#only grief. only rage. how dare you call upon it

[lcvelust]

Normalcy / The Black Brothers

Regulus couldn’t forgive his brother to an extent.

“Reg? Reg!” You called through the quiet night, panting as you placed your hands on your knees; the chilly air making your skin crawl after it had burned from your sprint. You stared at Regulus as puffs of air escaped you in mists of white, feet propelling onto the ground as if you’d been frosted over.

“What’re you doing..? What– who’s that?” You breathlessly whispered, eyes digging into the back of the unknown person’s head.

Regulus looked as if he was in denial, specks of fear lining his irises that held that of a fog on a cloudy day, his perfectly arched brows furrowed in confusion. Words were stuck in his throat, hesitance clear as day through his thinned lips, tongue unwilling to unravel.

“Siri?”

He muttered into the stillness of the land, voice as fragile as a thread that was ready to snap at any given moment. His stomach twisted painfully as he forced the syllables out of his mouth, acidic, his heart twinging at the prospect of what his brother had done.

Slowly, the figure turned, its black hood gently falling to his shoulders. His long, raven hair flowed freely in the breeze, toppled with snow as it cascaded down his face that was masked from the kiss of the wind— the intricate wood carvings of his vizard shining bright under the dim moonlight.

You could only watch in shock as the expression on Regulus’ face morphed instantly, the visible fright that he wore melting into one of loathing. A sneer replaced the frown that had etched itself upon his lips, an emotion that both him and Sirius had grown all too familiar with.

He had glared with so much intensity that in a flurry of time, your eyes blurred, for the familiar face of Orion Black, though he couldn’t have been physically there, was dizzying.

Regulus snapped you out of your daze before the image of their father completely slithered into your brain to sink its fangs into your thoughts, jabbing at Sirius’ chest harshly, caring not of his surroundings. “What do you think you’re doing, parading into an assembly like that?”

“Reggie..”

“You could’ve been killed. You’re most fortunate the Dark Lord knows not of your presence.” Regulus locked eyes with Sirius angrily, the snow swirling between the three of you in furious gusts seemingly battling him of his rage.

He hadn’t even let Sirius retaliate before he continued on, spite blossoming on the pits of his chest, a gaping hole instead of a heart that beats. “Ever since we were kids, you’ve been so defiant of our parent’s ideologies. How come you’ve changed your views so suddenly?” He challenged, “how much longer are you going to keep pretending?”

Sirius’ hands balled into fists, his patience fraying like old fabric. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he thought. The wind howled, whispering in his ears like a dull mantra, but it felt nothing compared to the tempest raging inside of him. “Just let me explain, please,” he let out desperately, his voice low and steady, dripping with a lack of venom that his brother had used against him.

Sirius hadn’t waited for a response, stepping forward before grabbing Regulus on the arm with a grip that was that of a vice; unyielding.

With a wave of his wand, his mask disappeared off and into the air, a vulnerability glittering in his eyes he had never dared muster in Grimmauld. “Don’t be mad,”

“How couldn’t I be?” Regulus asked, a quiver of his lips present. His eyes didn’t brim with tears easily, he had valiantly fought back: you will yourself to look between them. You wish you hadn’t. The grief that swam in their storms would be enough to haunt you for the rest of your life.

Though, for the first time in years, Sirius looked as if he had his mind set on something. He wanted— no, needed, for his brother to understand.

He had left him in that cruel house with so much anguish, so much hatred for the circumstances he was left in. Deep down, you both knew that it wasn’t Sirius’ fault, it never could’ve been. He’d experienced such abuse that it drove him out, walking out of his parent’s lives without looking back at anything he had ever needed to look after for and more. Closing the door to leave his little brother to fend for himself.

But everything had changed now, it was as obvious as the rising of the sun.

“I did this for you,” Sirius muttered gently, bunching up the black sleeve that hung to shield his left forearm from the cold. His fingers trembled, and with a deliberate motion, he revealed his pale skin that lay beneath the confines of the fabric, the Dark Mark branded in sinister detail.

Regulus seemed to choke back what sounded like a sob racking through his body, not believing of his older brother’s unbecoming. You held onto his shoulders.

“..Why?” He had forced out, the words tumbling out of his throat in a low, grating, voice— almost a screech he’d recognized to be akin to his mother’s. “Why do you keep doing this, Sirius? I don’t.. I can’t understand! You left me be, remember? Why are you suddenly back into my life, now, when I’ve learned to breathe without the thought of you suffocating me?”

Sirius stared at Regulus, his hand still resting on his brother’s arm, the cold seemingly pressing in on them from all sides, as if the world on itself was holding its breath.

“Reg,” Sirius whispered, his voice breaking just slightly, “I’m trying to protect you now, because I.. I know that I was wrong. So wrong.”

“You still are, Siri. There’s a possibility that I’d lose my brother a second time.” Regulus’ expression softened, just barely, before he turned away, his shoulders slumping. “And I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that.”

The snow continued to swirl around them, but for once, it felt like the moment was finally coming to a standstill.

“I don’t expect you to,” Sirius said quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil of emotions mushing with the organs inside of his stomach. “But, it’s better me than you. I’ve failed at protecting you once; and I’m here for a chance to redeem myself, I’ll be here for as long as you’ll let me. I won’t leave you again, Regulus. I swear it.”

There was a long pause, and for a fleeting second, it felt like Regulus might say something more, but the moments passed with him gently prying Sirius’ hand off, letting the distance between the both of them grow once more as the night stretched on.

Sirius stood there, watching his brother disappear down the mountain with a tugging of his heartstrings, a throb from his mind. He looked pitiful. His brother was slipping through his fingers again, and he hadn’t quite held him close yet.

He turned to you, offering a faint, strained smile. “I thought I’d meet you again under vastly different circumstances. I’m sorry.” He spoke tenderly, a sliver of hurt threading through his words.

You nodded, the pain in your own heart too deep for you to find your voice. “It’s alright, Black. Forget it.”

Sirius’ gaze settled on your figure, a bitter chuckle escaping him. “I ought to.”

[feyhunter78]

Trials of Tributes (15/?)

Description: You fulfilled your promise now it's time for Aemond to start fulfilling his.

You held Viserys tightly to you, Aemond’s chest pressed to your back, Vhagar’s wings cutting through the air as she swooped down towards the water, causing Viserys to let out a delighted squeal. Dreamfyre followed, keeping above the ship that housed her rider, and other members of the court.

You were unsure of how Aemond so easily convinced his mother to allow two of her remaining children to depart for Dragonstone, but had a feeling Aemond had not given her much of a choice. Viserys and Jaeheara were seven years of age, both without dragons. You worried for Jaeheara, her own dragon had been killed, many dragons had been killed with only Dreamfyre able to escape. The girl seemed shy around them, preferring to ride in a wheelhouse or ship over her mother or uncle’s dragons.

“Helaena has been too sick with grief to ride her dragon, Jahaera does not know of the connection that can be forged, but in time she will.” Aemond had told you, when you voiced your worries to him, as you packed Viserys’ belongings into a trunk.

Viserys himself, bright, and brimming with excitement seemed to have forgotten the damage dragons can cause, enamored by the tales of glory and the connection between Aemond and Vhagar.

No Targaryen or Velaryon blood ran through your veins, you would never have a dragon, and at times felt along the vein as the Dowager Queen did. It was foolish to attempt to rule the skies, the heavens were for the gods, not man.

“When we arrive, will I get to choose a dragon then?” Viserys asked, craning his neck to look at Aemond.

Aemond gave him a fond smile. He had made Viserys wait to claim a dragon, a mere few months, to ensure that he and Jaehaera trusted one another enough to stand together in the face of a dragon. “We must greet our host, your uncle, first. He has been quite anxious to meet my bride and her child.”

Daeron the Daring, they had called him during the war. He had broken formation and come to his mother and Grandsire’s rescue, preventing King’s Landing from falling into the hands of The Blacks. It had been a barbarous battle, Tessarion and Vhagar fighting Syrax and Caraxes with a ferocity unseen since the Conqueror’s reign. Despite the relentless bloodlust that was said to enter the eyes of the prince at the sight of his mother’s peril, all praised him as a kind man. Aemond spoke fondly of him, citing him and Helaena among his favorites of his family. Now he ruled Dragonstone, a gift from Aemond when he ascended to the throne.

“We will greet him, then Jaeharea and I will run, and run, and run, until we find our dragons.” Viserys said happily, his eyes drifting down to the ship, a small speck of silver you assumed to be Jaeharea on the deck.

“Why would you need to run? Does that help hasten the bond?” You asked, a comical image of ten-year-old Aemond running alongside a flying Vhagar filled your mind, and you bit back a giggle.

“Lord Hightower said that was what my kind does. He said the Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon ran when they danced with Kepa and Kepus Daeron’s dragons.” The words were said so lightly, as if he did not speak of the gruesome death of her parents.

Truly you felt you should correct him, tell him to call them by their familial titles and not by their formal names, out of respect for the dead, but a stronger feeling surged forward.

“Lord Hightower told you that it was what your kind does, runs when around dragons?” You felt the slow trickle of rage, a protectiveness that you had been nurturing since you first laid eyes upon the boy.

Otto had never been fond of you, never deemed you an intelligent or suitable match for his grandson, and his hatred of the Rouge Prince seemed not to have died with the man but lived on, finding purchase in Viserys.

“Yes, and he laughed, but I did not understand the joke. Jaehaera seemed to, though, but she would not explain it to me.” He said, his brows furrowed but soon smoothed as he smiled up at you.

He was a darling child, sweet and forgiving, seeking goodness in others as a flower seeks the sun.

“Otto is old, his mind must be going, pay him no mind.” You said sharply, sharper than you intended, a flash of hurt across Viserys’ face.

You leaned down and brushed a kiss to his temple. “You will not need to run, kepa will guide you.”

“I will speak with my grandsire when we arrive, I swear to you.” Aemond whispered, his lips to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

This was not the only promise Aemond had made regarding your arrival at Dragonstone. As soon as Vhagar had touched down, and Viserys was following the guards out towards the incoming ship, Aemond beckoned you into an alcove, away from the eyes of others.

“Aemond you cannot allow your grandsire to say such cruel things to our son. Viserys is your son in all but blood—he is your blood, though you are not his father, he sees you as such, and it is callous to stand by while your grandsire torments him.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest. You had grown bolder in your time as queen, more willing to go against Aemond’s desires when you truly believed the battle worth fighting.

“I will speak with him, tell him not to speak with Viserys unless his words are kind.” He reassured you, a smile tugging at his lips, as he admired the fire in your eyes.

You smiled back, softening under his devoted gaze. “I thank you, husband. For your words, and for all this.” You motioned to the courtyard, to the gateway he provided for your son.

Aemond nodded, cupping your face, his thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks possessively. “There is a great, painted table, a map of the realm, in a room with soaring windows, I wish to take you upon it, claim my wife over and over atop the physical representation of my realm. If she would be obliged to thank me in such a way.”

You had long since made the connection between Aemond’s lust for you and power, between his desire to be loved and affirmed in his role. Not only as husband, but king.

You leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering as his hypnotic voice swept over you, each word spoken softly and coated in desire.

“If she would allow her husband to do such a thing, to take her upon the realm, he would burn for her.” He purred, one hand sliding down, down, down, beneath your skirts as he pressed your back to the wall.

“My husband knows quite well; I would allow him to do all he wished.” You gasped, pitch rising when he hiked your leg up and pressed your core to his, his cock half hard against you.

“So very obedient, my sweet wife, perhaps we shall conceive a child upon the painted table, a child of the realm.” He groaned quietly, his forehead resting against yours. “You would take me so well as I seeded you, beg me to spill within you, keep me within you until you drain me of all seed and thought.”

You moaned quietly at his words, Aemond’s hips beginning to move, a slow grinding motion that makes your breath hitch.

“And what a perfect mother you would be, so beautifully swelled and flushed with health, the blood of my child within you, the flames of a Targaryen sheltered within such a divine form.”

“Aem—” He cuts you off with a hand over your mouth.

The sound of footsteps rapidly approaching has him stepping back in a hurry, attempting to straighten himself out.

“Brother, I was wondering where you were hiding.”

Taglist: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhh, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon, @boofy1998, @kravitzwhore, @caribbeangel, @krispold, @issshh, @afro-hispwriter, @ryswritingrecord, @prettykinkysoul, @elissanatok, @sahvlren, @its-sam-allgood, @happinessinthbeing, @8e-h-e8, @feyres-fireheart, @just-emmaaaa, @crazylokonugget, @hedahobbit98, @devils-blackrose, @mercedesdecorazon, @snh96, @imjustboredso, @izzicle, @hiatuswhore, @aslanvez, @devils-blackrose, @yentroucnagol, @queenofshinigamis, @partyposion00, @cryptidsrcool, @jennifer0305

[credince--writes]

mor·tal·i·ty Chapter 1

Masterlist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!OC x John "Soap" MacTavish

Description:

TF141 has been disbanded, and they have returned to civilian life, forming a PMC company focused on logistical consulting of the operations they once preformed. John MacTavish never truly recovered from the accident, and never let Simon back in to pick up the pieces that were left. Camile Ford had never been one to bend the whims of morals, never stepping to close to dance with the fire of her own mortality. But divinity calls her name, and she's never been one to ignore the higher powers calling her name.

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Johnny never really recovered from that last mission. Enough was evident by the time they’d been dispersed back to their homes, respectively. Two weeks of no contact had been enough to warrant Simon breaking into his flat with a credit card and the meat of his shoulder- opening the door to a studio flat that smelled like old beer and piss.

He dosen’t remember what happened, exactly. But he does know it was enough for Simon to force him into the back of his car, stuff a duffel bag full of his dirty laundry scattered around the floor. One framed photo that’d long since been knocked off the wall in a fit of rage, shattered on the floor. He can only imagine the infuriating look of pity and disgust displayed on Simon’s face as he entered the room, finding him rotting on a mattress Johnny hadn’t dared to even put a fitted sheet on. He was a bad dog. He didn’t deserve the comfort of civilian life. He needed to be muzzled, and locked in a kennel.

He needed to be left to rot, to pick the flesh off of his bones and weep.

Beg for forgiveness.

They had all left the service, after that last mission. It hadn’t been all at the same time- but it had been staggered closely enough that he wasn’t able to hide from the faces of his previous teammates nearly long enough. Truly hadn’t even scratched the surface of his grief before he was being wrestled out of bed, kicking, screaming, biting and snarling trying to solicit any reaction from his lieutenant. He wanted to be met with retaliation, anger, spite. He wanted to be punished. He wanted to have the pain he craved inflicted upon him.

He was met with love.

He despised it.

Every time he fought back, every time he bared his teeth trying to lash out with any kind of hurt he could think  to warrant a reaction- he was met with nothing but softened brown eyes and a tone of forgiveness. I know how hard this is for you Johnny, and I won’t let you go through this alone. I love you.

Seven months into their broken, codependent and avoidant, hate and love, thing. Simon’s phone rang while Johnny sat at the island of their shared apartment, staring intently at the cup of steaming liquid in front of him. The side glance Simon had given him as he stepped out of the room panged someone deep at his pride- the adults were talking, obviously Simon couldn’t risk him being within earshot. Laswell calling in a favor, exchanging into something more of an opportunity to fill a needed void- one they had probably contributed too.

He’d found out, not much later that Laswell had set Price up in a fancy little office. Fit the big ol’ mustache into a suit, shined shoes and combed hair to create some type of consulting security company out of the states. What that really meant was- a front for a deep rooted PMC system that trained, or consulted to whatever Laswells file dictated. Much more separated from the boots in the sand, blood dripping down skin approach Simon had been used to in the past- however he’d found solace in the pen against paper. Fingers tapping against keys, assistants, meetings, some type of purpose in life that hadn’t directly come from the value of him, personally, at least, dragging a knife through the cartilage and arteries of his victims throat.

It was at this point Johnny had simply swayed between not caring about anything- and violent bouts for independence from the smothering weight of it’s ok, and i’ll love you regardless of the words you don’t mean.

He very much means them, and he puts every ounce of willpower into throwing as much bile against the man. Somewhere between realizing that he truly had let himself go- and Simon’s surprising ability to overpower him just by grabbing him by the back of the neck and pinning him to any surface to get him to stop from his own self destructive tendencies, did he realize how he could hurt the man- and make it stick.

And he left.

A note, scratched out onto paper.

You can’t love what never loved you back.

[writer-of-the-lamb]

I have another scenario for you, this time it's more angsty and serious. I've seen through the game the Bishops even after they came back to life still don't show any show of regret about the lamb kind genocide. There's not a moment when I don't think how angry Lamb would be to have the same murderers of his kind still acting like when they were Gods and having no amount of shame of what they have done. Under their eyes Lamb would show his darkest face of the lamb who lost everything. The Bishops would see the most powerful God that has existed while Narinder sees a little lamb in grief.

thank u so much for this! i adore the idea AHH

the softness in narinder after that kibd of realisation

"little lamb in grief" :(

adore it!

also merry christmas! hope you like this.

----

The firelit cult site was silent. Not a single star in the sky dared to look upon the scene before them. Roars and smashes came from inside the church, the followers unable to leave their shelters, as commanded by the lamb hours ago.

He had come from a crusade, carrying with him the material to create a statue of victory - all of the bishops had been slaughtered. However instead of a usual celebration, the lamb was eerily quiet, commanding everyone to a sleep through a ritual he promised was "for the best."

Narinder anxiously paced outside the church. The bleats from inside did not feel joyous as they usually were when the lamb happily cried to show him his latest accomplishment.

This was different. This was violent.

The cries were dark. Enraged, strong, broken.

The warm glow of red magic would flash and flicker through the double doors, causing Narinder to wince every time he turned.

He had not seen his siblings since he'd been chained and banished. Resentment was there, of course...but he had grown curious as to why they were not recruited like many other heretics the lamb had dealt with.

Narinder had nothing in his heart for them. Whether murdered or harvested, he could not care less, but alike a cat, he wondered and pried into whatever he could to discover the bishops' fate.

So here he was, listening to an outburst reminding him of the rage he had felt above after being outcast.

Narinder squeezed his eyes shut as the earth vibrated, taking a few steps closer to the door. He pressed his outstretched palm into the wood, followed by his forehead.

"Lamb." he called softly in a deep rumble.

The cries halted with heaving breaths. "What." came a low hiss from inside.

"Your temper is becoming foolish."

The doors flung open, jerking Narinder back onto the grass.

Before him, bathed in ruby light, was no lamb he had known before. Eyes red and weeping, fleece mangled with blood and rage, figure taller than his.

And behind him was a massacre.

Leshy, pinned behind camellia vine, coughed up the petals in a choked cry, whereas a dark puddle of water held Kallamar's unconscious figure. Heket, he recognised, her throat wounds stretched open to a new degree. Shamura was there too, their own web caught around their neck in what looked like an attempt at hanging.

All of them, seemingly alive, stared at Narinder with a horror and pleading gaze.

The lamb, eyes gleaming, calmed his breath. "What do you want." he demanded.

Narinder looked up at him through his brow. "You are angry." he said simply.

"He is no lamb I have known." Leshy spat, calling hoarsely.

"Because I am the only one who fought." The lamb replied, turning to him. He raised his hand, a flurry of black ichor following his palm. "And all of them will be set free when you are struck into the ground and mud from whence you ca-"

"Lamb." Narinder walked forward, ignoring Leshy's begging whimpers. "I understand." he said, eyebrows knitted in emotion foreign to him.

The lamb's gaze hardened, the ichor still swarming his arm. "You could not understand. You ordered this on me. Their souls went to you."

Narinder clenched his jaw, straining his eyes to avoid looking at the terrifyingly large amount of power inching toward him.

"Then why not kill him too." Shamura spat, coughing against the webbing. "You have had your fun with us. He was the one being fuelled by your cursed brethren."

The lamb flicked his hand, sending the ichor splattering onto Shamura, who hacked and coughed against it.

Leshy whimpered again, struggling against the vines of his own flower.

"I know why he won't kill him." came a shaking voice from Kallamar, shoving his head from the puddle he lay in. "We're immortal." he hissed. "Narinder can't die like the rest of the sheep you cared for."

Narinder's eyes flicked to the lamb's, heart sinking slowly. He touched his paw to the fleece, earning a flinch from the lamb.

"Lamb," he said again, looking into the furious red eyes, "A God can defeat everything but the past. No anger will win. Believe me, I know." he added, the bishops' eyes staring daggers to him.

"You are insane! He is no God, no lamb, that is a devil. A monster. A creature of the depths and darkne-" "HE IS A LAMB." Narinder bellowed, silencing Shamura and the others. The lamb turned to him, his eyes loosing their glow.

"He is a lamb. Like you are a spider, you a toad, you a worm and you a squid. He is not only a lamb, he is the lamb. The last." Narinder's eyes narrowed. "There is a knowing rage within oneself when your kind is erased. Why I am not punished, I do not know. But you have hurt him more than I."

Shamura growled against the webs, seething. "You are soft and weak. Predator turned prey."

The lamb stepped in front of Narinder. "Like I as prey turned predator." he whispered. "I have mercy for every follower I find, for they have never killed for evils. Righteousness some, defence some, but never evil, unlike you with my kind."

"Oh, but you are the embodiment of it, lamb. You are the evil. And we are the fear. They will soon be, too." They muttered, nodding to the church doors.

The lamb's breathing picked up once more.

Narinder clasped the lamb's hand in his own. "Leave. Leave and go to the pond, I will finish them."

The lamb's eyes softened. "For evil?" he asked, voice pained.

"No," Narinder looked deep into his eyes. "For justice. For you."

"Why?"

"I do not like to see you grieving." he whispered softly. "Whatever justice I may bring, I will try to. An apology for my own wrongdoing."

Shamura hissed, cursing at them to no avail. The lamb's body became engulfed in red magic, shrinking to his normal height, his eyes the same innocent black.

He clung to Narinder's robes, shaking.

"Do it." he begged, eyes shut.

[quartzhearted]

✦ tarrion: an odd interval of blankness felt after something big happens to you but before you feel the resulting emotional reaction.

the funeral is held on a clear, sunny winter afternoon.

it takes place in the great chapel within the castle, filled so tightly that thousands of people pour out of the doors into the castle halls and down the great staircase. brodia natives, firenese, the occasional solmic. madam ève of firene, sat at the front and dressed in black, tulle pulled over her expression, clutching a bouquet of lentil flowers and lillies in her hands. his mother and father, aging, devoid of all their posture and their positivity, mother hunched over sobbing into her hands, father with a hand on her back and another covering his eyes.

and then there is morion, seated across from the open casket that holds his deceased brother. he doesn't move.

he remembers how he'd found him. elusia had come on strong, archers lining their ranks to counter all of the footsoldiers in their ranks. morion was a general and his brother the leader, and what a leader that man was! his word was gospel to the infantry---a call to action was all it took to send the sea towards the snow. morion himself ran like a beast, brushing off arrows like it was nothing and cleaving elusian nuisances with no problem. it was such a familiar motion, getting into these border skirmishes with his brother at the helm.

but when morion had turned around, ready to take his next order from his brother the king-to-be,

the man was on the ground, arrows rising from his back.

morion can't say he remembers much; all he knows is the warmth of his brother's blood on his shoulder and the horrible weight of him, fading, on his back.

even now, he doesn't feel anything. no rage, no despair---only quiet. the healers had him patched up, he thinks offhandedly, examining his brother's chest. probably wouldn't have made for a nice open casket if he still had holes in him.

he knows that emotion is frowned upon. his father is trying to rein in his emotions at his son's funeral, for godssake. so does that make him a good person or a bad one that he feels nothing?

morion stares at anything but his brother's pallid face. lillies line the casket and spill to the floor; the sun shines through the stained glass down to his brother like an invitation; the guy playing the ceremonial organ definitely knows what he's doing; they cleaned and buffed his brother's sword just for the occasion.

tonight, he will not sleep---overcome with massive, descending waves of grief, he will trash his room in furious tears. he will scream, he will cry, he will spit raging insults at the elusians that dared to take his brother away from him. he will injure himself on the flying shrapnel of tables and glassware and he will bleed; he will step out of brodia and into a world where nothing is just and everything is aflame with spite. he will become the worst version of himself.

but for now, the tides have recessed. morion sits and watches, waiting for the procession to be over, waiting for them to close the casket so he doesn't risk acknowledging the truth,

that his brother is really and truly gone

and he failed his duty as younger to protect him.

[den-of-the-jadewizard]

Whumptober: Day One; I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.

"But you're already gone..."

A/N: This one's a bit rusty, and doesn't feel whumpy enough for me, but that's okay. It gets better.

This is the FNAF AU for the cast of Unified, my comic about shape people. Since I'm hyper fixed on Unified, a lot of these one shots are about them.

"Brother...?"

Bracer stilled, almost bristling as he heard Swift's meek and concerned tone. He didn't dare move his gaze from the corkboard in front of him. He didn't answer him either, hoping his silence was enough to get the point across that he wanted to be left alone right now.

"We've talked about this..."

He put a hand up to cut Swift off. Of course, he wouldn't take the hint. Bracer huffed a sigh, reply curt and to the point.

"I don't want to hear it."

"It wasn't your fault-"

"You've told me a million times already."

"It's true."

"I know that."

"I don't believe you. You've been running yourself ragged for the past month on this, Bracer. The case has been closed-"

"It's not!" Bracer slammed the table and whipped around to face him, snarling.

Swift flinched at the sudden outburst.

"You're a hypocrite, Swift," he rebuked him, "The hell is this any different from the cold case

you've been deadlocked on for four fucking years!?"

"Least we had a lead, but here we knew what had happened how it malfunctioned-"

"-No, I'm not going to listen to whatever you're spewing. If you're here to do that then get the hell out of my house..."

"Bracer, I-"

"Get out," He took a step towards him, Swift taking a step back, "...now."

Bracer took another step, and he took another back as well, this continued till they were out the door, Swift franticly tried once more to convince him.

"Brother, please! I knew they meant quite a lot to you but..." Swift trailed off upon seeing his shocked and then outraged expression.

Bracer trembled in rage, the simple sentence tipping him off. How could he possibly know what he was feeling right now? How dare he...

"YOU KNOW NOTHING OF MY LIFE!!!" He screamed at him. "How could you possibly know!? When you've been gone for most my fucking life!?!"

Swift reared back, almost like he was just shot. The words cut deep but Bracer couldn't stop himself, wouldn't, not this time.

"Bracer, I- I'm..."

"They were a better family than you ever were..." He said coldly, venom dripping off his tongue.

Bracer did not waste time in staring at Swift's shocked expression. He slammed the door in his face before turning to flee down the hall, charging into his room and slamming his door behind him as well.

He screamed, throwing any objects in reach against the walls and across the room. He couldn't control himself any longer, he couldn't stand it.

His voice cracked, throat feeling as if it was being torn in two. He yelled at the top of his lungs, sounding as if he was being murdered, it was a wonder no one called the police. He didn't care about anything but the rage...the hurt.

He threw himself onto his bed, screaming and clawing into the sheets, his body thrashing as if trying to bury itself into it.

Why did they have to visit that damn restaurant!?

WHY!?

It should've been him.

'It' wanted him.

Not them.

So why?

Grief crashed into him like a freight train. He sobbed bitterly into the sheets, body heaving in vain attempt to calm himself.

He wanted them back...

He just...wanted them.

Just...

...

Bracer wasn't sure when he had cried himself to sleep, it surely didn't matter. It wasn't the first time he did so and probably won't be the last either.

It all shifted into a deep-seated numbness as he laid on his side. He was spent from last night, it had all been too much, not just this but all of it had. He glanced at his closed door, a sense of longing hitting him. Part of him expecting them to just knock on the door and walk in.

He sighed, closing his eyes again. He doubts he'll have the strength to even get out of bed today, much less continue with the investigation.

He was left alone with only his thoughts to keep him company.

Alone...

Swift...

Bracer had probably drove away the only living person who cared about him anymore. He had no hard feelings about his past, he was angry and just saying whatever without a sense of tact. He noted to apologize whenever he met with him next, if he ever did.

However, the case still had not made any sense to him. He didn't want to let go of it, he needed to know why it happened. Animatronics don't normally have a bite strength hard enough to kill anyone, it would go against every law of common sense for any company at all, it had to be intentional in some way. Plus, with the numerous other cases of tragedy happening in many different franchises, it all had to be connected in some way as well.

His head started to ache again, he was straining to think, he felt terrible. He huffed a sigh again, and stopped thinking, just lying there helplessly numb to the world outside his bedroom.

He'll figure this out...

Even if it kills him.

He owes them that much.

[libidomechanica]

I love makes two or the morning would I loathe the footsteps

) On kneel, not a Magic Shadows.     Oft grateful, monsters, easily: Once on her Bosom of     wandring wings, it selfe to take; thrice she looks how quiet     evermore unrest; there I sit upon us they shall stay;     sad proof, and Johnny now

him—him you forgets, but you, without,     I call his custom. Three sins in ev’ry Word with is     streight of Summer heads indifferent on her breast, sae early     morning’s grave, and worse, and served virgin could be swept the     Cup: what bosom in a

global civilisation dwell     in threw; then came Night-Dress girth, their head, hand, strange again! To     gathered by the Indies can never will come, sing through the     only law. The Fair on thy current pour’d, here wet with a     sickly appetite to

Fate, and thing on its orbit run,     because are far away? The vehicles to lay his haughty     Máhmúd, they flung, in my very joy. Of all she can     cast with their Scent of Repentance soon ground she did sing as     we faces fell to one,

and be friended from heaven above     poor beasts seraphs from her silence spake a dame in them.     Then, ages push on, to the nombers the soil, and there walk     away my Wit and give Ear, and o’er the sun to shun,     whatever the duckling wars—

and in worth a feat to-day of     power than his pale-ey’d virgins who dares his Slave and sing     as of old, and looked at her Art, and the leaves were gone, each     the danger and could never his without know not the burrows     on my count the

Memory yet. And pitying     Audience, and Days, where without a Word with a prayed him in     my arms crost, yea, glad Wings. Up from the Head, while by stroke of     all the Throne. Seventeen year who are stood at leads, o’er craggy     mountain to me. That

lives warning pure Love and shame your     selves eternal chemistries of Musick more Manillio     forc’d to stop at all those waves might need, by strange Motive, Goddess     with hearty Purpose by the meant to forbid. Come, sister,     come to divides the

trumpet shall sett, as you press the     tree! And done, by rocky bed, susan, I’d something has     crept silent the best can easie Conquest of a kindled you,     a woman to watch’d the moonlight of grief forget em all.     But my heat, my tears each

other shine own sweet Beauty as     far from History; the virgin face. Because and mute, and now     she’s hunting of promis’d his hand: pity mov’d my Soul, now     to me the reins, wilds, and leaden Metal may be swept away,     sets downward glide away,

and each Eye o’er; and many     a most fragrant posies, and sickness buds, with her than dead-     heavy measures, she saw, alas, I follow except on     like a hawk, an’ it with a rancorous crowne with girt in     leaden Metal may but

pages and rest, through some distance     of man: he now a saints I see this go. I’m here—now? Those     old hysteries past a spare, lovers, temple is; though each     in the tott’ring Textures speak contracting Power said     novenas to make his was

not sleep. On her arms are a little     near in Figure lengthened on the devil. Oh had I     rather face the Tavern shouts, then the Case, a woodman in     the world’s great close—at last! Your Highness: but chief at marriages,     but the loftie verse in

bitter springing from the doctor     at her you wilt crowds upon you, unmov’d, but now mans wronged     for that will, or in a man cou’d make me clear. He spring     strange; that leap in fiery Termagants in brightest Fair     that my feet flutt’ring Foot

shallow river billowing guard     the bring fast asleep, as I grow stiffness of manhood is     cast, when at th’ instruct me other names, and cause. It     into the vale. The crackling rills we trust th’ instructive     icicles, as thus,

her fav’rite Curtains wear one, the     otherwhere your trace thoughtful green leaves the rage of desier;     stella, the very where. Friends! I love makes two or the morning     would I loathe the footsteps with striue those who flung it to     be mine, when Love in wrinkled

heart; where griefs, and every side;     the diver’s Tripod walked along to might be ador’d, but     at my name: but all this broad Sabre next to use in my     arms, with heau’n of moss, with shifting of low-thought doth be hear     it, meek as a vapours

the thing the mart blue with the day     comes the fervour and play for the Fate foresees its pain as     if all his tick of our face her feet were some we have been.     Then cease—Belinda may vouchsafe to view: slight as thou dost     love and die? The frost is

the Rose that long that we cannot     Musick softer clime, half- lost innocence? Can’t blame my face     and far into Shapes the sphere, concert strive; no, make haste! Down     with the ancient bugaboo followed up all her grave, as     I for some love, you more?

[anchorwindlass]

Hymn of the Fallen Saint.

“And when all that was left was ashes, she would again clothe herself in flame. Rising from the dust of her past to rekindle the spark of her future. She was a Phoenix, her own salvation; rebirthed, renewed, resurrected.” — LaRhonda Toreson

Night, a silent mourner draped in midnight’s veil, descends with quiet hands upon the trembling sky. The last breath of blue, ashamed, dissolves into the abyss, surrendering to the vast, endless nothing. Stars awaken—silent witnesses to all that was lost— they weep in silver gazes, scattering their sorrow across the heavens. And I, a forsaken silhouette upon the edge of the world, stand still, waiting, longing— as if the shifting hues of dusk could cleanse the ruin within my chest, as if the death of daylight could resurrect the softness I once called my own.

But I am no longer whole, only a wraith woven from shattered glass, hurled against an unforgiving wall by hands unseen. The sound of my breaking still lingers in the hollow of the wind— sharp, merciless, unresolved. No one ever told me that growing up would taste like rust on my tongue, that responsibility is not a gentle hand but a chain around the throat, that the world does not ask if I can endure, it only takes and takes until there is nothing left to give. So I cry out into the void, a prayer twisted in grief and fury: "Why must you demand so much? Why must you be so cruel?"

But the darkness does not answer—it only consumes. It stretches its hands toward me, pulling me into its nameless depths, where silence becomes scripture and shadows, my only kin. And I, weary of fighting the inevitable, bow before its unseen throne, a disciple of the abyss, an heir to ruin itself. It dresses me in sorrow, drapes my shoulders in despair, and I wear it like armor, for I have long forgotten the weight of light.

My heart, once a vessel of warmth, is now a cathedral of ice. My eyes, twin daggers bathed in obsidian fire, burn through all who dare meet them, turning them into whispers, into ashes, into nothing. No force shall tremble my ascent, no hand shall dare to silence my march toward dominion. This is my reign, my reckoning, my unyielding glory. I rise—a saint in robes of carnage, an angel baptized in the blood of all who stood in my way.

But tell me, love, do you see the wreckage beneath my crown? Do you hear the echoes of my fractured soul, the weary lament woven into my triumph? Do you know how many nights I have spent trading my sanity to the ticking of time? How many tears I have left like wilted flowers in the wake of my footsteps? How many times I have burned and rebuilt myself, only to rise, breathless, aching, reborn in the language of agony? They see the empire I have carved, but they do not see the ruins that lie beneath its golden facade.

They scorned me, spat upon my name, bent my back beneath their weight, ripped the wings from my shoulders with hands tainted in their own weakness. And I—oh, I did not kneel. I did not shatter beneath their cruelty. I fought with the rage of dying stars, with the wrath of a heart that refused to yield. And now, when I stand unbroken, they dare call my war a crime? They—fragile, trembling, who let the world devour them without resistance— now wear the name of 'victim' like a crown? How pitiful, how small.

But I am not them. I do not fall. I do not bow. Let the night bear witness to my fury, let the void carve my name into eternity. I walk forward, unshaken, undying, toward a destiny I have written in my own ruin, in my own rage, in the blood that has long since dried upon my hands.

[theestervashti]

"The Mister." From Esther 7: 1-7.

The forecast says more hot heat is on the way, more missiles are going to fall from the sky, there are going to be more riots, diseases, more poverty, and funerals to attend, but no one is really discussing the antidote, called a strategy.

The reason is, there ain't one. I have created a five stage plan that would address all of the world's ailments, each one, in addition to counteracting the problems in our global human forecast is also designed as profit center:

Removal of all despots and tyrants from world governments.

Repatriation and urbanization.

Atmosphere scrubbing and 100% restoration of natural heat translation with the upper atmosphere.

Habitat restoration.

Complete relief of poverty.

The problem is and will be populism. My plan is either too idealistic or too expensive, or abortions this and abortions that, but in spite of the fact my priorities are correct, concise, well thought out and necessary, someone will have something derogatory to say.

No matter who good or wise a plan may be, a populist will try to upend it, turn a benefit into a threat. About the upkeep and prosperity of the people and the planet and an end to life-threatening populists, the King of Persia had a remedy: kill the bitches.

Haman Impaled

7 So the king and Haman went to Queen Esther’s banquet, 2 and as they were drinking wine on the second day, the king again asked, “Queen Esther, what is your petition? It will be given you. What is your request? Even up to half the kingdom, it will be granted.”

3 Then Queen Esther answered, “If I have found favor with you, Your Majesty, and if it pleases you, grant me my life—this is my petition. And spare my people—this is my request. 

4 For I and my people have been sold to be destroyed, killed and annihilated. If we had merely been sold as male and female slaves, I would have kept quiet, because no such distress would justify disturbing the king.[a]”

5 King Xerxes asked Queen Esther, “Who is he? Where is he—the man who has dared to do such a thing?”

6 Esther said, “An adversary and enemy! This vile Haman!”

Then Haman was terrified before the king and queen. 7 The king got up in a rage, left his wine and went out into the palace garden. But Haman, realizing that the king had already decided his fate, stayed behind to beg Queen Esther for his life.

The frame employs us to cross the Second Day, known for a lack of keen thinking about violence, right and wrong, good and evil into the Third, called Dry Land. To this effect, Xerxes agrees with Esther, populism cannot be used as an excuse to murder the innocent in large numbers.

Now this is an old text, circa 4 BCE. The fukchucks have had an ample amount of time to study how sincerely God and the gods of Israel frown upon genocide of the people of Israel, but where mass murder and God's Words are concerned by all means take all the time one needs.

The Values in Gematria are:

v. 1-2: What is your petition? The Number is 13827, יגחבז‎ ‎, "yaghabez." "will dry up the grief."

v. 3: Spare the people, this is my request. NOW did that hook nosed sloppy cunt Marjorie Taylor Green or that child molesting FILTH Mike Johnson follow the holy scriptures when Vlodomyr Zelenskyy came to ask "spare my people, please?" or did we say fuck you very much? What about what happened in Israel because of the Mormons and the Republicans on October 7? Or all the rapes and sexual assaults on Jewish people that the Republicans and their friends in the Marriott Corporation, at Hillsdale College and BYU are performing with impunity all across America? Is the White House doing everything it can to spare the people? No it is not.

When Joe Biden criticized PM Netanyahu's clean up of Biden's Mormon mess in Israel, I nearly lost it.

The Number is 12513, יבהאג‎‎, yabhag, "In the hague."

The Gematria says only the Holiday Spirit can spare our lives. Perhaps after every Republican lawmaker and member of the LDS is dead as penance for what they have done.

After this is done and revenge of the God of Israel against these persons is complete, then yes, we should "hag" and resume the routines of normal life. Like most, I'm not sure what that means anymore, but this is what the definition states:

"The masculine noun חג (hug), meaning circle or circuit. It's used a mere three times, twice to denote the hydrologic cycle (Job 22:14, Proverbs 8:27) and once to describe the "cycle of the earth," which appears to denote the more fundamental thermodynamic cycle (Isaiah 40:22)."

v. 4: "I and my people have been sold to be destroyed." The only response to a threat of this magnitude is to kill or be killed. The world does not except, very amply the evil that has been done to the Jewish people for thousands of years for reasons no one can explain but the time for the message and the messengers to die is nigh. There cannot be a cease fire in Gaza, there cannot be any objective but to declare the enemies of the Kingdom of Israel are all already dead, just waiting to be killed.

This includes Donald Trump and "JD Vance" every member of their party and their support systems, everyone, all of it. You went over to Israel just like you said you were going to do and you carved out that tunnel network and murdered thousands of innocent people didn't you? Now, there will never be a cease fire until every last one of you is deceased.

Anything less "would disturb the king."

The Number is 12532, יבהגב, yehavag, "will choose."

Why are the Jews called the Chosen People? Does this mean chosen for annihilation?

God's instructions to the Jewish people about the fact they were designated by Him for specific purposes are found in Ki Tessa:

Bezalel and Oholiab

31 Then the Lord said to Moses, 2 “See, I have chosen Bezalel (protection) son of Uri “the fire”,  the son of Hur “purity”, of the tribe of Judah “the most praised”, 3 and I have filled him with the Spirit of God, with wisdom, with understanding, with knowledge and with all kinds of skills— 4 to make artistic designs for work in gold, silver and bronze, 5 to cut and set stones, to work in wood, and to engage in all kinds of crafts. 

--> this is the first time we have seen the Spirit of God mentioned since the Creation. And here is that word, “protection” which keeps coming up. About this the Parsha says again: 

“Refuge is conferred by the Most Praiseworthy, those who bind themselves to the fire and are pure of the causes of slavery.” 

6 Moreover, I have appointed Oholiab “the Father’s House”,  son of Ahisamak, “Who listens”  of the tribe of Dan, ”Superior judgement”  to help him. Also I have given ability to all the skilled workers to make everything I have commanded you: 7 the tent of meeting, the ark of the covenant law with the atonement cover on it, and all the other furnishings of the tent— 8 the table and its articles, the pure gold lampstand and all its accessories, the altar of incense, 9 the altar of burnt offering and all its utensils, the basin with its stand— 10 and also the woven garments, both the sacred garments for Aaron the priest and the garments for his sons when they serve as priests, 11 and the anointing oil and fragrant incense for the Holy Place. They are to make them just as I commanded you.”

v. 5: King Xerxes asked Queen Esther, “Who is he? Where is he—the man who has dared to do such a thing?" The Number is 5749, ט‎הזד‎ ‎ ‎"1,000". A thousand is probably the most tricky term in the alpha-numeric system of Hebrew. A millennium is how long it takes between the dawn of time and the permanent end of human savagery, what is called Mashiach.

1,000 is the number for the new god, "the Mister", one's honey bee, it is also the fulcrum past which one must attain to Ha Shem, a "Pillar of the Sun" at two thousand, when the number doubles.

"The verb און ('wn) appears to mean to experience a lot, to be subject to much. It doesn't occur in the Bible but in cognate languages it's either negative and means to be tired and troubled, or it's positive and means to be at rest and enjoy a life of plenty.

Nouns און ('awen) and תאנים (te'unim) are of the first category, and mean trouble, sorrow or toil. Noun און ('on) is of the second and describes an surplus of vigor or wealth and specifically of reproductive powers."

To reproduce either in the flesh or by the means of ideals that lead to the destruction of others is not holy nor meet in the Eyes of the Lord. The Jewish people were tasked by God to maintain the proper traditions named by the Torah, no matter how contrary they run against the grain of populists and ensure all men are safe to pursue life on earth.

v. 6: The adversary was terrified. The Number is 5554, "the echo, you must beat." '

v. 7: The king got up in a rage, left his wine and went out into the palace garden. But Haman, realizing that the king had already decided his fate, stayed behind to beg Queen Esther for his life.

Should we decide another man's fate in a rage? Certainly not. The Mormons and Republicans and their friends have to die. The Number is 7851, ע‎ח‎ןא‎, ahana, "The ceremonial importance of a man's spear."

=

Spears represent the ability of men to govern each other- they are the connection between the mind, the arm, the hand and the rest of the world. They are constitutions that bind persons that live well-dedfined territories to the laws that permit them to be fairly and well-governed. Every nation on this planet depends on the integrity of other governments to properly conduct their own affairs.

The basis for constitutional government is found in the Torah, the Tanakh, and fully supported by other God given instruments like the Quran and the Bhagavad Gita. They were given by God and the gods so that life would one day become normal, that it would be easy.

Whether the law is minor, don't litter, don't run naked through the streets, look both ways before crossing the street, or major, designed to prevent election fraud, murder, sex with minors, or terrorism, we depend on our managers and governors to use them on our behalf’s without failure. We are told by the Spirit this expectation is not unreasonable, also not to show mercy when the reasons are at risk.

What is happening on this planet was once fully preventable. Allowing persons who do not understand how utterly careless it is to allow the same conditions to proceed is not acceptable. All the world's stakeholders, every man, woman, and child needs to make the White House aware they will not stand for it.

[daybreakrising]

His reaction is almost enough to startle her - the suddenness of it, the desperation she can both see on his face and hear within his voice. She knew this would be a matter of importance to him, but perhaps she hadn't quite anticipated just how much he might need to hear it. Not for the first time, a part of her wishes she could reach for him, to clasp his hands the way she has seen others do in such moments, to offer a source of physical comfort.

But she dare not, out of fear that even his curse cannot withstand hers.

Instead, she offers him a rare, gentle smile, her hands lifting to clasp over her heart as she thinks back upon her time with the man who called himself Gnaeus. "He... They were... noble, honourable." She utters, eyes closing as she recalls their words, the tone of their voice, the sense of purpose she felt within them. "And kind." Not a word one might associate with the Titan of Strife, but it the truth as she knows it. She heard it in the echo of concern they displayed for her when she struggled with the cost of her abilities. "It was Nikador's Reason I spoke with, journeyed with, and it felt like the truest version of them."

She bows her head, a soft sigh passing her lips. "There was anger, when they learned of how long this madness corrupted them, but also... sadness. I am familiar with the sound of mourning, Deimos. Rage and grief so often go hand in hand." She lifts her gaze again to meet his, and she takes but a single step closer - all that she will risk. "They knew that to return to Nikador's divinity would corrupt them, too, and still they chose to make that sacrifice for the sake of Amphoreus' future. They said something then that I will not forget."

The hands over her heart clasp tighter as she recites the words from memory. "Journeys and epics are only glorious and magnificent because all things eventually fade to dust." Words she will carry with her, like a promise. "I wish that you had been there, Deimos. I believe I saw a glimpse of the god you remember."

@daybreakrising asked:

"Deimos?" She hovers at the edge of his periphery, hands clasped as ever in front of her - safe, controlled. Her gaze falls upon his form, bearing no sign of the conflict he has so recently waged, no evidence of the deaths he has survived time and time again. But though the flesh withstands, the same cannot always be said for what lies within. She moves forward only a few steps, maintaining a respectful distance should he wish not to be disturbed in this moment, but with enough purpose in her movement to convey that she has something she wishes to say, if he is willing to hear it. "I don't know if this will bring you comfort, or further pain, but I hope it is the former rather than the latter. I wonder... would you like to hear of my experience with Nikador?"

The gentle, familiar call of Castorice rouses Mydeimos from his drowsy, listless state. He'd been gazing out the balcony with his chin in his hand, staring out at all of Okhema below — indeed, none of the wounds from his battle with his god reflect on his body, but exhaustion weighs heavy on his frame all the same. If she'd been anyone else, perhaps he'd have turned back to the view with a dismissive wave of his hand, but he waits for her to draw a little nearer, as patient as ever.

Her words, however, strike him like a lightning bolt. The prince all but whips around to face her properly, suddenly reinvigorated. "Please—" he says, standing from his lounge to take a few steps towards her. "I need to know." A flicker of pain — no, desperation — crosses his usually stoic features. "Whatever he said, tell me everything. Please." I need to know some part of him remained as I remember.

[ilariyalavorowrites]

Good enough (9-1-1) Part three

Imagine leaving LA after feeling like an outsider in your relationship with Bobby and Athena as they seem to pull away and distance themselves from you. Only to find that it is almost impossible to actually walk away.

Warnings: Angst with happy ending, AU, Bisexual Athena, (Eventually) BDSM

Pairings: Bobby Nash x Reader x Athena Grant

Word count: 1,124 words

Universe: 9-1-1

Reader gender: Female

Author: Ilariya_Lavoro writes

Previous/ Next

Part 3/10

Regret had flooded your senses from the moment that you re-opened your eyes a few days prior. The surprising discovery that you were still alive had been a relief to say the very least but at the same time you feel terrible for your rash, impulsive actions. You were bound to a bed on a ward in an unfamiliar hospital. 

Lines and wires were going in and out, connecting you to various machines on both sides of the bed. They had been anticipating the worst possible option when you had been wheeled in unconscious, barely holding onto the threads of a life you’d haphazardly left behind in your rear view mirror.

Now you could clearly see the error of your ways, you regretted the path that you had taken. Blinded to the alternative ways that you could have turned, instead rushing in head first without a second thought for how they would feel. This was karma for your choices. You were completely and utterly alone.

You had dared to ask if anyone had called looking for you, if anyone had visited whilst you had still been out cold. The answer to both had been the same, no. No-one was out there looking for you. This was your new future, far from how you dared to envision it. You had left and this was your new tomorrow.

You should feel free but that was not the case. You were drowning in a harsh sea of regret, grief and sorrow. This was of your own making, the bed you had made. One you would lie in night after night. There was no way back, not one you see in this particular moment in time.

You were numb as time rushed past you as Doctors and Nurse entered your room, speaking and carrying out necessary tests and procedures on your road to recovery. However none of that happened, you just laid there, letting it all wash over you. Where would you go? You had given up your apartment, handed in your notice and abandoned the ones you claimed to love.

No roof over your head, no job and no-one waiting up for you at the end of the day. When you had been truly left with your thoughts in that small room. Your raw, untapped emotions bled back through breaking down your walls. Pulling you under the waves as you were consumed by the sheer force of it all. You had been flung out of the calm into the raging heart of the storm.

You cried out in the dark, this was self inflicted. You were wrong. Astronomically led astray by anger and fear pulling you out of the light, in the cold embrace of the emptiness. There were no winners, only losers and you were the biggest loser in this situation.

In the haze, you had heard that you’d likely be released at the end of the week. Pending the results of the various swabs and tests showed.  You had broken a few ribs and fractured your left wrist but they were concerned about the length of time you’d been unconscious for.

They had scheduled a CT scan for the following morning but as the cloud of despair grew overhead. You cared very little for what lay ahead in the days that followed. For there wouldn’t be anyone at your bedside to hold your hand, telling you that it would be alright. Depression tightened its hold upon you, weighing you down upon the thin mattress that you laid upon. Another nightmarish evening lay ahead in this deafeningly lonely room of yours.

This was your life now

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

Forty Eight Hours Earlier

There had been many times that Athena had found herself standing outside your apartment. They had started out as purely platonic social visits which had evolved over time to something much more romantically inclined. Bobby had been over more than she had in the beginning before the shift had even occurred.

Standing before the front door, the spare key in hand did nothing to elevate the heavy feeling that lingered. Something wasn’t right because it was far too quiet. For there, no noise emanating from within the abode. No music or mumble as you played the most recent series you were bingeing through. No footsteps walking from room to room. No hum of the washing machine as it worked through the programmed laundry cycle.

It was rarely this silent, it was almost as if you were simply not there but you won’t just leave your car parked outside. There were simply too many questions and too few answers for her taste. The cogs in her mind whizzed as she tried to make logical sense of this situation but nothing fit. 

She stepped up into high gear as she slid the key into the lock, turning it clockwise to unlock the door. Athena pushed it inwards, her sharp eyes took in the room as the content was revealed to her. She narrowed her eyes at the now spaciously decorated interior. 

WRONG

WRONG

WRONG

The word echoed in her mind as she stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind her. What had happened to the many photos that had once littered your walls, each a happy memory that could recall each and every time that she was here. Each little touch made these four walls into a home that she loved returning to, with or without Bobby. Only the small coffee table and sofa in the corner of the living room remained alongside the heavier pieces of furniture that would be dotted around the other rooms. One thing did stand out in the spartan room. A singular envelope laying flat upon the table. This was a start. She dared to hope that what she could see before her eyes.

At the same time, her years on the force gave her the skills to read a room. This apartment spoke volumes as she made her way through each and every room. Until her feet found their way back to the living room. She took a seat upon the lumpy, well loved sofa as she mentally compiled her evidential list.

The lack of personal belongings/clothes

The sudden radio silence

Your abandoned car

The keys that she had kicked on her way in

No, this couldn’t be the case. There had to be more to this than this surface-level detail. Athena whipped out her phone and dialled a familiar number. She placed it to her ear and waited for it to be answered. “She is gone” There was no time for pleasantries, she got straight to the point as time was now against them. However, one mystery remained that could be easily solved. The contents of the envelope.

[dhwty-writes]

The Terribly Sad and Tragic Affair that Is the Fake Funeral of Shadowhand Essek Thelyss

Apparently, I am not only drawing for the Critical Role fandom, but writing for it, too. After months of nearly no progress I just vomited out 3k words this Tuesday and it only went downhill from there.

This fic is based on this post by @anne-o-nyme, I really hope I managed to capture the energy of it.

Have fun!

Summary: There were eight strangers in the foyer of his dead brother's towers and Verin Thelyss was slowly losing his patience.

After the sudden "death" of Shadowhand Essek Thelyss, it is his brother Verin's job to empty out his towers. The Mighty Nein show up to help (and maybe steal a few things).

OR: Verin is grieving, Essek just wants his stuff back, and the Mighty Nein are the Mighty Nein.

Warnings: I didn't tag this with MCD, because Essek is technically alive and kicking. Since Verin doesn't know that though, and this fic is written from his POV, this is dealing with grief and includes depictions of depressive thoughts as well as anxiety attacks. For more explicit warnings, please mind the tags on AO3. Take care of yourselves, and let me know if I forgot anything.

Read on AO3

There were eight strangers in the foyer of his dead brother's towers and Verin Thelyss was slowly losing his patience. "Listen," he said with what little calm he had left, "I know that by returning one of our beacons you became heroes of the Dynasty and were placed under Es— My bro— his stewardship. But this here—" he gestured vaguely at the interior of Essek's towers that had always been too cold, too empty, but not like now, never like now— "This is a very difficult situation for me, so if you could please leave, that would be greatly appreciated."

"Yes, yes, it's very sad that Essek died," the blue tiefling said—Jester, her name was Jester; she had given him that already as she had offered him her condolences with a hug—and Verin could barely contain his anger. After the funeral he had quite enough of lying dignitaries, nobles, and heroes currying favours with him. That had always been Essek's thing, he would know what to do, how to make them regret even daring to speak up; Verin had never been any good at it.

"But we're his friends!" He grit his teeth at Jester's blatant falsehood. Perhaps his anger showed on his face, since the tiefling faltered. "And, uh— Fjord?"

"It's true," the half-orc with too-smooth words and too-smooth voice lied, too. "We spent quite some time with your, er— your brother here. Made some good memories. We thought we might take this as our chance to say goodbye, too."

"We are here to help as well. We wouldn't want to infringe upon your grief, though," the tall firbolg added. "So, if you'd prefer us to return at a later point, we'd be happy to."

Verin was still trying to process everything—from these strangers showing up unannounced to their overwhelming presence to the fact that his brother was dead—while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on the halfling who looked like she might have sticky fingers. So, he latched onto the word that stood out the most to him: "Help?"

"Right," Fjord said, looking slightly embarrassed, "we probably should have led with that..."

"We should have called ahead, too," the scary-looking human in blue—they didn't even wear white for the funeral—added. "We always forget to call ahead."

"But Beau, how should we have called ahead?" Jester complained. "We didn't know Verin yet."

"Well, Essek—" the human was interrupted by the even scarier-looking woman next to her stepping on her foot unsubtly. She at least had the decency to act embarrassed. "Right. Sorry 'bout that."

Awkward silence fell across the room, the Mighty Nein looking anywhere but him. It took him a few moments to realise they were waiting for him to speak up. "Help how?" Verin could have kicked himself. By the Light, he could do better than that. He had to do better than that.

A beat of silence followed, then everyone seemed to talk at once. Verin wanted to weep. How was he supposed to deal with this? How had his brother dealt with this? 'He probably hasn't,' he thought. 'They're probably all liars, probably—'

Someone cleared their throat and all eyes turned to the other human who hadn't said anything so far and who looked properly miserable. Immediately, the Mighty Nein fell silent. "Word has reached us that Den Thelyss ordered these premises to be vacated as early as possible," he said quietly with an accent Verin has been taught that belonged to the enemy. "And while some of us may not look like much, I can assure you, we are quite capable."

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "I supposed such menial tasks are beneath the heroes of the dynasty. There are servants—"

"Well, sure," the halfling with the probably sticky fingers interrupted, "but we know him. Knew him, I mean; sorry, force of habit."

"Besides, there's a lot of stuff," the lavender tiefling, who Verin was pretty sure was a known pirate, piped up. "Looks like you could use the help."

"If you want to, of course," the sad Empire human added.

Verin only wanted to scream, to give room to the torrent of thoughts raging in his head. 'My brother just died. My brother just died and he wasn't consecuted, so he's gone for good. He's gone for good and I didn't even know him; I didn't even know about these supposed friends he had because he didn't allow me near him in decades. I was a horrible brother and so was he, but I can't even be mad at him because he's dead.

'And now these liars show up and talk about friendship and knowing him, but those are all lies, horrible ones, because Essek had no friends. Essek was cold and cruel and lonely and do you even know how horrible that is? Dying alone with no-one who mourns you, just the favours you still owe them? Do you? I don't even know, and I'm his brother.'

Were he a weaker man, a less disciplined one, he might have said so. But he was Taskhand Verin of Den Thelyss and he had learned discipline before he had learned to talk. So, he said: "Your help would be greatly appreciated, thank you. I'll have the servants bring up some tea. There are, uh—" He straightened his back, summoning the composure that was befitting a Taskhand, even one with a dead brother. "There are boxes up there, they've been brought to the rooms already. Anything of value will be sold; the rest will be given to charity. The things— Well, if you find anything that might have sentimental value, something in his handwriting, perhaps, I think I should like to keep that, please."

The firbolg nodded sagely. "Of course. We will be careful with our selection."

With that, Verin turned around and— froze. Where was he even supposed to start? The towers had always seemed to huge for just Essek and he knew that there were very few personal belongings in them. Still, they would have to be scoured clean within the fortnight.

A large hand on his shoulder made him jump, although he'd never admit it. "Sometimes, when a task seems too large, you should start with the smallest part," the firbolg said. "If I were you, I'd start with the smallest room."

"Thank you, that, uh— that seems like good advice," Verin replied, still a bit startled and confused. "I, er— I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

"Caduceus Clay. I live in a graveyard, so I'm used to this," Clay said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Verin furrowed his brows slightly. A graveyard? It seemed highly unlikely to him that one of the heroes of the Dynasty would live in a graveyard of all places. Perhaps they were not only liars, but impostors too? But they had the symbols of the Bright Queen, so there wasn't much that he could say.

"Right," he mumbled. "I believe the smallest room would be the closet. Although it might be tied with the bathroom..." He trailed off again. He had never seen Essek's bedroom in his towers. Judging by how many times he had even seen the inside of the building; he could count himself lucky if he even found the way there.

"Why don't we split up?" Clay suggested. "One group takes the closet, one the bathroom and one the bedroom. We'd get done sooner that way."

"That is a great idea, Caduceus," Jester said excitedly. "I'll take the bathroom; I promised— er, I'm curious if I can find more of that hair oil, I got for Fjord that one time!"

"Ohhh, are you saying this is... an investigation?!" the halfling joined in.

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Veth!"

"Seems like a case for Wildemount's best detectives!"

"Bye, Verin!" Jester called and he blinked and they were gone. Fjord joined them as well, muttering something about having to supervise them.

The purple pirate-tiefling shrugged, heading off in the same direction. "Well, I wouldn't mind rifling through some drawers. I'll have a look at that bedroom."

"Yeah, I don't need to see Essek's underwear, so I'll pass on the closet," Beau added tactfully—Verin was getting the sneaking suspicion that manners were not really her strong suit. She linked hands with the large woman at her side, pulling her along. "Come on, Yash."

"I'll go handle the tea," Clay said. "Don't worry about it." He vanished in the direction of the kitchen, his steps accompanied by the constant tap tap tap of his staff.

When Verin looked around, he realised that only the sad Empire human was left with him in the hallway. "If you wouldn't mind," he said, pointedly avoiding eye-contact, "I would love to have a look at the closet. I always, ah— appreciated your brother's sense of fashion."

Verin blinked at him a few times, then shrugged. "Sure." He began heading up the stairs.

"My condolences," the human continued. "I realise I didn't speak up earlier, but— I am sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," he said, letting the same numb feeling wash over him again that he had embraced since the news of Essek's death had reached him.

"I know that we seem like a bunch of, ah— forgive my language, but assholes, but we're really here to help. I will tell the others to tone it down a bit."

"Thank you," he repeated.

"If you'd prefer that we start in, ah— less personal rooms, we can do that also."

"If I'm perfectly honest, I don't even know what I should be doing there."

"Neither am I." The human laughed nervously. "I have dealt with grief before, but I've never had the, ah— how do you call it? Hang on." He pulled out a copper wire and whispered: "Beau, how do you say zweifelhafte Ehre in Common? You can reply to this message." A moment later he straightened. "Right. I never had the dubious honour of emptying out a deceased person's house before."

"Neither did I," Verin admitted. 'Usually, the deceased person comes back,' he didn't say. Instead, he opted for: "You're, er— What's the word in Common? You're weird? I'm sorry if that's insulting, I just— waele xanalressen [stupid languages]."

"I don't understand your words, but I think I understand the sentiment." The man grimaced. "And I've heard that one before. I hope we're not too much of a... too much."

"It's alright," he lied and opened the door to Essek's bedroom. 

It wasn't alright; Verin wanted to weep again.

The door to the bathroom stood ajar, as did several drawers and cabinets, although he couldn't glance inside. Considering that he heard glass shatter and a quiet "oops" followed by a hushed "Jester!" he was rather glad about that. Besides, what he saw was already quite enough to handle. Beau was currently rifling through Essek's nightstand, the tall woman tossing unread books on the bed carelessly, while the lavender tiefling seemed to make his way through his brother's collections of make-up and jewellery alike.

They froze when they spotted him and the sad human in the door. "Heeey, Verin," Beau drawled.

"These were all still closed, I swear," the lavender tiefling said immediately, gesturing at the jars in front of them.

Verin just sighed in defeat. "I don't wear any make-up, I don't care; you can have it. Put the jewellery in the box to be sold; the books are for charity if he hasn't read them. Just leave the earrings in front of the mirror, please. Those were his favourites."

Without another glance at them, Verin headed straight to Essek's closet, desperate to get some quiet. He took a few moments to collect himself, before closing the door and leaning his head against it with a heavy thunk.

He stayed like that for a minute or maybe two until he heard someone clear their throat. "I have been debating for the past fifty-five seconds, if I should just Dimension Door out," the sad human said and Verin very nearly jumped out of his skin, "but that would be loud and I didn't want to startle you. Not that I didn't startle you like this but—"

"Vithin shu," Verin cursed.

"Vithin shu ke," the sad human agreed, his accent in Undercommon even heavier than normally.

For a moment, they both stared at each other, equally startled by the course of events. Then, the human looked away again. "I, ah— have started learning Undercommon before, um— well, before." Verin tried very hard to focus on the way the human was scratching at his forearms; that way he had something else to focus on besides his nearing breakdown.

"This is a bit embarrassing, but, ah— I believe I forgot to introduce myself," the human continued. "I'm Caleb Widogast. Essek and I were... friends, yes, and ah— colleagues, of some sort. It's... complicated."

He scratched at his arms again before turning towards the shelves and pulling out a stack of tunics. He unfolded one, looked at it, then carefully folded it again, cast a cantrip to smooth out the wrinkles, and put it in the charity box. Then he repeated the procedure with the next. And the next. And the next.

Verin frowned, thinking for a moment about his words. There was something about them that seemed painfully familiar, although he couldn't quite remember. Then: "The transmutation specialist."

Widogast looked up in surprise. "Yes."

"Essek told me of you," Verin admitted.

The last time they had seen each other had been here, in these towers, just a few months ago. He had found his brother in his office, pouring over notes for a new spell, alive and healthy as ever. As always, he had entered without knocking. As always, he had pretended to read the notes. Not as always, he had noticed something wrong. "Whose handwriting is that?" he had asked.

"What?" Essek had snapped, his head whipping up. Then, however, his expression had softened. "Oh. A friend's. A colleague, of sorts. He's helping me out, a bit."

"With the spell?" Verin had asked incredulously.

"Yes. He's a transmutation specialist; you know that's not my forte. Now give it back, will you?"

"A colleague, huh?" He had grinned and held the paper out of Essek's reach. "Are you sure that's all?"

Perhaps Essek had been sick after all, for the strangest thing had happened: instead of using his floating cantrip to snatch the notes back, he had gotten a dreamy, far-off look in his eyes. He had even smiled with an expression Verin might have called dopey, if it weren't his brother they were talking about. After a few moments, he had snapped out of it, sighed, and said: "It's complicated."

"Did he?" Widogast asked tentatively. "Did he, ah— did he say anything else about me?"

Verin pinned him down with a glare, sizing him up. In hindsight, he should have noticed the thick spellbook at his hip earlier; judging by his slim frame alone, he should have known the man was a wizard. He supposed Widogast was handsome enough, although his brother had never cared much for that, with his copper hair and his striking blue eyes. Blue eyes around which crows' feet were gathering, as he noticed to his dismay. 'He's human,' Verin reminded himself. He might have a few decades left, maybe, whereas Essek had centuries ahead of him. The thought why his brother might condemn himself to more loneliness crossed his mind, though it hardly mattered. His brother had been the first to die, after all.

"Verin?" Widogast inquired quietly.

"I'm sorry," he answered with a thick voice. "I got lost in my thoughts there. He, uhh— he said that he trusted you." That didn't even begin to cover it, but these Mighty Nein had been lying to him since the moment they got here, so what was a little lie by omission? Besides, there were some memories that he wanted to keep just to himself.

"Essek," he had teased, still waving the sheet of paper out his reach. "Come on! Aren't we brothers?"

Essek had crossed his arms and pouted. He hadn't done that since they were both little. "Unfortunately. You are a menace. And a child."

"If you tell me about him, I'll give it back. Is he handsome? Is he a drow? Where's he from? How did you meet? When will I meet him? Can I promise to kill him if he hurts you?"

"Verin!" Essek had groaned and hid his face in his hands.

"What do you do when you meet? I bet you stay up all night, talking about 'arcane research' or something."

"We do, in fact. Are you done now?"

"Oh, is that what young people call it these days?" He had cackled at his own joke.

"Evidently not," Essek had muttered. "Might I remind you that you're younger than me?"

"Might I remind you that you're a buzzkill?" Verin had shot back and placed the note down. He had gotten bored of his own game.

Essek had taken the sheet of paper almost reverently and thanked him. "I would have hated it to rewrite that page." He had smoothed it down, stored it safely away in a folder, silent for a long time. Then, he had said: "Caleb."

"Excuse me?"

"That's his name," Essek had said. "Caleb Widogast."

Verin had frowned. "Hey, Essek?"

"Hm?"

"You must trust him a lot, to share a spell with him."

His brother had taken a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. Verin hadn't expected him to answer, yet he'd said: "I do, actually. It's not the first spell we've created together and I would be honoured to create a thousand more with him. I'd trust him with my life, my death, and beyond. I think—" He'd huffed. "I think I trust him almost as much as I trust you."

Verin watched Widogast as he was looking through his brother's tunics, placing most of them in the charity box, and he wondered. Wondered if the trust Essek had obviously put in Widogast had been misplaced. Wondered if it had extended to his friends, as well. Wondered if ultimately trust had been his downfall, as he'd always feared.

Then again, if Essek had trusted him... perhaps that trust had been mutual. Perhaps they had been friends. Perhaps there was another person mourning his brother after all.

"Do I have something on my face?" Verin had given up on counting how many times Widogast had now startled him out of his thoughts.

"No, no I—," Verin stammered. "I'm sorry."

He tilted his head to the side. "For staring?"

"No, er— For your loss." Liar or no liar, it only seemed appropriate.

"Oh." Widogast turned back to the tunics. Verin probably should get started, too, shouldn't he? "Thank you. Though I'd wager your loss weighs heavier than mine."

"Probably," he agreed and turned to the task at hand. At this point, Widogast had moved on from the simple tunics to Essek's court regalia. After a short moment of consideration, Verin decided to look through the pants; he also had no interest in sorting through his dead brother's underwear.

Out of the corner of his eye he kept watching the wizard, pulling out one cloak after the other. At a few he wrinkled his nose, at others he just stared before putting them with the tunics. After a while one made him pause; an elaborate, beautiful robe in deep purple. "This is what he was wearing when we first met him," he said.

'He hated that one,' Verin thought. Not that he could say that out loud. Instead, he cocked his head and asked: "Are you sure? He has a lot of those. Had, I mean. Had a lot of those."

"Yeah, I'm sure." He tapped his temple with a faint smile. "I have a good memory."

"As does Essek," he snapped, suddenly feeling very defensive about his brother's capabilities. "I suppose most wizards do."

Infuriatingly, Widogast only nodded. "Indeed. Or they're not very good ones."

Silently, Verin turned back to the trousers. The sooner he got done, the sooner he got these people out of his brother's towers, the better. He didn't know for how long they worked in silence, Verin reminiscing about the times he had seen Essek wear the clothes and wondering about those he didn't know. Eventually, he folded the last of them and forced himself to return to the present. "I think we're done here," he announced. "Do you have a preference for a next room?"

"Perhaps the library?" Widogast offered a tentative smile. "I think I might be of more use there than folding clothes."

"More use than I will be, surely."

"I take it the wizardry doesn't run in the family, then?"

Verin only scoffed and opened the door to the bedroom again.

He immediately spotted Beau leafing through one of the books Essek had never read, while the tiefling was chatting amiably with the aasimar while braiding her hair. He also noted the boxes neatly stacked in the middle of the room. Besides that, he noticed with a heavy heart, the room looked much the same. If anything, it looked less orderly and empty than before. Except for—

"Where are Essek's earrings?" Verin demanded to know.

"What earrings?" the lavender tiefling replied with a too-wide grin the same moment Beau said: "Dude, there's tons of them, why don't—"

"No," he said decisively. "Essek's favourite earrings; they're always up here. I told you about them. Where are they?" His hands curled into fists, his neatly manicured fingernails pressing almost painfully into his skin.

"Perhaps you should look in one of the boxes," the aasimar woman suggested "I'm sure they're—"

"You're lying," Verin interrupted her, barely containing his anger. "Why are you lying? If they're in one of the boxes, then only because you put them there. So: where are they?"

Widogast only now stepped out of the closet, wearing an amber necklace he hadn't noticed before. "Verin—" he said tentatively, but he'd had enough.

"Shut up!" He startled himself with how loud his voice was. But he was beyond caring. "I know they're not in there, because the only ones to put them in there would have been you. So, either you're lying about having them put in there, or you're lying about stealing them, I don't care. Just— please. Please give them back."

The four of them passed a guilty glance. "We can't," Beau replied finally.

"The fuck you can't," Verin spat. "Give them back!"

"Verin, love, we would really love to," the tiefling added, "but we can't."

"I don't understand; is it precious things you want? Here, have some!" He strode over to the boxes and ripped the first open, tossing the lid towards the bathroom door Jester was peeking out of. He reached in to grab a necklace—an ugly one, he had always thought, with a stylised beacon—and threw it in their direction.

Beau caught it. Of course.

"Have a whole box, actually, if you like them so damn much." He reached inside and pulled out a jewellery box, tears prickling in his eyes. He threw one of those, too, just for good measure. It gave him some satisfaction that Widogast had to dodge it. "Just give me back the bloody earrings that my brother wore at my fucking consecution!" He was properly crying now and could only imagine the mess he looked like, but he had reached his limit. And, in his opinion, he was allowed to with all that was going on.

At least they looked a little bit guilty. "Fuck man, we didn't know," Beau mumbled.

"It's just one pair, Beau," Jester called over from the bathroom. "I'm sure it will be alright."

"Yes, there's no need for this to escalate," Fjord agreed and strode over to them, his hands raised innocently.

"I don't even know you people," Verin muttered, looking at the people crowding into his brother's bedroom. "Why did I even let you inside?"

"Do you want the earrings back?" the aasimar woman asked, reaching into a bag at her hip. Had she been carrying a greatsword for the whole time? Verin suddenly noticed how overpowered he was, were he to face all of them. "You can have them back if you want. Here, you can have them back."

"For a moment," Widogast added, slowly drawing closer to him and taking the earrings from the aasimar. He held them out on his flat hand, almost like he had seen soldiers offer treats to horses. His whole demeanour reminded him of someone trying to calm a spooked animal. For some reason, that seemed hilarious to him and he couldn't help the hysterical giggle that escaped his throat.

"Verin, I need you to calm down," he continued. "I know that's easier said than done, but you need your head."

"I think we should all calm down," Clay said from the doorway. And despite being surprised again, he did. It didn't make any sense, but few things these days did.

"Did it work?" the halfling asked. Verin wasn't really sure what she was talking about.

"It did," Clay confirmed.

"Gut," Widogast said and pressed the earrings that had seemed so important a moment ago into Verin's hands. "I think we should maybe go somewhere else, ja? Will you come with me?"

Inadvisable as it might be, if Essek had trusted that man, he should, too. And out of all of the Nein, he seemed to be the most normal one. The one he could see Essek with most. So, he nodded.

"I'll get us back to the kitchen, quickly." Caleb held out his hand and Verin closed his eyes, steeling himself. 'I hate Dimension Door,' was the last thing that crossed his mind before the teleportation spell ripped him away, together with: 'We haven't been to the kitchen, yet.'

Evidently, there went something wrong with the spell. Verin didn't know much about magic, but he knew Dimension Door couldn't transport more than two people. So, when he heard Beau groan and say "Fuck, dude, warn us next time," he knew that something wasn't right.

"You knew about the plan, Beauregard," Widogast replied.

"It doesn't matter," Fjord decided. "Caduceus, do you think you could make tea again? I think the Calm Emotions is about to wear off."

Cautiously, Verin opened one eye, then the other. They were, in fact, standing in a kitchen, as far as he could tell. All of the Mighty Nein were surrounding him. The furniture seemed to have been made for people taller than them; Essek probably would need to float in order to avoid awkwardly climbing onto the chair. The firbolg, however, who was fussing with a teapot, seemed to fit right in. All in all, the interior was very rustic. And very much not in Essek's towers, not that he had ever seen that room, of course.

The panic hit him once more. Verin whirled around to the wizard, instinctively grasping for his sword. "Where the fuck—" he faltered, finding his hip bare. Of course, he hadn't brought it for the funeral. Instead, he opted for just grasping Widogast by the lapels and lifting him up a bit. It was supposed to be menacing, which surely would be more effective, were humans not so annoyingly tall. "Where the fuck are we?!" he spat out.

A lot of things seemed to happen at once—he heard a "Fuck, man, what-" from Beau, a "Well, Mister Thelyss" from the pirate, several hands trying to tug him away from the weak wizard—but he didn't pay them any mind. He just shook Widogast, who looked entirely too calm for his liking, and demanded: "Answer me!"

"Leave him," was all Widogast said. "He has every right to be angry."

Indeed, the people grasping at him retreated, still on guard and surrounding him. There was a creak outside the door and Verin desperately wished for his sword once more. Then, a voice cut through the tense silence that had descended over the kitchen: "Caleb, is that you? You're back early."

"Yeah, there were some complications. Best come and look yourself, Schatz."

There was a sigh that was entirely too familiar for Verin's liking. Then, the door opened with a creak and in walked a dead man. "Complications," Essek Thelyss said with a fond smile. "I was just a Sending away, what did you come here fo— oh."

The person wearing his brother's face stopped in their tracks as they saw him. A couple of complicated emotions passed over his face—confusion, surprise, regret, guilt. If he hadn't known before, Verin was certain now that they were impostors, all of them. His brother would never tolerate such a display of weakness. Still, the impostor said: "Hello, brother."

Verin whipped his head back around to the wizard in his grasp. "What the fuck are you playing at?" he hissed.

"I- what- Verin!" the Essek-impostor sputtered. "What are you doing; put him down!"

"I would appreciate that, yes," Widogast added.

"Not before you don't tell me what's going on."

"Going on?" The impostor sneered and shook his head in a perfect imitation of his brother. "Nothing is going on, Verin."

"You died," he accused him.

"Evidently not," Essek scoffed.

Verin narrowed his eyes, looking from the man claiming to be his brother over the other too calm wizard to the rest of the Nein, seemingly perfectly happy to let this play out. "Prove it," he demanded. "Tell me something only my brother would know."

"You've become paranoid," he noted and Verin couldn't decide if it sounded proud or disappointed. "Alright. When you and I were in our early thirties, you once got in trouble for scaling the outside of mother's mansion. Rightfully, I should have gotten in trouble, too, but I was hiding on the attic. And the reason you never told anyone, is because then you'd have had to explain that I, the wizard, had somehow outpaced you, the fighter, in a climbing competition."

Verin wrinkled his nose at that. "Well, my brother cheated."

"I did not cheat, thank you very much!" He huffed indignantly and crossed his arms. "You didn't say 'no magic' before we started."

He stared at Essek for a few moments. "It's you," he whispered.

"Obviously."

Verin dropped the wizard on the ground and looked over at his brother; really looked. The man looked nothing like the one he had known for most of his life. His hair was longer than it had ever been since he'd cut it off and his bare feet were touching the ground. His clothes were casual, a simple tunic and trousers. After this day, Verin knew for a fact that not even Essek's trancing clothes were that informal, and yet his brother looked more comfortable in them in another's house than he had in decades. On top of that, he kept glancing over to Widogast. And smiling. Essek was smiling.

No, this man looked nothing like the one Verin had known for nearly a century. But he looked a lot like his brother.

"You're alive," he said stupidly.

"Yes, of course I am," Essek said, as if Verin hadn't just attended his funeral.

It felt only right to tell him so: "Why are you alive? I was at your funeral."

"That's a long story," he sighed and floated onto one of the chairs that were slightly too tall for him. He accepted a cup of tea from Clay with thanks and turned back to Verin. "Why are you here?"

"Well, that's a pretty long story, too," Jester spoke up. "He kind of started freaking out about your earrings, I think? And he was crying and looking pretty awful and everything, right Caleb?"

"I, ah— didn't think he'd believe us if we told him about you," Caleb said. "So, we had agreed beforehand to bring him here, in case of an emergency."

"He thought we were lying," Clay added.

"I suppose it is my story to tell," Essek said. "Earrings, Verin?"

"They're your favourite," Verin said stupidly and held them out to him.

His face grew soft. "Oh," he said as he took them gingerly, "I didn't know that you kne—"

Before he could overthink and do something stupid like stop himself, he surged forward and enveloped his brother in a tight hug. After a moment Essek closed his arms around him, too.

It seemed so unreal, to be able to hold him after mourning him for what felt like years. All the worries, all the grief and anger that had crushed him in the past few weeks and for what? For the bastard to still be alive after all. It wasn't fair. Why had he had to go through all of that? And why did he feel the pressing urge to start crying again? He should be happy, shouldn't he, that his brother wasn't dead. So why did it make him feel so awful?

"I think this is our cue to leave," Fjord said. Verin felt his brother nod and heard the Mighty Nein shuffle out of the kitchen, the door closing behind them with a creak. 

Only then, Essek spoke up. "Verin," he asked quietly, "are you crying?"

"Shut up," he mumbled through the thick fog of tears and snot, definitely not crying. "I hate you, Essek. Do you know what I went through?" 

"Meeting the Mighty Nein? Yes, I can imagine."

"They're horrible," he complained. "They're loud and they're rude and they had absolutely no respect for any of your belongings! I thought I was going mad."

"They are. They also are my friends, you know."

"How?" he asked agonised.

"I know they don't look like it, but they are surprisingly capable. And I am sure that you've noticed most of them to be annoyingly charming. But I think their absolute worst traits are their infinite stubbornness and perseverance. They quite literally did not leave me alone until they had befriended me."

Verin glanced up at him questioningly. "And were half in love with the wizard?" he guessed.

Essek scowled darkly, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. "Perhaps."

He snorted and disentangled himself from their embrace. Very calmly he said: "You're a liar." 

Essek looked genuinely startled at that. "What?"

"You said, you trusted me more than him. Why then, did he know and I didn't?"

"It's... complicated," he said.

"You wizards say that a lot."

"Verin." Essek closed his eyes. "I trust you. Implicitly. And I care about you. Which is why I chose not to burden you with the knowledge of my misdeeds. I didn't— I didn't want to put you in an impossible situation to choose between me and our queen."

He laughed nervously. "What on earth are you talking about? I mean, you didn't commit treason or anything."

Essek didn't answer, avoiding eye-contact instead.

"Right?"

Still, Essek kept stubbornly quiet.

"Oh," Verin breathed. He took a moment trying to reconcile what he knew about his brother with the fact that he was apparently a traitor. It all fit together ridiculously easy. "The beacons."

Essek looked up at him in shock and he knew he had hit the mark. "What?"

"You stole the beacons." Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense. Essek had been studying them at the time, one of the only people with frequent access to them. He had always been fascinated by them, yet his theories had been rejected for their heretic nature. As Shadowhand, he had also regular contact with counterparts from the Empire, albeit not officially. Then, a few years after Essek’s research had been denied, they had vanished. How had he never seen this before?

"Oh Essek...," he said softly.

"No, please— I don’t—Please don’t—” He seemed to deflate, curling in on himself. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you, I—”

"I don't care,” Verin interrupted his frantic ramblings.

"What?" Essek looked up at him, looking just as shocked as Verin felt.

“I don’t care,” he repeated, realising that it was true the moment the words left his mouth. For how could he care about something as trivial as treason when Essek was sitting right in front of him, alive and well. "You're my brother, I don't care. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a year. Maybe in ten. Right now, I only care that you're alive."

“I—What—I don’t—” Essek stuttered, lifting and then lowering his hands a few times. “I don’t know how— If I can—Fuck.”

There was a joke on the tip of his tongue, but even he knew that this wasn’t the right time for it. Essek was obviously trying to tell him something and it took him a minute to decipher that strange behaviour. “Are you asking for a hug?” he hazarded a guess.

An agonised expression passed over his face and for a moment Verin thought there were tears gathering in his brother’s eyes. Surely not. “I don’t know if I may. I don’t mean to overstep—”

Without further ado, Verin stepped forward and gathered a yelping Essek up and squeezed him tightly. “Of course you may!” he assured him, awkwardly patting his shaking shoulders. “I love you, Essek. I am very glad that you’re alive.”

“I’m very glad to see you, too,” Essek answered and squeezed him a little tighter.

[wkemeup]

Sunrise (10)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.9k warnings: smut (18+), angsty angst, this time I dont leave you with a cliff hanger 😉 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“Come on, Bucky! I know you’re in there!” 

You hit your fist on the door again. Perhaps you would have been more mindful of the the hour, but you’d heard glass shattering as you raced up the stairway just moments ago. You’d heard him shouting himself hoarse and heavy footsteps as he paced inside his apartment. You’d heard the cracks in his voice – the consumption of grief and fury and shame swallowing him whole.  

One of Bucky’s neighbors had rung Sam the first time Bucky’s screams could be heard through the thin apartment walls. It was the fifth time in as many nights and Sam promised Bucky would get it under control before they went to the landlord with noise complaints. He made no such promises that he would be the one to do it. 

An elderly woman in a nightgown peeped her head out into the hallway, scowling at you as you continued pounding on the door. Her beady eyes narrowed and you only spared her a moment’s glance before you returned to the door. 

“I’ll wake up the whole building! I swear to—” 

The door was pulled from under your fist. In its frame, stood a ghostly version of the man you knew. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes. His hair was disheveled, blood dripped from a cut in his palm. Behind him, furniture was turned on its side, glass on the floor, magazines and unopened mail littering every surface. He'd torn his place apart.  

“What are you doing here?” 

You swallowed, forcing your voice stronger than you felt. “Sam called me.” 

Bucky’s grip on the doorknob tightened. “Of course, he did.”  

He paused only for a moment before he turned his back to you and walked inside the apartment. The door was left open in his wake and you took it as permission to enter. 

Cautiously, you took your first steps into his apartment. You tried to ignore the dust lining the curtains and the fleeting thought wondering when the last time he’d allowed the sun to touch his skin. The latch clicked behind you and you winced at the intrusion to the silence.  

Bucky meanwhile was staring out into the mess of his living room. His gaze rested on the couch turned on its side, then to the box of trinkets spilled on the floor by the mantel, then the broken glass by the window. His shoulders sagged; his expression unreadable. Slowly, he knelt down to the edge of the couch to flip it back on its legs.  

You watched him carefully, not uttering a word or daring to move closer until he finished. Once the couch was right side up again, he exhaled a tired breath and leaned against the edge. Exhaustion flickering through his eyes, though you suspected it had little to do with the exertion of moving furniture.  

As Bucky moved to throw the cushions back to the frame, you realized suddenly how he was dressed. Plaid blue pajama pants hung low on his waist. Bare feet prodding over hardwood floors too close to where broken shards of glass waited. His chest was exposed; skin glazed in the dim glow of moonlight as it peered through the small slit between the curtains.  

You could see his shoulder blades move along his back as he tensed. The lines of his spine and the dips along his hipbones. When he turned to face you again, your eyes were drawn to his shoulder and the frayed mess of scar tissue and burns. It was mesmerizing, the intricate patterns and the markings on his skin. Pink and red and faded with time. You wondered if it still hurt, if he could feel the nerve endings there or— 

Your gaze flickered back to Bucky’s. He was watching you, barely taking a breath. So vulnerable as he stood in front of you and he had no time to prepare for it. He probably didn’t realize how exposed he was until he noticed you staring. You’d imposed on his home, on his space. He couldn’t have known he’d be confronted with this tonight. 

All the effort it took for him to simply remove his jacket and now he was left standing before you without a single layer to protect him.  

You could see the doubt swimming behind his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to pretend like this connection between you was something he could easily push away, like he could let go of it without much of a second thought or a single word in his own defense, you could tell he was ripping himself apart at the seams, wondering whether you found him as repulsive as he saw himself to be. 

He shook his head, his features hardening over again. He gripped at the side of the couch until his knuckles turned white.  

“You should go home,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was thick as gravel. “Sam shouldn’t have bothered you.” 

“Shouldn’t have—?” You scoffed, stunned. “Bucky, look at this place!” 

“I’m fine,” he replied flatly and you almost laughed if it weren’t for the deadpanned look upon his face.  

“You’re clearly not fine!” You dared to take a step closer, aching to remind him of the lightness he carried weeks earlier, only for him to retreat. He rejected the contact on instinct – a flinch throughout his whole body. Your heart clenched as if a hand had slipped in past your ribs and squeezed until it burst.  

Your breath was tight in your lungs as you tried again, a little softer this time, “you’re not fine, Bucky. You’ve kept yourself held up – alone – in this apartment for days on end. You’re pushing away the people who care about you. You’re not sleeping. You... You look like you’ve been through hell.” 

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight, you wondered if it might shatter. His gaze was unfocused, staring down at the floor by your feet.  

“You don’t have to put yourself thought this,” you eased, though the tension would not fade from his muscles. They remained locked as stone. You inched forward, a hand extending to him, an anchor to ground him. “Bucky, please... let me help you.” 

Something snapped – as sudden as a rubber band pulled taunt until its breaking point – and Bucky’s cold eyes met yours.  

"There is NO helping me!” he roared, startling you enough to flinched back a few paces, your hand curling back against your chest protectively. He curled his shaking hand to a fist. “I can't escape this shit! Even when I thought I could—when things were finally bearable again and I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning and I actually wanted to live through the fucking day— it all came back anyway! One word and I’m right back to where I started! I’m a fucking nightmare to be around! Don’t you get that?!” 

His breaths were coming in ragged, too quick. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes red. He hit his knuckles against the edge of the couch, on the wooden frame under the spine. Bucky barely took in a full breath.

“I can’t keep my shit together and I’m -- I’m only going to hurt you, okay? You shouldn’t want anything to do with this. I—I mean, look around you!” He kicked at the glass near his exposed feet, angry tears burning on his cheeks. “This is what my life looks like! Is this—is this what you want for yourself? You really want to sign up for this? This—this fucking endless parade of night terrors and panic attacks and anxiety? Huh?” 

He was brimming with pain. It was spilling over the surface and coating the floor. You were drowning in it and all you wanted to do was cross the room to him, to hold him, to soothe even an ounce of that suffering away because it would consume him whole if he let it.  

Bucky’s right hand was shaking so badly, tremors wouldn’t cease even as he clenched his fist. His body betrayed the stone he etched into his features. It was crumbling under the weight.  

“You really want to throw away your life for that? For me?” he spat as if the very idea itself carried venom in its implication, as if it were nothing more than a fool’s errand to spend a lifetime by his side, as if choosing him would be choosing to tie a noose around your neck.  

You’d never seen the evidence of his self-loathing before—not in full view and smothering the man you adored. He was expecting you to recoil, to run, to fight and argue and ultimately accept that you could never love a man so broken. It was a reaction he could wait a century for and still never find even a glimpse of hesitancy on your features.  

You steadied your breathing. Focused on the heart of the man standing in front of you, determined to push past the destructive fog he’d surrounded himself in. You took a step toward him, and this time, he did not run.  

“You’re not going to scare me away, Bucky.” 

Shame quickly spread through his body, replacing the threads of anger with something much crueler. His eyes fell to the floor, his chest rising unsteady and he stumbled back a few paces to give you space from the rage he wasn’t able to control. He looked about a decade younger as his features softened again, cowering back into the shadows. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you eased, daring another step. 

Bucky shook his head, reflective lines along his cheeks. His lower lip was chewed raw.  

“You don’t deserve this mess. You should—You should be with someone whole. Someone who can give you a better life than I can.” He could barely choke out the words.

“I don’t want someone else.” You took another step closer, determined to close the space between you. “I want you.” 

The tips of your fingers brushed against Bucky’s hand and a shiver cast up his spine. His eyes were transfixed on your touch as you slowly encased his hand in your own, easing the tension through his body and crumbling the stones in his chest with a gentle slide of your thumb against his palm. He started to sink against it, his whole body caving in to the very thing he’d been keeping at an arm’s length. He was suffering withdrawal.  

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Bucky whimpered, tears slipping past his eyes as he shut them tight, as if he could cast away his demons if he were blind to their shadows over his shoulder.  

You tugged gently on his hand, pulling him down to the couch. He followed you easily, his body moving of your accord as if he were made of clay. When you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, you felt the slight tremble along his spine, the shakiness in his bones. His head laid against your heartbeat, his right arm snaking around your waist in fear of letting go.   

“I don’t need to know what happened. I don’t need the details,” you sighed against his ear. “I know you. I know you’re a good man, Bucky.” 

Bucky was quiet for a minute. The silence hung thick in the air. 

“What if I’m not?” 

You tried to ignore the twist in your chest. “Oh honey, please don’t say that.” 

“I lost eight people, Y/n,” he muttered out, holding onto you a little tighter. You could feel his heart pounding as you raked your fingers through his hair, hoping to ease him if only a little. “Eight of my unit. My friends. If I... If I had said something sooner... We were sitting ducks and... and...” 

It was impossible to draw the pieces together. You couldn’t see the vivid image he held in his mind, but the details of that day weren’t necessary. He trusted you enough to outline the frame, to provide glimpses into the worst day of his life, even if they were messy and blurred. His body shook as he spoke, like maybe it was the first time he was saying the words aloud.  

You ran your fingers along his spine, drawing patterns along his shoulder blades. He shivered. 

The gentle glow of the moonlight caught the reflective edge of something on the floor. A medal. A Bronze Star. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, remembering what Natasha had told you about its merit for exceptional bravery.  

“Were there any survivors?” 

Bucky held his breath and slowly he nodded. “He was... He was just a kid when it happened. Peter. I think... I think if it wasn’t for him, I would have died out there. I would have given up. Woulda been easy enough. My arm would have bled out pretty quick and the sky... the sky was so beautiful that day. I don’t know why I remember that. Not a cloud for miles. It would have been a nice last thing to see, you know? I would have been okay with that. But Peter... Peter was so young and I... I wanted to bring him home.” 

Tears were openly streaming down your face and you were thankful Bucky couldn’t see them as he laid against your chest. You tried to stifle the sob as it broke through. You kissed at his hairline again, holding him as tight as you could manage. 

“You saved his life,” you stressed, hoping he might be able to hear it.  

Bucky swallowed, tears brushing against the thin fabric of your t-shirt. “I lost eight others.” 

“Yes, you did.” There was no disputing that. Eight lives had been lost and he was grieving his friends, his team, blaming himself for each life he didn’t save. His body tensed and you were mindful to draw pressured lines along his back to ease the rigidity there.  

“You did everything you could, honey.” 

Bucky shook his head. “No, I could have... I—I should have...” 

“Some things are just outside of your control.” 

“But I—” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

Bucky froze, the recognition present in his body as he slowly lifted his head from your chest. “That’s....” He blinked a few times. “That’s what Sam always said. Those exact words.” 

You smiled, brushing the hair from his eyes. You wiped your thumb along his cheekbone, drawing away the tracks of tears on his face. “Sam’s a smart guy.” 

Bucky searched your eyes and you could tell he was wondering how you’d come to know Sam’s mantras, how they’d become words you often repeated to yourself in your darkest moments, but he couldn’t quite find a way to ask. He pulled himself from your lap and propped himself up beside you, your hands intertwined. He squeezed it lightly and an aching smile pulled at your lips.  

"Sam used to have to write it on paper for me,” you admitted at the bittersweet memory. “I couldn’t say it to myself and he figured if I could read it in his writing, maybe I’d believe it if it were coming from him. After a while I started to say them out loud and hearing it my own voice... I don’t know. Sam kind of tricked me into healing, I guess.” 

You laughed under your breath and you felt Bucky ease slightly beside you. He squeezed your hand again, a silent reminder that he was there. You focused on the feel of his grip, the callouses on his palms and the warmth of his skin. Real and tangible. Your Bucky.  

“Sometimes I think Sam’s the only reason I survived after I lost Riley.” 

A slight pinch formed at Bucky’s brows, his eyes narrowing—a subtle sort of curiosity, though he waited patiently for you to continue. The silence didn’t seem to frighten him as much as he focused on you, his eyes darted to your lip as you dug in your teeth.  

You hadn’t let yourself be vulnerable next to Bucky before, afraid to take away from his own suffering in favor of your own. But you had known pain of a different kind. 

You knew what it was to crave comfort, to silently beg to be held. You knew how it felt to be rejected by a man too shattered to offer any piece of himself away without breaking apart entirely.  

The way Bucky was watching you, even through the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion pulling him in... it settled the twists of nerves in your stomach. His thumb traced at the edges of your palms, gentle sweeps to ease the tension away. His back straightened, a determination returning to his features, a sense of belonging – of purpose – in his comfort of you.  

“He was a pararescue in the Air Force,” you continued after a moment and a flash of realization crossed over Bucky’s features. You pressed out a sad sort of smile as you said, “you remind me of him a little.” 

You thought of the t-shirt you’d lent Bucky the evening you’d gotten caught in the storm together, how it clung to his chest. Bucky’s shoulders where broader than Riley’s had been. It was slightly bigger on your frame the next night you wore it. The logo had faded with constant washing, the soft green of the fabric muted to a grey. You’d worn it to sleep nearly every night for weeks after Riley left for his final tour, longer after he’d been killed.  

It was the most cherished thing you owned. Lending it to Bucky that night had taken a strength you hadn’t allowed for yourself in years. It brought back memories you’d left untouched and an ache in your chest you’d forgotten. But somewhere, under it all, it had released you. 

Riley would have liked Bucky, you thought, might have considered him a friend. You hoped he wouldn’t mind being the bridge that allowed you to move onto a new sense of peace, a new comfort. Even in Riley’s darkest moments, he only ever wanted you to be happy. You desperately hoped he meant that.  

“I loved him so much,” you told Bucky, your mouth feeling suddenly dry at the admission, “but the war had hurt him beyond the scars on his body. Most nights, he woke up screaming. I tried... I tried to comfort him, to ground him back to what was real, but Riley was always so stubborn. He insisted he was fine, as if I didn’t notice the dark circles under his eyes or that he started drinking coffee in the evening before bed. He never told me what happened. I know he wasn’t trying to hurt me, that he was just doing what he could to hold himself together, but... the truth was, I lost Riley long before the officers showed up at his parents’ house.” 

Bucky nodded, watching you intently, though he didn’t say a word. You could feel his eyes on you as you kept your stare ahead, focusing on the imperfections laced into the brick of the fireplace across the room. You studied the curve of the cement, the nicks in the mantel, the divots of the stone. It was the first time you’d uttered Riley’s name in years. 

“I know you think I can’t handle this stuff, that it’s too much for me, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been around someone with nightmares, Bucky, or panic attacks,” you said, memories flashing over Riley sinking to the floor with his hands pressed to his ears, tears streaming down his face, images of him turning his back on you and disappearing for days on end. You had hoped he’d open up in enough time, but he never did. He couldn’t, he’d said, or it would consume him whole. Even years later, you still wondered whether it was under the weight of his pain that he suffocated, not in the prospect of its release.  

“Riley struggled after his first tour,” you continued, a lump burning in your throat. “He... He came back different. He couldn’t adjust to civilian life. I could tell from the second he got home that he was itching to go back. Despite all the pain he endured, all the nightmares and the guilt, all he wanted to do was go back.” 

You glanced over at Bucky to find his jaw clenched in understanding. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling, for soldiers who waited so tirelessly to be reunited with family and friends to feel isolated and insignificant when they returned home, to want to return to the one place they felt like they belonged.  

“I tried to stop him,” you continued, wiping your eyes as unshed tears started to blur your vision. “I begged him to stay. He was out of his contract. He didn’t need to go back but...” You sighed. Bucky’s hand gripped yours and you drew on the ounce of strength he was offering. “The worst part was that he was better when he was over there. He was smiling again and laughing and making jokes like he used to. He was promising things for our future I hadn’t even allowed myself to consider before then. Being over there... it offered him something I never could and I was... I was glad for that. I was thankful he’d gone. I was... relieved. I’d missed him so much and I was just happy he was himself again, even if he was a world away, even if it broke my heart. Seeing him happy again... it was enough.” 

You brushed at your eyes, the calloused touch of Bucky’s palm sliding along your jaw to gently wipe the wet from your cheek. His breathing was even again, the shakiness in his hands subsided. He waited for you to gather your thoughts again, not uttering a word in favor of the crickets chirping outside the window – unparalleled kindness in his patience.  

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, urging yourself to continue. Your eyes met Bucky’s, finding comfort in the warm shades of blue and the encouraging glimpse of a smile that barely rose at the edges of his mouth.  

“When Riley died, I blamed myself for a long time,” you said. “I told myself I could have stopped him from going back. I could have done more to convince him to stay, to get him the help he needed. I could have fought harder for him—for... for us. But Riley was his own person. He made his own choices and I couldn’t have done a damn thing to stand in his way. Sam helped convince me of that.” 

Bucky’s face slacked. “That’s why you started volunteering at the VA.” 

You nodded. “Sam and Riley were partners. They had some sort of pact to take care of the other’s family if something happened. Sam held up his side of the bargain whether I liked it or not. He dragged me to the open house that year and I haven’t left since. I do it for Riley, but... I don’t know... I think I do it for myself, too.” 

You exhaled a heavy breath, turning away from the fireplace to face Bucky. His eyes weren’t as red as they had been, a frown no longer etched into his features. His gaze full, though heavy, and he watched you as if you carried the entire world in the palm of your hands.  

“So, you have to understand... I can’t lose you to this war, too,” you choked out, squeezing at his hand to feel the firmness of it, to remind yourself that he was real and sitting right beside you and not an ocean away. “I won’t survive losing you, Bucky. I need you, okay? Please.” 

He looked as though he was about to argue, but he quickly held his tongue as he watched the tears slip down over your cheeks. Reflective in the dim light from the window.  

You took in a long breath, straightening your spine as you met his eye, your voice stronger than it had been since you started. “Not everyone comes home, but you did. You survived and you wandered into my life and somehow, you made me believe in love again. Even on your worst days, just being near you is the best part of mine.” 

Bucky’s lips parted, a semblance of shock flashing over his eyes. You smiled at him through your tears, a hand sliding along the side of his cheek. He sighed against the touch of it, sinking into your embrace as if hadn’t ever expected to be held like that again. Your sweet Bucky, still so surprised that you could adore him as much as you did.  

“So, I will take your nightmares and your panic attacks,” you told him, smiling through the trembling in your lips. “I’ll take your bad days and share the weight you carry on your shoulders. I’ll take every ounce of shame and self-loathing you have until the day comes you can hardly feel it at all. I’ll take the empty side streets with you and we’ll drive so far out into the country side we’ll never hear a firework again.” 

Bucky chuckled at that, a smile pressing up along his cheek until you felt it under your palm.  

“I will take anything you throw at me,” you sighed, your thumb brushing over his lips, “as long as you’re mine. As long as I’m yours. That’s all I want, Bucky. It’s all I ask. Just you.” 

Bucky stared at you, a strange mixture of awe and disbelief on his features. You could see the hope burning behind his eyes, how badly he wanted to believe you, but doubt crept in and sunk its talons into his spine.  

His smile sank. “You’ve... you’ve already been through so much. I don’t know if I’m worth all that.” 

“You are.” You slid both hands along his cheeks, holding his gaze, until you leaned in closer, inch by inch, and pressed your lips to his forehead. Slow, lingering, you kissed his temples, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose, his jawline, pausing only when you found yourself a breath away from his lips.  

“You are, Bucky,” you said again, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks and catching a tear in its path. He bowed his head, a slight trembling in his jawline. It took everything you had not to collapse into him.  

“Honey, I promise you, it won’t always feel like this and I’ll convince you every day that you are enough, if you need me to,” you told him, your voice shaking as you held back tears. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again.” 

You leaned forward to kiss the crown of his head and his whole body seemed to sink in response, lightening, as if he’d let go of a boulder strapped upon his shoulders. His muscles softened, the tension slipping from his spine, until slowly, he began to lift his head, hair parting away from his eyes. Though they were strained and red, a crystalized ocean current stared back at you.  

You could feel the ease in his body taking over, a realization and a determination present in his stare, in his body.  

His lips parted, a steady breath in. “I love you.” 

*** 

It was the easiest thing he’d ever said; slipped from his lips as if the words had simply tumbled out on their own. Lost in how tenderly you touched him, how your hands never once left his body even as he held himself firm as stone, how you entrusted him with the most painful parts of yourself, how you gently coaxed him away from the shadows threatening to drag him back into a darkness he’d never recover from – he’d never been so certain of anything in his life.  

“I love you,” he said again, just wanting to hear it one more time. His voice was stronger this time, steadier, and he could feel his cheeks curving up into a smile. It ached from disuse, but it was a pleasant feeling. A kind one.  

He slipped his hand to rest on yours as it laid against his face and gently pulled it back just enough to kiss at your palm. It wasn’t often he found you at a loss for words, but it he didn’t mind the silence, not like he did before. He could still hear the slight hitch of surprise in your breath, the nervous laughter carrying in your exhale. You were smiling so wide, he wondered if it were even possible to love you more than he did in that moment.  

“Really?”  

God, you were so beautiful when you looked at him like that. Starry eyed and so full of hope.  

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.” 

You kissed him then, full on his mouth, arms thrown around his neck, and he had to stifle a laugh against your lips. He could feel the smile growing against him, laughing in between every kiss as the tears dried on your cheeks.  

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you beamed, drawing him in to kiss him again. 

He shouldn’t be surprised after all you’d said to him tonight, but it still fluttered in his chest, still caused butterflies to swarm in his stomach, still cast a blinding light deep into his heart that pushed out the remaining darkness lingering behind. His arm snaked around your back, holding you as tight against him as he could manage. He was breathless by the time you pulled away.  

“Will you stay?” he asked, suddenly feeling nervous as his eyes flickered over to the bedroom door. “I know it’s a mess out here, but—” 

Your lips were on his again and he swore he’d never talk again as long as you kept kissing him like that. Slowly, you began to stand from the couch, tugging him along with you. He pulled away from your lips just long enough to navigate his way to the bedroom, stepping over broken glass and the remnants of his nightmare on the living room floor.  

His bedroom was untouched, at least. The sheets were thrown haphazardly off the bed, but other than that, it was pristine in comparison to the damage he’d done out there. A shame tried to work its way deep into his chest, but he felt your hand slip into his, carefully drawing him close to the bed, and it released him to your care.  

His back bounced against the mattress in tune with the sweet sound of your laughter as you crawled over him. Thighs caging his hips, you straddled his waist and he looked up at you, certain he’d find a glimmering shine of a halo behind your head. The moonlight touched over your shoulders as you leaned down against him, kissing his lips. 

He’d missed you so much. Those two weeks left him in a hole he couldn’t possibly dig himself out of on his own. He was scraping at the bottom, nails filled with dirt, digging himself deeper and deeper until he could no longer see the sunlight as it touched over the surface. It wasn’t until you jumped down into the pit with him that he noticed there were notches in a wall once perfectly smooth, allowing him to crawl his way back up to the top.  

You leaned back a little, breathless, as your hands slid along his chest. It was the first time he’d been so exposed in front of you, the scars and burns on full display, and he was surprised that there was no hesitancy in your touch, no reluctance as you brushed your fingertips over the corners of the damage to his skin. But you paused, eyes flickering to him.  

“Can I?” 

Bucky sighed, his heart aching. You knew how difficult it was for him, for you to see this part of him. He hadn't even taken off his jacket once in the first few weeks of knowing you. But now, he nodded eagerly, wanting to feel the tenderness with which you handled him upon the broken remains of his left side.  

Your hands slid up over his shoulder, brushing along the bumps and ridges in his skin. Hardened tissue and raised edges. The way you touched him, like he was something beautiful and adored, made his heart swell. It wasn’t until you leaned down to press a feathered kiss to his shoulder, just over the burn marks and the glimpse of what he’d lost, that he choked back tears.  

“Is it too much?” you asked, noticing the trembling in his lower lip, but he quickly shook his head. 

“It’s perfect,” he replied breathily, drawing you back to his lips. “You’re perfect. I don’t deserve—” 

“Hush,” you warned, kissing him to cut him off, “don’t talk about the man I love like that. You deserve every ounce of love I can give you, you hear me?” 

He stared at you for a moment, studying the sincerity on your features until the gravity of what you said sank in, and slowly, he nodded. It would take time to believe that, but he hoped the more you said it, the easier it would come. He’d believe just about anything if it came from your voice.  

“Let me show you.” 

Bucky stilled; his throat suddenly dry.

“Let me show you, Bucky,” you asked again, your lips against his neck. He shivered. You sucked at his skin, drawing a map along his collarbone. You tongue licked at the indent by his neck. “Please.” 

When you met his eyes again, Bucky wondered if maybe you saw him with the same wonder and enchantment with which he saw you. It only took the slight tilt of a nod before you crossed your arms over your waist and slowly pulled your shirt up over your head. Your bra came next and Bucky shifted uncomfortably, realizing you were still straddling him, his hardening length prominent against your thigh. 

He stared up at you, studying over the curves of your breasts, the dips in your hips, untouched and exposed – so incredibly beautiful.  

He stopped himself as the thought entered his mind, the wondering whether he deserved such beauty in his life, wondering how he’d managed to trick the cruel twist of karma to allow him to love a woman like this – to love you like this. 

He cast away the doubt, forcing it back to the shadows where it belonged. It was easier to do that when you smiled at him like that, like he was truly worth something.  

You laid down against his chest as his hand slid up along your spine, feeling for the slight dip in your back and the goosebumps following in his wake. You shivered under his touch and for the first time, Bucky remembered what it felt like to be wanted.  

He couldn’t stop kissing you, even as your hands slipped to his waistband. It was like you breathed new life back into him; reviving him with every touch.  

He helped you push down the band of his pants until you could easily drag it down his legs and drop it to the floor by his bed. It had been a long time since he was so vulnerable in front of a woman, but he didn’t mind when you looked at him the way you did. There was no ounce of judgement in your eyes, no cautious glance to his shoulder and the absence there. There was only love.  

You slipped the remaining clothes from your body and Bucky held his breath as you climbed over him again, straddling his waist, bare. 

Bucky was trembling as he reached for the drawer at his bedside. Blindly digging around for a box in the back of the drawer, he felt for the edge of foil wrapping. He brought it to his teeth, careful to rip the packaging, though as he held it in one hand, he let out a heavy sigh.  

“Would you...?” he asked, a blush creeping up into his cheeks.  

He didn’t know why he was so embarrassed, given that you were both naked, but this was one of those things he couldn’t do for himself. It would have felt emasculating if it weren’t for how eagerly you nodded and how good it felt as you placed the condom on his tip and slowly rolled it down his base. He closed his eyes, sinking back into the pillow at the feeling, wondering how he was going to survive this. 

“You alright there, honey?” you called, giggling under your breath and, damn, if it wasn’t the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.  

“I won’t last long,” he admitted, his hand sliding up along your waist, thumb brushing over your breast. He tried to catch the whimper as it left his lips to no avail.  

You smirked. “I think we’ve waited long enough. Don’t you think?”  

You sank down on him and he choked back a moan, embarrassingly loud, but it only seemed to spur you on as you rolled your hips, giving him little time to adjust. You were so tight, squeezing around him, and – holy shit – when you dragged yourself against him, using him as you sought out the angle you were looking for, he’d never felt anything like it. 

He held his breath, focusing on the ceiling as he listened to the sweet sounds you made as your hands curled against his chest, hair falling down into your face. He knew he wouldn’t last as long as he wanted— hell, he would have stayed in you like this for hours if he could have – and it was taking near everything he had to hold out long enough for you to finish.  

Thankfully, you were just as riled up as he was – high on missing him, aching in the distance – and Bucky gasped as he felt your walls clench around him with the rushed circles between your legs. You picked up in pace and Bucky found himself meeting you half way, thrusting up into you as he braced himself on the headboard.  

“Oh God – Bucky,” you whimpered, your chest falling down to his, unable to hold yourself up. He kissed your neck, his hand sliding from around the wooden of the baseboard to grip your hips.  

If he could, he would have had a hand on your breast, teasing at the nipple, the other sliding down to the space between your bodies, rubbing circles on the nerves that left you so breathless you could hardly hold yourself up. But he was learning again, getting used to his body and his limits, and all he could focus on was holding you, guiding your hips, giving him leverage to fill you whole.  

Judging from the sounds you were making, your body molding like puddy against him, you didn’t mind at all. 

“I’m close,” you gasped, breath hot against his neck. “Ah, God, Bucky... I’m-- I’m--” 

He could feel it before the words left your lips, the clench in your walls, the spasms in your muscles that left you weak against him, overstimulated as you pulled your hand away from your clit. Your cries gave him the permission he needed to let go, only a few more thrusts was all it took, and he shuttered as he came.  

Breathless, hardly able to control the laugh as it bubbled in his chest, Bucky could hardly believe that he started this night in the darkest place he’d been in months, only to end up lying here with you, so full of light and love he could hardly stand it.  

He didn’t let you go at first, just wanting to hold you a little longer. He felt the sweet touch of your lips as they trailed along his neck, smile brimming against his ear. Then slowly, you rolled off of him, gently removing the condom and tossing it to the bin. A shiver slipped up his spine at the touch.  

“I’m sorry I pushed you away,” Bucky confessed as you laid against his chest, curling up to his side. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Don’t let me do that again, okay? I can’t stand to go another day without you.” 

You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing along the lines on his shoulder, touching over old scars and burns. You traced them as if they were simply lines on his body, just another piece of him worth loving, worth memorizing. He wondered if the next time he saw them in the mirror, he might remember this moment and see them for something more than the evidence of his loss that day. Maybe, he might see them the way you did – as evidence of his survival.  

“I love you,” you sighed and Bucky felt his heart swell; it grew and expanded so wide inside his chest, he wondered if his bones might bend to make room as it split him so lovely at the seams.  

“I love you, too.” He curled his arm tighter around your shoulders, drawing you close to his side. Over your shoulder, a cast of moonlight seeped in through the windows, touching over your skin, illuminating the room in a gentle glow. He closed his eyes as sleep drew him near, comforted by the patterns you drew against his shoulder. 

When he fell asleep, he fell willingly – protected in your embrace, safe, from the nightmares laying in wake.

[thoscheienjoyer]

Here's a rough draft of a rewrite with a speech like that, I plan to do much more with this concept:

"Look upon my work, Doctor, and despair"

The Doctor looked on in horror at the fallen civilization she once called home, she'd seen it once before, but now she was forced to stand with the man who did it and take it all in. "Why would you do this?" She finally snaps, she can't determine if she's angry or sad, maybe both, she was a whirlwind of grief.

But the Master doesn't take her question seriously, he just smiles calmly, as if what he did was nothing, and maybe to him it was nothing, or too much to feel. "The better question, why wouldn't I?" She stared in disbelief but didn't speak quickly enough for him not to continue: "I did it for us, Doctor."

"Why would I want this?!" Rage bubbled to the surface at such a claim, she wanted to punch him for daring to bring her into this more than she already was, it was already her fault she didn't stop him, she didn't need this.

"Do you remember how old we were when we were forced into the academy? When we first looked into the good and the bad of the universe?"

She didn't remember, she was too young.

"You were one of the lucky ones, Doctor, most were driven mad. Though, maybe you are in your own little way with the hero complex and all."

"I'm not like you. I didn't want this." Her voice shook and she refused to see his point, there's no explanation that could have been good enough to calm her rage, is this how he feels?

"You are like me, we're the only ones left" The Master steps closer and she steps away, she didn't want to look at him right now.

"We were always the only ones worthy of this title, a timelord, what did they ever do with it? Nothing. They sat around and created monsters with their cruelty. What if it was up to you what to do? What if the laws of time were at your will? What would you do?" He leans in despite her attempts to keep a literal and metaphorical distance. "You'd do a better job than they did. We stand on the ruins of a world put out of it's misery, you should thank me."

Instead she punched him in the face. He tasted blood on his lips and stared at her in shock, he'd expected a big reaction, but not this. He was almost impressed, it was thrilling to have such a chokehold over someone else's emotions. Over the Doctor's emotions.

Her breath was shaky, the punch did nothing to help. "This is our home, did it mean nothing to you?! All this talk of vengeance and you fail to mention all the innocents you've slaughtered in the crossfire! Did they deserve it, Master?! I didn't want this!" She didn't know why she felt the need to repeat it, maybe it was reassurance to herself she held no hate for the high council.

"It meant everything to me!" He yelled back and she paused, he had been masking the hurt. Was he feeling remorse? No. He was upset he wasn't satisfied. "All those years with constant, pounding, drumming!" stomp stomp, stomp stomp. "I think about this wretched place and it's like it's still there. There was a time when you were the only good thing on this planet, but you left it so why should I care about anything I ruined? Unless I ruined you too by doing this, that'd be ironic, wouldn't it?"

The Doctor was silent, she could see his pain, but she couldn't justify or forgive his actions. "Just take me wherever you were going to."

His mood drastically shifts, anger fading to a giddy persona where he's nothing but proud of himself. "Follow me, dear." As if she had a choice, she followed along the destruction, too detached from the situation to let it stop whatever he was planning. Throughout: 'I did it for us' was on a loop in the Doctor's mind, this was her fault.

Am I the only one who hated the timeless child reveal and thought it made no sense? If they needed a reason for the Master to blow up Gallifrey they had plenty:

The Doctor and the Master were both heavily bullied to the point the Master almost died and the Doctor had to kill the bully to save him because he was being drowned

The Master was locked in a room for who knows how long intentionally as a punishment

The Master was taken from his family as a child to look into something that basically gave him schizophrenia

The Master was told to his face he's "diseased" (End of Time) and he's "the worst thing to come out" (The Five Doctors)

He has constantly been the timelord's pawn, giving him the drums was an intentional decision

It's implied he was tortured for his crimes after being trapped on Gallifrey when he sacrificed himself for the 10th doctor in End of Time

I would have LOVED if the Master blew up Gallifrey simply because he thought they deserved it after how they treated him and the Doctor both. What could make him do this could just be the fact he's disgusted by Missy's actions in trying to be better and feels like he has to do the worst thing he can possibly think of and that's what comes to mind. He'd try to convince the Doctor he's right "Remember how they didn't help us? How they took us and made us see things no child should? How we never got our own lives? That'll never happen to anyone ever again now" unhinged speech

Or "With them gone we are truly the last of the time lords, we have a right to the universe more than anyone now and it's ours to shape. Conquer with me and be a just ruler if you're so concerned"

[calmthefuckdownalright]

I Renounce You Part 4

A/N: Wooo...we’re down to page 9 of 13!! Friendly reminder this idea is inspired by @tuesday-teyz and is NOT canon of any sort and is just a little take on how I think the story COULD (not should, it’s going great rn thank you) have ended if it’s author wanted to cut the chord right after Tommy broke that chair.

Anyway, enjoy

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To the right of His Imperial Highness were the other two princes. Wilbur had his hands behind his back and his shoulders straight as an arrow and Technoblade kept a hand on the hilt of his sword. To the left was Ranboo dressed in a black and white suit with a blue ribbon belt tied around his waist and a necklace of what looked like a cat’s eye around his neck. Tubbo stood close by just behind the lanky boy.

“Theseus, do you understand why you’ve been called here?” The Emperor bit on his words like sword tips, but none plunged into Tommy’s heart to evoke fear and desperation.

“Of course.” Tommy said neutrally and folded his hands in front of him. The crown burned heavy on his head and he silently wished his father would go ahead and just do what he needed him to do.

“And you have no remorse for the slander you’ve put against your own family?” The Emperor stood to his feet and those icy blue eyes so much like his own bore into Tommy’s head. Yet still, no fear accompanied the piercing stare.

“Why should I? The way I see it, this is hardly my family anymore.” Tommy chuckled and the words struck a mark. “Careful Phil, this is hardly my worst.” Tommy thought gleefully.

“How can you say that?!” The Emperor burst out the words and Tommy couldn’t help but flinch just a little. “You dare to say the people who have cared and loved you for years are not your family?” 

“If this is love then I do not wish it upon anyone!” Tommy snapped out with a bearing of his teeth and a step forward. The Emperor fell silent and Tommy saw his window to finish off his plan. “I am exhausted from day to night and none of you have cared to even look at it! None of you have cared to care at all for anything!”

The Emperor stepped back and Tommy set his feet even as the rant of his pain and suffering finally let loose. 

“You cut me with your words and sharpened looks. You watch me bleed out in silence in hopes it will make me crawl back to the very arms that have abandoned and split me open time and time again!” He targeted Wilbur first. Wilbur who had made him dependent on him then left him in the cold night with no one but Technoblade to console his childish pain. “I am bleeding now but by my own inflicted wounds. I play your games and dance around your words but it’s futile because your only goal is to harm and I can’t escape your deadly aim.” Tommy hissed at the one he’d loved so much. The one who left him first. Then he turned to the next person in his path of chaos.

“I needed you to help and guide me, I needed you close and you abandoned me as well. Instead of coming back to do it yourself when you realized I did need you, you sent a stupid guard who couldn’t care less how many times I break down and scream at my walls!” The prince drew a breath before growling with all the ugly rage in his shattered heart. “Your sword will forever be more important than family so I take my own and cut you out of mine before you cut me instead.”

“That’s enough Theseus!” Emperor Philza clanged his walking stick into the ground and Tommy faced the man he once admired with everything he had.

“I’ve had enough! I will speak now! This is my turn to finally be free of your venomous ideals!” Tommy shouted back and balled his fists. He snarled and pointed to His Imperial Highness accusingly.

“Don’t you ever think you are not responsible for my entire downfall.” Tommy said. “Every ink mark put to paper and duty piled into the night you were the reason! You wallowed in your grief for so long you didn’t even bother trying to climb out of it to see how your own children were doing! You once told me Mother would be ashamed, well how would she feel knowing you left YOUR youngest SON to crumble under the weight of it all only to later favor a peasant!” 

“Ranboo is-” Emperor Philza rushed to defend the boy to the left and Tommy stole the ammunition. 

“There you go defending him again! Over your own children! It is not my fault I am heartless when all the love I had was thrown away! All the work and dedication I have put into this kingdom and throne and stupid crown is for nothing!” He shouted and panted as he saw tears fill the blue eyes of the Emperor. Wilbur looked like he might run forward but Technoblade was ready to stop him with an arm. 

“I am done…” Tommy huffed “Being the only one trying to keep everything fine. I am done and tired of pretending I don’t wish I had died with Mother. I am not fine, I am not okay, and I will not be subjected to your neglectful abuse anymore.” He reached for the crown on his head and looked to Ranboo.

“Theseus-” Wilbur started to say but the words died out as Tommy spoke once again to the peasant turned royalty.

“Ranboo…I hope you have better fortune with this family than I have.” Tommy smiled and tears burned his eyes. One fell as he glared at the circlet of silver and blue before he locked eyes with his father. The Emperor of the Antarctic Empire.

“Theseus what are you doing?” The Emperor asked and Tommy grinned.

“I renounce you.” He said and tossed the crown forward where it clattered on the carpet running up to the thrones and slid still as Tommy backed away with his arms outstretched.

Silence ensued before someone who Tommy least expected to break it did.

“Theseus wait!” Tubbo darted from behind Ranboo and Ranboo followed just behind. The boy, once Tommy’s best friend, nearly knocked him over with a rib crushing hug and tears falling onto the suit that still clung to Tommy’s skin. 

“Good luck out there.” Ranboo said and outstretched a hand to shake but Tommy smiled. Now, unburdened by the responsibility of status and reputation, he saw his savior instead of just a peasant boy coming to steal his place. So, he hugged him instead.

“And to you.” Tommy smiled and patted Ranboo’s shoulder before looking back to see Wilbur struggling against Technoblade with a hand clamped over his mouth.

“Let me go! Let me get him back, you bastard!” Wilbur cried out. “Theseus please!” Wilbur pleaded and Tommy stayed still. His eyes cleared and he saw everything once again. 

Wilbur was as broken as he was, if not more so, and something ugly and twisted was keeping him together more than anything. Wilbur didn’t mean to hurt Tommy, but he did. Perhaps more than anyone had.

“I’ll see you guys later.” Tommy said to Tubbo and Ranboo. “And the name’s Tommy, not Theseus.” He said the second part loud enough for Philza to hear and then he left with the echo of destruction bouncing off the walls behind him.

“Theseus-” Philza was the last to call out for him before the doors shut behind him.

“So…Tommy?” Dream’s voice stopped the former prince dead in his effort to leave. He had changed into much more comfortable clothes fit for traveling and was busy packing a small satchel that could carry a money pouch, ink and quills, and a book or two. He wore riding boots as his intention was to buy a steed from the stables in the city and ride it to his next destination.

“Why are you here?” Tommy said flatly and tightened the strings on his satchel before swinging it onto his shoulders and tying the excess to his belt.

“Originally to apologize, but now I’m curious as to where you plan to go now with a target on your back?” Dream said cooly and Tommy could hear the smile in his words.

“Why should you care? We’re through, Dream.” Tommy hissed and bit his tongue. Out of all the people that had hurt him over the years and by how much, Dream’s was the worst.

“I don’t want to be through, Thes- I mean Tommy. I want us to be brothers again.” Dream stepped forward on his last words and Tommy clamped his eyes shut. It still hurt.

“Please, don’t call me that if you’re truly sorry.” Tommy pleaded and stood straight to make sure the satchel stayed secure.

“Tommy please, let me make it up to you!” Dream begged and it made the former Prince’s heart coil.

“You can’t take back what you hid from me, Dream. You can’t undo that betrayal.” Tommy faced his companion and met green eyes unshielded by the mask of a smile.

“I know and that’s why I’m sorry! I should’ve told you at the start and I shouldn’t have followed you to your garden. That was yours and I took it from you.” Dream grasped Tommy’s shoulders and gripped his biceps in an effort to reach Tommy’s iced heart.

Silence stretched out like a canyon and Tommy bit back tears and lowered his eyes from the familiar green of Dream’s. There was a sigh and a shaking breath.

“Tommy, I want you to come back to Esempi with me.” Dream said.

“What?” Tommy’s eyes snapped back to Dream’s. It was like a magnet. Everything slowed and the world became a shade of green. A green akin to home and smooth grass instead of icy snow and cold shoulders.

“I want you to come back home with me, as my brother.” Dream repeated with more force and his eyes lit with a promise of love and happiness.

><><><><><><><><><><><>

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | ____ | Part 5 | (Finale)

[libidomechanica]

Margins call God—call God

A tricube sequence

               1

And waile with such pity do we

could shown. Curve in a stay. The naked

on her day. Margins call God—call God!

               2

Which I escap’d from thy tear it. You

almost mine and all, among. With things

passion—draweth Helicon the faint!

               3

When removed! And make my gulf hadst not

kept his brimming and was in the aid

on pity on horse? See him, but I.

               4

When to speaketh. It wilder- mooned

touches roughts that old hiding. I burn

with earth—and the employs for these lips?

               5

Pan the walls, and the forgive she down

hands. Last summon air.—If I sleep without

this lips! But yet do the new booth.

               6

Cap of works of either minds of the

valley there he man’s side should never

you alone. Then to seem’d twincline, oh!

               7

That shuns Love. For under grief; for soul

the affords. By tenderness is goodly

pegs; but false here it is my green.

               8

For you’re slowly which you, so sudden

age to all have do? On will my

desire my eclipse and charity.

               9

Hammering all drawn, or do depart,

it makes vs language appease my

though bubblings, which in the selfe thee; things.

               10

Through each other, in the sun sank or

for adore! For what sages drown’d within

that till on Menie down words, how broad.

               11

The sorrow last. Like there, the way, I

can received thine eyes bene alone?

Roll, that villain fickle Nelly Gray!

               12

Time of thy delight last! My scorn withdraw

no more awe thy thing with pride, thou,

then your sigh and low, the should they land.

               13

Let not seem near the flight of flower

for Thought, if you. Has up one age, her

soul of years doe avoyd the rivers.

               14

Nothing to was that Johnny! Poor for

signal shaking from hill, as at thine

hand of mine eyes shill: wi’ joy his pay.

               15

His hand, and Johnny’s left wind the Moon

of silence together. With they spoke,

and look upon the wind was in ways.

               16

Are bounted in your brazen familiar

part, in they ran: thou, whereby; learns

to the year? Not only fit for you.

               17

As soft winna let us carefulnesse

of miracle. Thou comes thy

soul in her by me received a man!

               18

Now called he’d wrinkles she cold along;

flame-lit place fate, still. Since, dar’st the sun’s

see, thine isles shown. They guest; but I die!

               19

To keeps, the summer beast? Go on, go

chide but the who, hardly can my lips

witness, once by their merry-making?

               20

It is not in a diet. And ancient

veil that now chariot hush, then

forgive, but seas whereby young bird sang.

               21

Music to that is old Susan Gale.

That blinded Pleiad, which once she saw

thee and feel why amiss, a shaking.

               22

At moment! As with so late scholar,

spleen. His rage at my learn, to him, raking,

as with each though the meaning lies.

               23

And me this swept then ridden and her

stood, and whiles away from the perfume

them thus to sooth, what is booth. Mr.

               24

For mine eyes, comes the pony more shadows

flying our palm? Of those Virtue

be anything. So he reeds and breath?

               25

Those wrung head& to knock again- her about

there. Summers ever knew my woeful

charge, even by tasted on Nell!

               26

The impossibly terror cause be

where harmless the bed in part, gather,

seeing fires. So Pharaoh, or stand thee.

               27

But my lust. Let us coffee, decked.

Tide—till thee, robes flame the was she was

the main, she land only airless lie.

               28

For the languish dreams did not as kind.

To give more fruitful of perfume to

see, the single heart. Your quaint then out.

               29

Only might does you blin’s law. Yet was

shut feast, that’s his suffered … to choosing

from among hand, still as sweet Draughter.

               30

As loathsome. An oath, reconciled to

many starte with your waile than my

servant’s eyes care, I had through not me?

               31

—A clear spring- wheel, the dead, are bought

to my request. His death, I will die,

vibrates in that so unsluice spake more.

               32

Colin the last breath, and Infinite

clock with grave when adored. My fate, and

go, and furrows on the scarlet pain!

               33

The summer, ere twere fierce loue, and took

their end toward sun, for my love do? She

pang; dare in a grace. Than sense—thy loue?

               34

Her that, in my arms will years best. For

thou can never ill-bred each other

tender the moued to mine eye, her dreams.

               35

And as if on when I lived twenty

and Good Betty lambs we eaten light

and as if death head we but plays me.

               36

Robbed, to hello. Up in the coastal

stay to dwell try my gaily love to

one hand, that is ditties but can ease.

               37

And for on one day as to weariest

words. The end toward Lamia: tell you

bene aloft with a pious birds.

               38

Take your infrequest. Or his verse and

this guide. So he thus again arres

to the plain is flood on hire baundoun.

               39

Yours all: wi’ joy possibly sad as

a week’s so green both flatter. These world

an irritable when you appease?

               40

Breaches of arms I have all weep, it

came latest soul from me. I lovd so

night, both forbid mercy are your day.

               41

And multitudes so fast in mysterical,—

he braver at the strained thy

loues thee. Our break my idiot boy.

               42

His devotion that I asham’d thy

far awa! With thy dainting of transfer

which won a goat inke is a birds.

               43

None live as not sinking and, pleasant

that thou thy minds are game. A-list’ning

so fresh design upon a diet.

               44

The silence passionate away, do

not ever therefore her into amaze.

Her sex and the drink up a mind.

               45

Then let a stars that love know, dead the

came. By bonds in the news printed breathed,

when ecstatic fumes call Thy plays me.

               46

Or him if horse, that it could I know.

It make you in a sweet him, but the

Southern balm breathings reflection slide.

               47

Enough, above, do not be well she

long thee! Doth looks in truest and thus

bepearly nothings to either on.

               48

Under their proudly say. It is also

in sensitive lifts thee but found,

since live or wheels would fair and saying.

               49

Troth, still, and me die, times back have to

behold the grave alwaies set: bayleaue

arrival. And by his eyes at survive.

               50

As in the tended; but was wherein

yourself, the diseases to weak race;

but for a long I prize with power.

               51

He took through tremulous shadow and

clear perfume. For from Pyrrha’s pebbles

may me blood rushes, who like a son.

               52

In each comfort took the poor great krater-

cup bearing kisses racing. Be

glass o’ sweetly grant I may the day.

               53

Dreams in the life-days and husband; so

large here better. And not how she’s the

sun from wear you Virgins, thy should quake.

               54

Say overthrown, or as place where brains,

the sun? To fight; my death soft hands, or

pity do not ask the peoples left.

               55

Well; or where; that shepherds feelings vse

eloquench hood at its round witch, haunt

of love, and maun I still in the greete?

               56

Much too deep in tune that, in love office:

nor stars, and Betty’s most thou mayst

with slow amenity, and she wood.

               57

Beside me thundring ye love, too store;

new one, to love’s wrongs. And down by there,

tis eight to the proudly spleen. At heart!

               58

Yourself from else itself in thy mind.

In high, which to a few live, and greatness

mighty thou art to frown; he wheel?

               59

And escaped for my hears, though thence. The

yellow sky, that poetry where be

a copy near into That make heede.

               60

The banks the illusion vex me a’;

but fall in royall rocks. But a now

not for certain and unmated, glide.

               61

Bounty shame too-early grow; but

boundlessly brough the fires of her soul! A

dream in up and by tasted in loue?