and he keeps his lips clamped together as he mirrors the ritual bowing and scraping and general genuflection. The priest will go on and on, no matter what he does.

All it takes to get through this is time. Another round of kneeling, then standing, then kneeling, until they stand at the last word in a thronging chorus.

“Brothers!” A louder, shriller call, now that everyone has been drawn close to a fervor. For all his faults, the priest does know how to read the mood - “Tonight is a special evening!” His arms thrown up, spindly and bare as the sleeves drop near to his shoulders. “Who will bleed for our god?”

The only thing that prevents Dipper from flinching is how much attention that would draw.

He hardly dares to breathe, lest some wayward motion be taken as ‘enthusiasm.’

Dipper keeps his head bowed, as murmurs start up around him and his forehead starts to prickle with sweat.

Sacrifices happen all the time. Mostly animals. Last year they got a goat, and that was considered a pretty big one and the stew afterwards was filling, and probably tasted pretty good.

Human blood, though. That’s - They haven’t done this in years.

The susurration of voices in the background grow louder, and Dipper stays bowed in place. Of course nobody wants to volunteer; ‘willing’ isn’t easily found when it comes to getting a knife in your flesh - but someone’s going to bleed, tonight. The ‘volunteer’ bit will be justified by whatever’s convenient.

Around him there’s murmurs, a few, low arguments. Tension is starting to rise, but for the most part, he’s being overlooked.

He nearly thinks he’s gotten away with it, too, when a hard shove on his back sends him stumbling forward.

“Here, brothers!” The voice rings in Dipper’s ears as he tries to backtrack, slipping on the robes of the person in front of him and dropping painfully to the floor. “The provider!”

Shit, shit, shit.

Dipper tries to glance back at whatever asshole pushed him, but the crowd’s already grouped together into a bunch of faceless clumps, drawing back from his fall.

He levels the worst glare he can manage, even as both his arms are seized by two of his so-called ‘brothers’. The big ones.

Gritting his teeth, Dipper digs in his heels. Struggling’s ineffective, protesting’s impossible. Gesturing wildly, including a raised finger in the general direction of the asshole who pushed him, Dipper gets dragged to the foot of the altar.

“See how he offers his flesh! See how he shakes with joy!” The priest jogs his arms in the air. Dipper shakes his head rapidly holding up his hands. “His arms, already offered!”

And for a moment Dipper’s simply annoyed at how obvious it is that the whole damn ritual is a farce.

“Tonight, we call upon the god! Tonight! We-”

Whatever else he’s yelling about, Dipper doesn’t pay any mind. He’s busy trying to use the loose robes to worm his way out of the guards’ grip. It halfway works, until one of them gets him by the bare wrist and painfully pulls it out.

The cold stone hits his waist. One of his sleeves is drawn to his shoulder. His arm pinned, bare and wrist upraised, on the stone.

Damn it, if he finds out who shoved him, he’s going to - he arches up, but firm hands hold his shoulders. There’s little time to think about revenge when he’s trying to find a way out of this. Arm, stuck. Shoulders, held. The exits, totally blocked by a bunch of crowded figures.

In a way, Dipper can’t truly blame them. After all, if the current sacrifice got away, who knows?

They could be next.

The priest seems pleased, at least. He paces in front of the altar, gesticulating wildly, and rambling on about god and blood, and other nonsensical bullshit.

Great. They have their ‘sacrifice’ for tonight. So, so super ‘willing’ too, what with how he, quote ‘rushed to offer himself’, end quote.

Dipper takes a long breath, holding it for three beats. Then he lets it out.

Okay. If this follows most other ‘human sacrifices’, it should be bearable. Some bloodletting, a nasty scar. Maybe a missing finger, but he’s learned to deal with worse. Push through the moment, wait for it to be over. Soon enough, he’ll be on the other side of this entire godawful situation.

Focusing on the transitory nature of pain helps him steady his breathing. And more importantly, slow his heart rate.

Calming meditation. He can work on that. Though it’s difficult, with the way the priest keeps going on and on about an ‘auspicious night’. Also, the very large, curved, very sharp-looking knife.

Dipper tries his best not to stare at it. Or to linger too much on the thought of knives and flesh and blood. If he could stop thinking, for once in his stupid life, it’ll be over before he knows it.

That’s totally not not the usual knife, though. He wonders where the hell it came from.

Last time, it was some basic utilitarian repurposed chef-thing, with a crudely engraved triangle on the hilt and the blade. This one’s much more… Ceremonial. Sharper, too, with a wicked curve and a gleaming edge, and covered in runes that Dipper’s never seen before.

He mouths a swear as one guard uncurls his fingers from the edge of the altar, turning his wrist back upright. The priest waves the very, very sharp blade around, yelling something that Dipper doesn’t bother parsing, even as his mind races. He can tell it’s definitely not Cipher runes on that thing, and not the old Latin their god prefers. Did someone go outside to find this? Another random artifact that the priest got his hands on? Seems like he’s always picking up useless semi-magic items.

The knife doesn’t feel ‘useless’, though, even from a glance. It radiates a pure and terrifying purpose.

Especially as it comes down, and rests against his wrist. Almost gently, its point bites a drop of blood from his skin.

The fetid breath of the priest pants over the altar. Dipper turns away, neck twisting as far as he can manage, eyes shut.

Please let this be just a bit. Just a drop. A small, tentative cut to fill a bit of the channels on the stone. There’s a sting to the metal, a slight burn, and though Dipper’s not one of the main Holders of Mysteries or anything, he feels like that’s a very bad sign.

Then he feels. Cold.

It runs down his inner arm, lingering for an instant before blossoming into sharp, bright pain. He nearly chokes on air, cringing into a hunched position as he feels the knife slide.

The catching drag of the old knife would have been painful, but that was mostly used for taking a finger, or maybe dragging across the back of the arm, in a more decorative than productive way of drawing blood.

The ease with which this knife cuts sends a deep, swirling nausea straight to the pit of his stomach.

“Behold, the flow! The magic gathers, my children!” THe priest’s voice warbles a bit as “With this tool, with this magic, our god will hear our call! He will behold our devotion, and raise us to glory! He will answer-” More and more words, variations on encouragement. Zero substance, all hype. A fanatical motivation speaker, Dipper thinks, half-hysterically.

Vapid or not, the result is effective. The sight of blood has certainly spurred everyone into a kind of frenzy, whether from fear or fervor, Dipper doesn’t care.

And they’re certainly getting a lot of blood. More than required.

Dipper struggles up against the hold, but it’s pointless. He ‘s stuck there for a few long minutes, oozing out for an audience that can’t even see half the damn thing, and it hurts.

The red trail gathers, slowly pooling down and into the engraven triangle. Enough to fill the shallow channels easily, which, uh. Dipper’s never seen before. With the other sacrifices it kind of stopped and clotted, but this moves like it’s being wicked along the surface.

He makes a face as his blood slowly travels through the lines, but can’t see any surface changes, or feel anything that might have been put on the stone.

Until it connects at the top point. Then it meets, completing the image of Bill with a strange, too-bubbly ‘blorp’.

Okay. Weird. But that’s plenty, right? Ritual done, blood offered, and now, he should get going.

Lurching upward gets the grip to loosen up on his arms, as the guards loosen their grip a bit. They already have what they need, and hell. Dippers deserves a friggin’ break. With the immediate attention off him, he can dare a glance at his arm -

And instantly averts his gaze to absolutely anything else.

The priest turns around, arms raised. Pumping them in the air, knife glinting in the candlelight. “Yes. Yes!” He swings the blade around, nearly catching one of the big brothers in the side. “See how easily the liquid flows. The power builds! I can feel it - the summoning, in this room tonight!”

The crowd calls out their enthusiasm, a high rising ‘oooh’ noise.

Dipper sighs, and tries to scoot back away from the altar. It’s done, at least; he’ll just have to cope with the aftermath. Could be worse.

“The other arm, brothers!” A loud, clarion call. Dipper whips his head around, as the priest lowers his arms - and turns back around. Pointing at Dipper. Again. “I feel the blade crave more!”

Uh, hello? What?

Dipper glances up at the knife. At how the slight sheen of blood has dipped into some of the runes, the faint glow - and goes ‘huh’.

Alright, he’ll admit. It’s definitely magical.

But he’s beginning to suspect it has less to do with Bill, and a lot more to do with other forces. Ones that might, say, make a ritual flow smoothly. Or make a fanatical asshole even more bloodthirsty.

Behind him, he almost feels the guards shrug, right before he gets shoved against the altar again. One of the assholes even dares to pat his side, in a brief bit of unexpected sympathy. Not that it means anything.

Dipper longs to curse them out, to scream at every single one of these absolute jackasses. Every one of them is just watching this happen. Nobody thinks about what happens next, ever, including -

He grits his teeth instead, hard enough that he thinks something might crack.

Everyone follows orders. The words of their supposed ‘god’, filtered through a man who’s fallible and frail and frankly fucking stupid. Always getting stupid magical trinkets. Always trying to find a link to that demonic god, constantly pursuing magic, and power, and influence. No matter the cost.

Why would he care if one of the too-few worshipers pays the price?

And fuck that.

Before, Dipper struggled as much as he could. Partly from fear, sure. But mostly to make a point. That this was stupid and painful, and wasn’t going to do anything anyway. Knowing that with enough kicking and protest, he might get them to cut things short.

Now, seeing the priest whip the blade back around, raising overhead with both hands - he fights.

A solid kick lands in the left guard’s groin, and he gets his wounded arm back. Dipper clutches it to his chest, but the other’s still pinned and being twisted, now. Another kick gets something softer, and he hears a huff from the priest. Then a loud, angry order to ‘Hold him down!’.

Dipper’s shoved into the stone, stomach digging into the edge of the altar hard enough to make him gag. His head hits the surface, more dizzying than painful. There's a hand gripped in his hair. Then his other sleeve is drawn up, his healthy arm extended over the table. Bare skin exposed, lying over the bloody surface.

He breathes heavily, nose nearly against the altar. It quickly grows hot from his breath, and moist, too, which is probably why his face feels wet. He doesn’t hear anything but his own harsh panting.

He never wanted to be a part of this, he never wanted to grow up like this. In a week or so, he was going to get out, and now he’s going to get hurt again, so soon, and he only has so much blood in him. He doesn’t want to die. He shuts his eyes, tucking up against himself. Hoping the weight of his body will drag his arm away where his own strength couldn’t, choking back a tightness in his throat. He was nearly out. He was nearly safe.

He was almost free.

He breathes harder, shutting his eyes tight. He presses his forehead against the runes, and the blood, and just wishes he wasn’t here.

Metal clangs on the floor, ringing bright as a bell.

There’s a sudden intake of breath. Dipper feels the hands release him, a shocked sound. Then the ‘flump’ of a lot of draped fabric, all at once.

Dipper keeps his face against the stone, breathing slower. That’s. That’s not how any ritual goes.

He can’t waste the opportunity, though. Now that his arms are free, Dipper pulls his sleeve back up, bundling it around the cut. Shit. Does he clench his fist or leave his grip loose? Which one slows blood flow.

Whatever interrupted this isn’t going to last. He’s only got a few seconds before everyone comes back to whatever passes for their senses, and tries to ‘complete the summoning’, or whatever the hell they were after.

Gotta act. Gotta - Dipper wheels around, panting for breath.

In front of the altar, all the robed figures in the room have fallen to their knees. The priest’s dropped the knife. Dipper scoots it a little closer to himself with a foot, watching as the zealot raises his arms in devout praise.

Dipper pauses. Still clenching tight on his wrist, though his sleeve is starting to feel damp. Things don’t just stop like that. The ritual has to continue. People should be surging up to keep the momentum, but the entire room is -

Oh.

Yeah, now he sees it.

All the candles were lit before. They give a little light to a room that’s never seen electronics in its life, dim as it is.

Right now, they’re bursting with flame, rising high enough to cast weird shadows over the cavern -

And it’s a very bright blue.

Shit.

Dipper whirls around, unsteady on his feet. Staring at a long, long trail of rising blood. Almost a string, or a reverse droplet, floating up from the triangle carved on the stone. In midair it spreads into a thin web, shapeless and vaguely pulsing.

Okay. That is definitely magical. And absolutely up to no good.

He fumbles around - where did he kick the knife? Maybe if he breaks it, it’ll interrupt this whole thing. Who knows what the hell that idiot priest did, or where he got the artifact, or what it does.

Dipper doesn’t know much about gods, or spirits, or demons, but anything that gets pulled in by a blood sacrifice can’t be a good sign. He spots the damn thing near the opposite corner, and braces himself on the altar. It he’s careful, he can reach it without alerting anyone. Maybe.

Which is when the entire hall fills with bright, loud laughter.

“Well, well, well, well, well!” The voice rings just as brightly as the laugh. Dipper jerks towards the sound, involuntarily, only to see a single eye open inside the breath web of blood. “What do we have here?”

There’s a resounding groan from the crowd. Various people start chanting, but they’re all using different verses, and the priest starts his own, presumably improvised, wail of praise and devotion. The end result is an ear-rattling clamor.

Dipper looks back at the altar. Watching the blood twist in this way, and that. The eye alights on him for a moment - he freezes - but it moves on from him quickly, examining the room.

There’s a lot to see, too. Maybe terrified, devout worshipers isn’t weird for a supernatural entity, but it’s thoroughly freaking Dipper out. Even the priest is on his knees.

“Boy, it’s been a while since I’ve had this kinda summon!” The net stretches, almost elastic; twisting into limblike shapes, and fractal forms. The slit-pupiled eye rolls back and forth. Then it blinks twice. “Might as well get dressed for the occasion! Hold on a sec.”

The eye shuts into nothingness. Moments later, the blood starts getting really active, pulsing faster, twisting into shapes like it’s alive.

Dipper spares a terrified check on his wrist, but. No, he’s not feeding it, or anything. This is something else. Someone else, taking the material and lending it power enough to grow.

Even as he watches, there’s a spreading arch of bone and the twist of veins. A fairly glorpy assortment of something between and below what looks like ribs, a strange thick blackness tinged with yellow…

He cringes back, and shuts his eyes. Shit, watching this is deeply unsettling.

Not that it’s gory, per se - that would imply that something’s being taken apart, when it shouldn’t be. This is something being put together, a way that it shouldn’t ever be.

He backs up a step from the writhing mass, getting more fleshy by the instant. Then grimaces, teetering in place. Blood loss, right. From the asshole who started this whole thing. He levels a glare at said asshole -

But. Beside him, the priest is quivering with tension. Trembling like he didn’t expect this to happen.

Frankly? Neither did Dipper. For all the times they’ve done a ritual, there’s never been a reaction like this.

This insane mass, forming insanely out of nothing. Or well, from blood, that spread out in a weird three-dimensional - triangle, oh shit -

He should have known. Should have noticed. This was a summon, and while the object used wasn’t for the right being, maybe that doesn't’ matter with so much gathered intent.

This is….

Dipper falls, awkwardly, to his knees. Then ducks down in as low a bow as he can manage, pulling the hood of his robe back over his head.

Part of him thought Bill didn’t exist, or at least not in the way these guys talked about him. Maybe they’d latched onto some other spirit or deity, and completely misinterpreted everything. Maybe they’d made it all up, including some of the really old texts. There was never any evidence that their lord and master was real.

But given what’s happening here…

Like hell is he gonna look like the only person who doesn’t.

Something - two things - go ‘clack’ on the altar. A few series of taps.

Then a long, pleased sigh, and the sound of soft movement, like cloth.

Dipper keeps looking down. The hood keeps him anonymous, another faceless shape in the crowd. Just one more figure genuflecting before his -

Before a god.

One that might not even deserve a capital letter on the word, perhaps, but still an entity that he should not, under any circumstances, piss off.

There’s a tap that sounds like a shoe, and a low hum. Something lands beside him with a thud. In the brief moment that he raises his head, Dipper catches sight of black loafers, and long fingers on an oddly human-looking hand.

He quickly lowers himself more towards the floor, holding his arm tight.

Yep, just one more super-devoted believer, same as all the others. Super not important enough to notice.

“You know, blood’s usually for blood gods!” Bill Cipher’s voice rings through the room. It’s higher than Dipper expected it to be. One of the fancy-looking black shoes kicks the knife up into the air, where it’s caught by the long fingers of that hand. “Pretty wild for you guys to pull this. With another guy’s artifact, of all things!” A chiding tut, and the knife twirls. “And pretty disrespectful, I gotta say.”

“My lord.” The priest’s voice is dry, even for a guy who already sounded half-dessicated. He rises to his knees, hands clasped together. “We meant no disrespect. We are here to serve you, master. As we always have.”

“Uh huh,” Bill says. In Dipper’s limited sight, he toys idly with the knife, pressing the tip against the finger of an opposite hand. A bead of something dark wells up, and he rubs his fingers together.

The priest recites several lines of a chant, making a triangle with his fingers. So eager, and so totally missing the disinterest in Bill’s tone- “We have always been searching for you, our worship unending! You honor us with your presence. You shine upon us your infinite glory!”

“Sure you have,” Bill says, sounding, if anything, bored. The blade in his hand flips around between his fingers, then back again. The motion reminds Dipper of a very deadly fidget spinner. “Do tell.”

Which is when the priest surges up, nearly grabbing onto Bill’s thigh. He’s only stopped by a rapid sidestep.

Dipper cringes back out of secondhand embarrassment. Bad move. Dumb move. ‘Devoted’ or not, Bill was bored already - and infinite beings of pure energy do not like being manhandled by mortals.

“Let us use this connection, and the blade! Let us complete the sacrifice.” The priest continues, undeterred. Shuffling closer on his knees, he spreads his arms wide, inviting and eager. “The blood could grant you all your power, that you might grant us-”

“Pass.” Bill says dismissively. The knife flashes, and there’s a wet, solid ‘thunk’.

Dipper catches a brief glimpse of the priest’s face - stuck in shock, pale and lined with age - just before his body falls to the floor, as limp as a ragdoll. The knife handle in his chest props him up at a weird angle, before a swift kick from a black shoe sends it tumbling down the short three steps of the dais.

Dipper cringes into a smaller ball, trying to scrunch himself into invisibility. He watches Bill pass in front of him, standing in front of the crowd. The hand rests on a hip, while the other is raised out of site. Still far, far too close.

On the one hand, Bill’s examining the congregation. Distracted, for a moment. Staying out of his attention is so, so great.

Dipper curls up in a much, much tighter ball despite that.

In every single one of his plans to get out of here, Bill Cipher existing wasn’t a factor. Much less his actual, physical presence. All he’d ever thought about was how this was bullshit, that the people he knew were awful - and how hopefully, nobody would notice if he left. Now the ‘god’ himself is here. Standing so near Dipper he could, if he wanted, stupidly touch the hem of his pants.

A distant, insane part of him chimes in with the stupid idea that it’s nothing to really worry about.

Like, compared to how he’s still losing blood, for example.

Right. Staunch first, panic later.

Dipper wraps his sleeve around his arm, as subtly as he can, teeth gritted. His first priority is to stop bleeding. No escape plan - or any plan for that matter - is going to be useful if he dies.

The immensely powerful nightmare god is also a problem, obviously. But in this moment he’s not the immediate threat.

“Hmmm.” Bill lets out a low, contemplative hum. It resonates in the room, with how deathly silent things have become. “Let’s see here…”

After a pause, he snaps his fingers. “Stand!”

The entire congregation leaps to their feet. One of them stumbles and gets a swift kick in the side.

“Sit!” Bill commands. Everyone drops to the floor. A low chuckle, then, “Turn around three times and bark like a dog!”

Oh, now that won’t -

Or maybe it will. Dipper cringes, back pressed against the altar. Don’t just comply, what the hell. Sure it’s a magical god-being, but - fuck. He watches the scene with a grimace.

Bill, though, seems to be having a great time. He’s bouncing in place, voice bright with enthusiasm. “Do a little dance! Twist yourself until your joints snap! Hell, start a fight with the guy next to you!”

There’s havoc in the room of ritual. Robed figures practically fall all over themselves, and Dipper notes with a nauseating turn that some of them have drawn knives of their own. Chaos reigns; an entire scramble to do each possible thing, all at once.

And Bill’s laughter rings out over everything, clapping his hands in delight.

Dipper’s trapped in this room with an insane madman, leading a horde of equally insane idiots, and he doesn’t have a way out. He hopes he’ll stay out of notice. He hopes that he’ll live through the next five minutes.

There’s no controlling the situation, but he can improve his odds.

The altar’s pretty close, and Bill’s turned away, for the moment. Dipper scoots back, inching himself towards the corner. With enough shuffling, he might be able to move behind it and get out of sight.

“Welp,” Bill claps his hands again, this time with finality. Some of the chaos stills. “You’re all annoying, boring little vermin, but maybe you guys could improve. I noticed the blood you used to summon me was real choice stuff!” The exaggerated sound of a kiss. “Very nice.”

Dipper feels sweat building up in his robes, and tries to be very still. Basically part of the ritual scenery. Anonymous furniture, at best.

“In fact. It was so nice.” The voice continues, at a lower tone. Almost a purr. There’s a clack of shoes on stone. “Let’s see who this little treat is!”

The god seizes Dipper’s wrist - the wounded one, sending a bolt of pain down his arm - and clamps his palm around it, incredibly tight.

Before he knows it, Dipper’s standing again, involuntarily, staring past his hood into a bright, glowing eye.

He’s meeting his god. He’s been noticed by Bill Cipher.

So far he’s not trembling, so. That’s one thing he has going for him.

Bill’s eye flicks down, then up again, almost thoughtful. Any question about his power is quickly tossed aside, because holy shit; the magic is nearly palpable, thrumming into Dipper’s skin and making his heart race.

He’s also sporting a bright, wide grin, in a face that makes Dipper do a double-take.

Like. He thought - he glances at the triangle on the back of the wall, then to the person in front of him.

Okay, it’s said that Bill Cipher can take any form he wants, human included, but, like. What?

Thankfully, Bill doesn’t seem to notice any of the insane, stupid things Dipper is thinking. All he does is raise his hand, and with one quick motion, sweep the hood off of Dipper’s head.

Dipper flinches back. Jaw clenched, eye shut.

Shit, shit, shit. Special attention. All the scenarios he can think of say ‘not good’. Best case scenario, it’s because Bill wants to thank him, for... Whatever his blood did. The rest of them involve increasingly terrifying ideas about what ‘nice blood’ means, and how much of it Bill might want. All of it, say. Maybe immediately.

Dipper can’t pull away, not with such a strong hold on his arm. Fighting is downright dumb. Trembling’s happening, despite his best efforts, and the intrusive thought bubbles up that, hey, at least there’s lots of pressure on his wound. Could be worse.

Nothing happens. For several seconds.

Eventually, Dipper peeks an eye open.

There’s Bill Cipher, looking back at him. His eye is literally lit up, the pleased grin wide on his face.

Dipper waits for an order, but the god doesn’t speak. He just wiggles his eyebrows. If anything, he looks oddly… expectant?

Fuck. Dipper has to do something.

What the hell, there isn’t any doctrine for this.

Sure, he knows all of the catechism, and each chant he was taught. He’s got an encyclopedic memory of everything he was taught about this powerful interdimensional god-being, he knows every ritual back and forth. The tenets spring to mind, unbidden: Be obedient, speak his words, serve him in all ways - and most of all, don’t think.

But Dipper can’t chant. He hasn’t been told to do anything yet. And though it’d be a death sentence, if serving involves more bleeding he’d be tempted to kick again. Hell, he literally just watched everyone else trying the other bits. They did exactly what they were supposed to, and that was ‘boring’.

He never could stop thinking, though.

Now, his mind is racing.

A little-known and never-preached fact about Bill Cipher is that he doesn’t, actually, like rules all that much -

So.

Dipper offers a hesitant, closed-mouth smile. He wiggles the fingers of his free hand, a bit awkwardly, in greeting.

Then ducks his head again, wishing he still had a hood to cover his face.

That didn’t make it weird, right? That’s a normal, devout thing to do. Coming from a totally religious guy, who’s only slightly damp from all the sweating.

“Oh.” Bill’s voice lowers to something like a purr. He tucks a knuckle under Dipper’s chin, lifting him to meet his single eye again. An eye that’s glowing now, bright gold and half-lidded. “Ten outta ten on the offering, guys. Very cute.”

Which is a little weird, but probably -

“Y’know what?” And Bill’s grin widens, bright and wild, as his thumb strokes Dipper’s chin. “I like this one.”

Uh oh.

Dipper tries sinking down into his oversized robes, but Bill just fishes around inside them until he can pull Dipper up again by his undershirt.

“In fact,” Bill declares, sounding proud. He pulls Dipper in closer, hand still clamped painfully tight on his wounded wrist. “I’m gonna keep him.”

What?

Immediately after that declaration, Dipper’s tugged in close, thumping against his side. Bill turns to start barking orders at the congregation, sharp and sneering.

Dipper can’t quite parse it. He’s still running over the last few words in his head.

In the ritual room, the candles flare even higher, temperature rising to an uncomfortable degree. Dipper watches two worshipers collide with each other in their frantic obedience, and can’t even laugh about it.

‘Keep’, Bill said.

What does that mean? Everything here is already ‘Bill’s’, in a way. But the way he said it sounded… oddly specific.

A hopeful part of Dipper chimes in that it might just mean ‘not let him bleed out’, but he’s never been that lucky before, and there’s no reason it would start now.

With everything else going on. With the presence of a god. e.

The cultists are bustling about; a few of them deposit things near Bill’s feet, like gifts upon the altar. Boxes, totems, more lit candles that Bill idly kicks over onto one of their robes, watching them flail at the sudden burst of fire.

Eventually, Bill considered the task ‘done’, or close enough. He sighs, shaking his head. “About time, guys! Talk about slow. Hard to get good followers these days.”

Bill clicks his tongue in distaste, then snaps his fingers.

Dipper hears a weird ‘zmmm’ sound to his left. He notices that Bill’s suit is really soft material, and also that he probably shouldn’t be grabbing it like this.

He doesn’t dare look at the sound. Not when Bill’s turned towards him with smug pride, like he’s pulled off a plan without a hitch.

“Man, it's only been fifteen minutes, and I’ve had it with these losers.” Bill gives the congregation a look of disgust, then turns back to Dipper. That grin reemerges like the sunrise. “Screw these guys, am I right?”

This time, Dipper’s smile is involuntary. He quashes it fast, but not before Bill notices.

“That’s what I thought.” Bill says, with deep pleasure. He takes a step closer to the altar, pulling Dipper along with a surprising lack of force. “So! What’d’ya say we ditch this joint?”

Dipper doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what’s been happening, either, other than it’s all been going way too fast.

But Bill Cipher is looking at him, still. Present, powerful. Eager for a response.

Dipper just shrugs.

He wouldn’t know what to say even if he still had his tongue.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Bill says, eminently pleased. Pulling Dipper in closer, with an arm suddenly around his waist. “Hold on tight! It ain’t a bumpy ride, but it’s a weird one.”

Dipper follows as he walks. Partly on automatic, and partly because what the hell else is he supposed to do?

About three steps in, he realizes they’re both walking on thin air, towards and over the altar.

He jerks his head over, blinking at the source of that ‘zmm’ sound.

Because of course summoning am interdimensional god-being would leave a remnant. He had to come from somewhere.

Like, say, a weird red-yellow gap in space, with nonsense things flung around in a black and bizarre starscape. Dipper catches a glimpse of something with two many limbs, and of a series of screaming mouths with no bodies, and a duck and a grandfather clock, tumbling through the air.

It’s almost like it might be a nightmare dimension. Who could have thought.

With nothing else to cling to, his free hand clamps Bill’s shoulder, tight.

“You’re my guest for the next while, sapling.” Bill says, squeezing him tight in return as he steps in - and drags Dipper alongside him, stalking into the portal. “Glad to have you!”

#Let's see if I have any fun facts here #I am very tired!#I meant to sit on this and edit it more but I am Posting because of Reasons #Blame one of my cats for this #Sorry about all the setup #The next chapter which I have already started is where the REAL fun happens #In that whenever I think of some of the plot points I cackle and think 'Get Loved On Idiot'#So that's a hint as to what happens #Man I can never think of fun facts while I'm posting. Only afterwards #Anyway I hope this was a reasonably enjoyable read!

360 notes · View notes