#reset arc

[ringingfromthefuture]

[!! Woe! Steven be upon ye! He’s probably near by! Chip, lookie !!]

@ask-steven-stevenson

“Oh! Hello, hello, sir! Might you be the phone I was expecting as visit from? Steven, was it?”

[the-professional-cocomeloner]

Augusnippets Day 11: Breaking the Conditioning

Cecil is still not entirely herself, not even after being restored.

content warnings: - nothing, besides like. idk maybe really minor body horror ??

(link to Ao3 version)

@augusnippets

--

Mark’s okay with it. As long as you’re still you, even a little bit. Don’t worry; I know how it feels. It’s okay. 

Cecil feels their form tremble a little. It’s okay. 

◜ It’s okay, ◞ they repeat, just for posterity. 

To their side, Mark stirs a little, iridescent fragments clinking sleepily against each other. His own form has fallen apart a little bit just from tiredness, a gaping void of floating teeth and distant shards of glass standing in for their face. Cecil used to wish that there was more of Mark there, that the Evangelist’s voice sounded more like her friend’s, that the shape of the Dominion’s face was more familiar and whole and human. 

She curls a little further into herself. Selfish idiot. 

⍒ Cecil? ⍋ Mark murmurs in his true voice, razor-sharp glass sliding painlessly against skin. ⍒ You alright? ⍋ 

The Virtue swallows thickly, then nods. Its insides stir a little, nervous-excited at the slightest movement of their Evangelist. It’s only instinct, but it feels bigger inside of them, somehow, simultaneously closer to their center and to their outsides. 

◜ Jjust… feeling stupid. It’s nnothing new. ◞ 

A frigidly warm claw gently takes their hand; it feels warm because Cecil’s skin is still the approximate temperature of an ice cube, so even Mark—who’s only marginally warmer than a refrigerator on half power most days—feels like a blanket after coming out of the dryer. 

⍒ That means you’re you, ⍋ the Dominion replies. ⍒ …You can let go, if you want. ⍋ There is a laugh like wind chimes as they gesture to their own lack-of-a-face. ⍒ Not like I’m the picture of stable humanity right now, either.  ⍋ 

Cecil reaches simultaneously for the tightly-wound red warmth within himself—the warm, fuzzy, red lifeline that Mark gave them, the only reason they’re themself at all right now—and for Mark, limbs grasping at his friend’s. Mark accepts their embrace, even as Cecil’s humanity unravels like a spool of thread and the countless silky layers of the Virtue’s true form envelops him. 

◜ Uh… thank you. ◞ 

⍒ No worries. ⍋ Something like a smile with no face and too many teeth. ⍒ Good night, Cece. ⍋ 

◜ Nighty-night, dumbass. ◞ 

There is an odd sort of sensation against one of Cecil’s ever-flowing appendages. 

◜ Did you just try to shove at me? ◞ 

⍒ …Shut up and go to sleep. ⍋

[askfallenroyalty]

Well... Toriel hasn't exhibited any memories... yet.

[ask-the-monochrome-boys]

Fine Edd let's make it easier Kiss, Fuck,Marry outta your 3 roommates

Edd stays silent for a moment, now that he was seemingly able to avert from being completely honest, he was debating whether he should be truthful. This was rather personal to him after all. Then again, he already answered a question like this…

“K-kiss Tord, f- screw Tom… m-marry Matt. A-and don’t t-tell any of them I s-said this!” He responds softly, as he let Matt get the snacks and went to turn on the tv in the living room. He was flushed red. 

[ringingfromthefuture]

[[HEY CHIP! JUMPSCARE! Guess who’s at your office door!!]]

@the-desolate-location

BONK. Gives him his phone head back. Eat dirt Scott. He shakes his head before looking up, tail swishing behind him.

“H- Hello again, sir! Do you need something..?”

[ringingfromthefuture]

[[THROWS SCOTT IN. He’s still.. human! Yeah.]]

“See. I promised to check up on you.. or whatever, so I’m here.”

@the-desolate-location

“Hello, hello, sir! Welcome to Benny Bazfenders! You may have the wrong person! I don’t think I know you!”

[the-professional-cocomeloner]

Day 10: Execution (of sorts)/Begging for Mercy

content warnings: - character being stripped of their identity so basically dying. so that's execution right ?

(link to Ao3 version here)

@augusnippets

--

“Wh-what?”

WELL.

It comes from the direction of what is no longer (and perhaps never had been; perhaps it had always been a facade, perhaps he’d never even existed in the first place—) Father Bernard, but it is nothing resembling sound, not even speech so much as being, a physical sensation rippling not just the air but all of reality around and into itself, tightening Cecil’s throat as though it were telephone cord. There is blinding light—light Cecil could feel despite not seeing—pouring from every one of the “Father”’s orifices, Its human exterior melting into something no human could witness and come out sane—or alive. 

YOU’VE BEEN CAUSING US SOME TROUBLE, “CECIL IGLESIAS.”

Cecil stares up with sightless eyes, every other sensation fading into obscurity around them; the smell of dusty prayer books in their nose, the taste of sweet-terror-blood dry in their mouth, Mark saying something somewhere behind them (and Mark can’t hear It, she realizes. He’s talking to me alone.), even the ground beneath them—it’s all gone. There is only the tiny insignificant speck of Cecil Iglesias and above and below and around and within and speaking unto that speck, there is God. 

Cecil shrinks back, or feels a mental twinge that’s probably them physically shrinking back, trying to escape the inescapable gaze of their Creator. She tries to say something, anything, but can only release a pathetic sort of off-hook tone, a continuous beep of despair and desperation and—

⍒ Cecil? ⍋ 

Cecil jumps—nearly out of his own skin, in the most literal sense of the phrase—and everything rushes back, the church and the pews and the dust and the fear—her fear—and Mark and the floor holding them up and God, too, because It would not go away so easily. 

◜ MMark. ◞ Cecil can’t pry his eyes away from God, despite lacking the sight that would warrant their staring up at Him. Behind her, she senses Mark taking a step forward, claws and fangs unsheathing, as though even a Dominion could do anything to the God that created it. 

NOW, OUR EVANGELIST, WATCH CLOSELY.

Something prickles at the back of Cecil’s neck. 

WE JUST WISH TO SHOW YOU THE TRUTH. THIS VIRTUE IS NO MORE CECIL IGLESIAS THAN ANY OTHER ANGEL. 

It isn’t the familiar control of their Evangelist; not the cold, ice-glass-teeth sensation running down their spine that she had grown used to, that she’d trained herself to sink into and allowed to twist the blind servant into deadly layers of hungry shadow—this is startlingly warm, almost comfortable at first, then the fuzziness quickly gives way to molten-hot burning that drips down his spine, sinking into the spaces between their bones, seizing them for Their own—wait—wait—

“W-wait,” and now Cecil finally finds the self-control to whirl around on the altar (when had she come up to it?), eyes wide, too late, with God’s sovereignty spreading through their limbs in a steady drip of mind-searing numbness, “no, I’m not—I-I don’t—” they grasp blindly at the air, stumbling, panic seizing up their remaining muscles, because darkness is already beginning to unravel their form into flowing, abstract shapes, “—wait, PLEASE— ◜ MARK!” ◞ Their final lifeline. If anyone could—somehow—if— ◜ “MARK, H—” ◞ 

The burning pitch-black reaches their face, leaking out of the Virtue’s purely nonfunctional pupils and spilling over like an overflowing cup, swallowing up the entirety of the angel’s human facade and scorching out the flicker of humanity it had been clinging so feebly to. 

Just before its legs completely lose definition, the angel falls forward onto its knees before its Evangelist; and then even the silhouette Cecil Iglesias is consumed, and finally, finally, they are truly, wholly, irrevocably dead.

[askfallenroyalty]

at least he knows not to try and kill you now