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clockwork-ashes · 2 months

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All You Have Is Your Fire - Part IX

Find Part I here :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge, huge thank you to the lovely @bettdraws who literally deserves all the credit and whose post inspired me to start writing this. I could not stop thinking about this headcanon, and it was so kind of you to let me try and make a story from it :)

And a HUGE thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 /

Part X >>

Lucien walked beside Elain as he continued to lead them towards the loveliest library in the Forest House. She was so unusually close that the stone hallway felt too small, the walls closing in around him. If he wished, he could have brushed the fingers of his hand against her knuckles.

Lucien tried not to glance at his mate, but failed rather miserably. He could see Elain’s pretty brown eyes taking in her surroundings carefully, trying to track where they were going. Lucien knew from experience that it would take Elain and Cora both some time before the two females grew accustomed to the sprawling complex, a city in its own right.

Cora walked silently on the stones just a bit behind them and Lucien wondered briefly what kind of shoes she was hiding beneath her long skirts. Her steps were noiseless, like she was floating, almost as though Lucien and Elain were alone.

Perhaps involuntarily, Elain moved even closer to him. Lucien nearly offered her his arm, but thought better of it. He did not think she would appreciate it, but Lucien could still feel the phantom grip of her hand on his own as they had been escorted to their shared suite the night before.

Thoughtlessly, Lucien had left her alone when he had woken up, and while he was sure Eris had slightly exaggerated Elain’s words, he knew that Elain did not like the fact that he had declined to tell her where he planned to go.

Through their bond, Lucien could feel her frustration with him over it, a slow thrum over that bridge between two souls. It had come as a shock to Lucien when Elain had agreed to go to the library, even with her lady’s maid joining.

Elain was clearly uneasy with their current predicament, and Lucien could not even blame her.

“The Autumn Court is lovely,” Elain politely offered in the quiet. She did not look towards him, keeping her gaze steady and ahead.

Lucien nodded in response. The court he had been raised in was genuinely beautiful, stunning, especially for someone who had never visited before. Lucien did not mention how cruel of a place it could be. “I always thought so.”

Lucien said nothing more, unsure if Elain was truly looking for a conversation to start between them, or if she simply wanted the awkward silence that had befallen to end.

Lucien ran a hand through his hair, the gesture a nervous habit. He caught as Elain seemingly stopped breathing, her heartbeat racing.

With a furrowed brow, Lucien looked at her, hesitating to ask if she was alright.

Much to Lucien’s relief, Cora spoke before he did. With hurried steps, she caught up to Elain, hardly worried. “Forgive me, but if I might speak out of turn,” her voice carried in the hall, her accent thick with the rhythm of the Hewn City.

“That’s nonsense,” Elain mumbled, her shoulders relaxing.

Lucien felt his lips turn up, the smallest of smiles at how Elain did not even consider that Cora was technically working for the Night Court. He could hear the way Cora’s tone changed immediately, suddenly more comfortable.

“How does anyone manage to get around this place?” She made a careless gesture with her hand, the golden thread along her sleeve flashing. “All of it looks the same,” she addressed him with a dark brow raised.

Lucien noticed for the first time how lovely she was, his focus almost always having been entirely on Elain since the moment he had seen his mate in his father’s throne room. Cora’s jaw was sharp, her lips full, an elegant bump just on the bridge of her nose. Her dark brows framed even darker eyes, a blush staining her high cheekbones when Lucien faced her fully.

“You get used to it,” he responded warmly. “It takes some time, but I’m sure you’ll find your way around easily enough by the week’s end.”

“Callum Vanserra escorted me to the servant’s quarters yesterday.” Cora tucked a long strand of hair behind her pointed ear. Lucien took note of how she did not add a title to his brother’s name and he liked her boldness, her blatant disregard for another court’s prince. “I think he led me past the library, but I can’t tell if we even walked by here,” she added with a nervous laugh.

Lucien offered Cora a genuine smile. “Remind me, then, to take you to your room before Elain and I return to ours.”

“Callum is your older brother?” Elain’s question caught Lucien by surprise, a knowing smile flashed along Cora’s lips as the other female turned away from him.

Elain cleared her throat awkwardly, as if asking the question had caught her by surprise as well. Lucien could feel a small burst of possessiveness flashing along the bond, the way Elain urged him to pay attention to her with a tug on that invisible string.

Jealousy.

“Callum is third-born, practically ancient.” Lucien looked to see how Elain would react. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, the weight of her full regard too heavy for him. An amazing actress, she hid her emotions so well, Lucien thought. He faced away from Elain once more. “He was a child during the first war, and was raised in Xian, by my maternal grandmother.”

Elain nodded along, interest lining her expression. Lucien could see her from the corner of his eye and decided that was much better, her beauty easier to bear. Like looking straight at the sun, painful and yet the desire was there.

“Will you tell me about the others?” Elain asked, looking up at him, her steps in time with his own.

Lucien shrugged, he hated all his brothers in equal measure. “There’s not much to tell.” He felt another pull on the bond and could not help facing his mate.

“I should probably know more about your family,” he watched as a scarlet blush bloomed on Elain’s pale cheeks. “We are getting married, after all.”

A genuine laugh spilled from Lucien’s lips at her tone. “I suppose you’re right.”

“It happens on occasion,” she clipped, her blush deepening in colour.

Lucien tore his gaze from Elain for a moment to flash Cora a concerned look, wondering whether he should speak in front of the other female about his brothers. His golden eye whirred.

“I won’t repeat a word of this to anyone,” Cora rushed to reassure him, noticing the way Lucien glanced at her. “My lips are completely sealed.”

Lucien ran his hand through his hair, sighing. He decided it hardly mattered what Elain’s lady’s maid knew in regards to his family. He turned his attention back to Elain, only to find her looking at him intently. “You haven’t met Felix, but he’s only a few years older than me.”

“You were close with him.” Elain’s statement suggested that was the only logical conclusion in her mind.

“Not at all,” Lucien scoffed. “He only ever looks out for himself, silver-tongued, a perfect emissary. Felix can convince the most stubborn of nobles to see his point of view, sway their opinions in his favour.”

Elain hummed in understanding, but Lucien still did not think she could completely grasp the twisted relationship he had with his brothers.

“Felix is on good terms with Ronan, I think.” Lucien could never be too sure where the loyalty of each Autumn prince lay, or how quickly they might turn on one another if the right circumstances were to arise. “Ronan works closely with my father, his flames strong enough to make him a worthy contender for the crown.” He frowned as Elain silently coaxed him to go on with only her eyes. “Like I said, there’s not much to tell.”

Lucien continued walking, the library’s carved wooden doors only a few steps away. He did not need to raise his hand to open them, despite how heavy they were, glad that they were still unlocked and open to anyone who wished to enter.

“And Eris?” Elain asked, her brows raised. Surely she had heard about his eldest brother’s reputation, Lucien thought, but he was the only one of his brother’s Elain had truly interacted with. It made sense that Elain would want to know more.

Lucien almost stopped in his tracks as he considered her question. “Eris is…”

A snake.

The male who raised me.

My favourite brother.

“Eris is Eris,” he said with a shrug, the gesture and his statement so ridiculous he winced. With his eldest brother, everything was achingly more complicated. “The best and worst of Autumn, sure to be my father’s heir.”

“When you scowl, you look like him.” Elain’s statement was a throwaway, hardly considered, but Lucien frowned. He slowed his steps so that she could walk past him and into the library, Cora still at her side.

Lucien followed after them just in time to catch Elain marvelling at the sight before her.

There were countless towering shelves pushed against the walls and in neat rows all around the large room. The golden spines of some of the rarer books glimmered in the light of the torches, all of them carefully spelled by librarians and priestesses against catching alight. Lucien knew that these were some of the only books in all of Prythian that remained untouched after Amarantha’s reign, and he felt a strange sense of pride for it.

In the middle of the library, between a pair of shelves, stood the remains of a hollowed tree. The leafless branches seemed to hold up the ceiling, the gnarled trunk shaped in a way that resembled a fireplace. Thick roots created nooks near the trunk, perfect for private reading, before they disappeared like waves on a beach beneath the stone of the floor.

Lucien waved his hand and flames came to life in the emptied space of the ancient maple.

Wonder shone bright as sunlight in Elain’s eyes as she turned to Lucien, all sincerity. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she breathed.

Lucien smiled at the sight, the way her walls had come down. “Some say that this library rivals even the ones in the Day Court.”

“I can imagine how that might be the case,” Elain shyly smiled, shaking her head as she walked deeper into the room.

Lucien watched as Elain reached out, careful fingers tracing the leather bound books on the shelf nearest to her. Brown eyes skimmed the titles of each one, she bit her lower lip as she went on the tips of her toes, peeking at some of the scrolls on a higher row.

Lucien felt like he was intruding.

He tried to turn his attention to Cora, but the Night Court female had silently scurried away, leaving Lucien and Elain alone. Lucien decided that Cora was perhaps a meddlesome busybody before he simply followed Elain further into the library.

Elain pulled a scarlet book off the shelf, the pages yellowed with the passage of time. Lucien raised both his brows as he stood behind her, as he read the looping script on the cover.

A Complete History of Autumn’s Blood Duels.

“Looking for some light reading?”

Elain did not look at Lucien as she flipped through the book, lifting her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “I’ve heard the term once, just curious.”

“It’s probably full of some very gruesome details,” he warmed. A memory flashed in Lucien’s mind, one from his childhood. He had stolen a similar tome off Callum’s nightstand as a boy, and had had to sleep on the armchair in Eris’s room for days as a result.

“I’m sure I can handle it.”

Lucien recognized that there was a bite to Elain’s words, as though she was not simply speaking about the book in her hands. It was a hidden anger, a crack in her ever so carefully crafted mask. All her pleasant smiles, all her words dripping with honeyed falsehoods were no longer directed at Lucien, and he was surprised to realise that he was glad for it.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Lucien offered quietly, hoping Elain understood the full meaning behind his response.

Elain’s head snapped up quickly as she turned to look up at him, their eyes locking. The full force of the mating bond was a knife to his chest as her scent washed over him, sweet like blooming jasmine.

Lucien wondered if Elain felt the same overwhelming pull as her eyes darkened a shade, as she leaned closer only to breathe in deeply.

Their hearts were beating steadily in a matching rhythm, and Lucien forced himself to take a step back.

Like a curse shattering, Elain whirled on her heel faerie-quick, holding the book tightly against her chest.

As though nothing had occurred, Elain went back to focusing solely on the books on the shelves in front of her. Lucien watched her for a moment, before he too turned his attention to a different shelf.

With a weary sigh, Lucien concluded that if he and Elain could survive their time in Autumn, he would suffer the most torturous two weeks of his immortal life.

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron x lucien vanserra #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #eris vanserra #autumn court #vanserra brothers #this is a slow slow burn but i promise i want them to kiss so bad #thank you to everyone who has taken the time to comment and reblog and like <3 #all you have is your fire #ashes writes sometimes

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ganondoodle · 9 months

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i often really do feel like an .. unwanted part of the fandom, i dont draw beautiful landscapes, i have unpopular but strong opinions im constantly annoying about and rarely change, dont like/dont draw the pretty young popular twinks and hot gurls to fanboi over nor do i turn characters into one, the opposite moreso, draw only one ship no ones heard of really, got little energy to interact with the few people that are nice to me and send me asks so it probably looks like im ignoring everyone and unfortunately but still rarely get so stressed i get overwhelmed and emotional about pehaps seemingly minor things and spiral almost into a breakdown feeling super embarrassed about it afterwards but the damage is already done and i look like a freak or agressive weirdo

#ganondoodles talks #also probably sounds like self pity #but this feeling hits everytime i see a super popular artist be the popular cool artist #i am a little weird i know that and thats not somethign bad i think #but the internet never gets to see that much of me #i tend to write posts when i am at my worst bc it has to go somewhere #so the image it tells people is that im a weirdly strong opiniod freak that gets breakdowns over nothing #i also dont feel like im otherwise -cool tm- enough to balance that out #i dont think my art is as stylized or as inventive as others nor am i cool to interact with bc idk how to be cool to interact with #i feel double bad when i misstepped with someone i used to talk to bc of something stupid ... or just dont know what i did wrong #im guessing its especially when i am in that spiraling state of mind where i really am not myself tbh #it still feels very bad bc i feel like i can never make it up to anyone again #sorry i acted like a jerk my brain was exploding in emotions in a desperate attempt to deal with something idk how to deal with-#-and made me not act like myself but now i feel really dumb about it #doesnt sound like a good excuse #... i want to thank those that do stick with me #even if i acted strange sometimes- even if i disappointed sometimes- even when i couldnt keep a promise #there are little things that still make me angry at myself #like that one time i asked in the tags whod read as long as the end of them and if someone did shoudl send me an ask so id draw a lil thing #and i got two #and i kept trying to remeber oh shit i need to do that and forgetting again/not having energy for it in a loop #i still feel like a jerk about it but now its probably too late #i wish i could answer all asks i get but man my energy for that is always rock bottom #no matter how much i enjoy the ask #and i love getting asks!!!#im sorry :((

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recitedemise · 6 months

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𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲'𝘀 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿. This lengthy headcanon will refer to canon dialogue from mostly Gale, sometimes others. Reader's discretion is very much advised. There will be in depth explorations into grooming, emotional abuse, heavy manipulation, and suicide.

First, let it be said that Gale, a mortal man, will always be the powerless one in his dynamic with Mystra. Of course, nearing forty years of age, he remains entirely responsible for his own actions, his own foul blunders and every hurt he'll cause, but it's important to remember who formed much of who he is: his goddess, his deity, and egregiously, his lover.

Mystra is power. Mystra is possibility. She knows what sway she holds over her Ioyal, vulnerable, and entirely mortal followers. In all ways that matter, they are but lambs she can steer and herd as she sees fit. She knows they can't deny her, and knows they'll never want to. Gale's sheer servitude and complete devotion; to the very quick of his bones, she lapped them up.

Gale: I was just... practising an incantation. Player Character: No, there's more to it than that. I know devotion when I see it. Gale: What can I say? She's—she's Mystra. I can't describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence... Mystra is all magic. And as far as I'm concerned, she is all creation. Player Character: I didn't realize the depth of your devotion. Gale: Magic is... my life. I've been touched with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it.

Gale, orb in his chest, doomed to be eaten by the very thing he loves the most, still speaks so reverently of the goddess, of his lover that has left him to die. He conjures images of her memory—and she is all the while forgetting about his.

Minsc: Gale reminds me of vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rasheman. While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth, I thought it born of caution after some catastrophe of wizardly men-folk of old. Now, I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?

Tales of Mystra's treachery spreads far, leaving those familiar waters surrounding Gale's tower in Waterdeep. They whisper her name, afraid to utter it one time too many, suspecting, perhaps, that she'll show in their mirror like some Faerûnian Bloody Mary.

Talent rouses Mystra. She can see who uses the gift of the Weave and feel them, sampling whatever delight sings their veins as they pull from her domain. Not unlike a spider, she'll follows every tremor that strikes her as just a sliver more profound; and Gale, a prodigy, plucked the Weave's web to so garner her focus. And like some black widow scurrying, she surged down that ripple to prey on a boy. There, Gale, so impressionable, was just a mite older than twelve whole summers. He sat so stunned, beholding Mystra as she lured him into the cradle of her Astral domain. Bathed in her magic, pleasantly coddled within that glittering cosmos, Gale felt blessed in a way he'll struggle always to recount, no word, no language, fit to describe it. He felt chosen. He felt seen. And potently, to a child, he felt loved. Now, imagine a child experiencing something like that. Imagine what they'd think, how brilliant they must be when stood beside the rest. She told him he was gifted, made his heart swell not unlike a child's appetite for praise. She knew what she was doing by offering these morsels, by preying on a child's most delicate mind, and Gale, child prodigy, was already so awash in the idea that his value was in magic. Unfortunately, Gale, susceptible, had no way of squirming out of his goddess' grasp.

Reality: She's laid down the seeds to creep into his heart. When he's just old enough—seventeen's sufficient, she thinks—she stakes her claim and makes him hers.

Gale: My virtuosic talent once caught the eye of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra, who named me her chosen and her lover.

Gale is stunned when she takes him to bed the first time. (Is this really happening?) Mystra claims his mouth in a kiss, taking everything she knows he offers so willingly. Mystra, of course, is not so stunned.

Dream Visitor: An elder brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals. Gale, tasked with Mystra's missive to sacrifice himself: This is it... I must do as Mystra commands.

Gale has worryingly low self-esteem beyond his magic. As already explored, his entire worth as a man hinged on and was built entirely off his talent as a wizard. He fought tooth and nail for any crumb of affection Mystra would offer his way, something she only gave him at all seeing his gift as a child. He wants her forgiveness. He desires it genuinely. He believes so firmly that he has wronged his goddess, buying into the idea that sacrificing himself will right his wrong. She holds such dominion over him, making him reduce his confidence in himself into a mere, trifling pittance; after all, she wasn't just his lover, but the patron deity he prays to. And regardless, Gale is a people pleaser, his initial acceptance of her missive coming as no surprise.

After all, Gale, at times, goes to incredible lengths to appease his audience. This habit, compulsion, impulse, whatever you want to call it, is a quality that was relentlessly exacerbated in his relationship with his immortal paramour. He wanted to content her, felt all he did was never enough, for as a matter of principle, he was oceans, leagues, and entire galaxies beneath her. Gale figures: well, how can a short-lived dalliance satisfy a god? He had to make her happy. Indeed, he'd done everything she'd ask. He'd bedded her how she liked, kissed her how she wanted, and of course, even said those words she'd said tasted best. She was his lover, a lover that never tended to his own needs and pleasures, and he fooled himself into thinking that's enough. He won't bend backwards for everyone, mind you, but if you're of the ones he would, he would stop at nothing to make you happy. After all, people pleasing is a way to keep oneself safe, a trauma response to sidestep discomfort, and though it achieves only a direly tentative peace, when that is all you've been fed, you will pursue it.

Gale did not want to lose Mystra; he couldn't bare the sting of it. And so, when Elminster visited him, Mystra's call for his death offered oh so callously, Gale, heartbroken, felt that part of him kick up. He couldn't endure the guilt, was so hungry for a chance to let his weighty heart breathe, even if it meant dying in the process.

At least this way, he'll finally do something right. At least this way, Mystra will forgive him, and all his friends will survive.

Gale: After I was afflicted with my condition, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. I'd given up on myself.

As a byproduct of people pleasing, Gale, too, is all too quick to accept all guilt. He self-deprecates, gaslights himself to a venomous degree, and twists his reality in so cruel a way as to make him the villain Mystra'd led him to believe. He self-flagellates himself, the first one in the world who will throw Gale of Waterdeep a mental punishment. Mystra's a goddess, after all, seen as utterly faultless, and twined so tightly with a being so mighty in esteem, Gale slipped into the role of the guilty often. When tied with anyone with grandeur like this, so immeasurable in their own self worth, it's important to keep in mind this: you are nothing but a prop in which to fulfill their ego. Gale was not Mystra's, not by a long shot. Rather, Gale was a tool, simply her mortal extension.

And he took every blow meant for her... a common and terrible habit for many people in imbalanced, ego-fueled relationships.

Gale's life beyond her wasn't something that interested her. She took most of Gale's devotion, manipulated his life to be her sole mantle of attention, for Mystra is not a goddess that shares very happily.

Indeed, long before his self-imposed isolation, this jealous deity did well at keeping him isolated.

Player Character: Picture kissing him. With tenderness. Then, with passion. Gale: I... I didn't think— Narrator: You perceive quick-fire embarrassment, trepidation, and finally... elation.

And so, cheated out of love, so reduced in his value as a man and lover both, suffice to say, Gale's slow to believe he can ever be loved. That's what happens when you're with someone so cold, consistent only in their infinite lack of respect. Gale looks at fondness, and he feels—confounded, to be sure. He thinks, is this truly mine to have? He doesn't know what to do, is nearly forty in game, and despite having lived decades devoted to one relationship, he feels, at the same time, entirely out of depth. To be frank, he greets it with embarrassment, like he's been caught red handed with something not his at all. He's like a child caught rummaging with his hand in a cookie jar, all this isn't mine to enjoy, not mine to indulge in, but he thinks, startled, but god, do I want. He wars with disbelief, uncertainty, and need, and in so many ways feeling utterly starved, with just a glimmer of affection, he falls fast into love.

Scenario: (And if properly romanced, it changes his world.)

Gale: In her (Mystra's) likeness, I used to read a thousand stories. She was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes. But now... it is hard to see any redeeming qualities in a lover who condemned you to death. I'd much rather gaze into your eyes than hers. Yours are capable of tenderness and feeling... No god could ever compare.

He says it with sincerity. There is such wonder, such love, and such awe in his eyes. He makes the act of kissing him feel like you've just reached into the trenches to but pluck him soundly from his ruin and despair. You think, Gale Dekarios, how unloved have you been all this time?

Gale: To know you love me for the man I am, and not the magic I command… none have loved me so purely before.

The answer is: entirely.

For so long, Gale thought love was simply being chosen. He knew nothing of being favored for the quality of his character, to be cherished and accepted even in those ways he fumbles and lacks. Again, his needs were seldom met, often treated with utter indifference by Mystra herself, and to meet someone so eager to treasure him, dote on him in a way his heart, his body is somberly new to, raptures his spirit and captures his soul. He's seen for who he is. He's... loved, desired for his silly quips, his easy smiles, and his growing affections. He bares himself to them, and in turn, they cradle his heart like something entirely precious. Gale thinks this has to be dream. He says, at times, you are more than I deserve.

Scenario: (But sometimes, he hopes too strongly and loves too greatly. As it always does, then, like he's once more wanted too much, he watches something beautiful slip right through his fingers. Of course, Gale Dekarios. Of course it does.)

Player Character: I didn't know you felt so strongly, Gale. Gale: Perhaps I should have done more. Been more charming, more flattering, harder to reach... but I was only myself, and sometimes that isn't enough.

They don't love him anymore. It breaks his heart. He hurts so much, so profoundly and deeply, and he doesn't realize that he breaks their heart in turn.

Unable to ever voice his feelings with Mystra in any way that amounted to much, Gale's a tendency to wallow, expressions coming off as potentially 'guilt-tripping' and even, on occasion, passive aggressive. Firstly: Gale NEVER means to manipulate emotions, and he's no intention of twisting anyone's arm, either. Fact is, Gale, never taken seriously when he'd bared his vulnerabilities to the Mother of the Weave, can end up saying just a little too much. He feels very deeply, and for most his life, seldom had an outlet for these weeping sentiments. He sometimes lets slip raw words and oftentimes heart-wrenching expressions; all the same, it's not so pitiful as to shepherd an outcome, but rather, is a gesture taken by a man so desperate to be heard. It may feel like scheming, but the truth is far, far greyer: feeling as though he's no right to share the depth of his heart, Gale simply lets it geyser out in a way he can't cork up. In ways he doesn't realize, he's adapted to this ache, passively reacting so his feelings can at least be seen and recognized—no matter how pitifully unwhole. With someone who values so little his thoughts... well, when he slips into these moods, one can hardly feign shock.

Situation: (And if no one shows him trust and tenderness, any true care in his character or worth, Gale gets swallowed up by how wronged he was.

He thinks: Let me be a god. Let no one hurt like me anymore.)

Gale: They only want us to serve them, pray to them...and ultimately, to die for them. But what if we didn't need them? What if we wielded their power instead and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? I could make that happen.

Gale is not above anger, and as stated, he is not above pettiness; however, more than that, he is not above righting himself whatever wound he was struck. Gale, if not offered much by ways of affection, understanding, is made to believe that one idea that's lived growing in his mind: Gale Dekarios is far from sufficient; he has to be more. He has to be better. Gale, in such an unkind ending for himself, sips too desperately—and perhaps greedily, too, but desperately serves as a far better word—at that idea that he needs power. And so, wresting the Crown of Karsus for himself, he spites Mystra in his own way, becoming a god he feels is leagues better than she will ever be. Damn her thoroughly. Damn her ego, her power, and her endless indifference. He will serve the people, protect them, and in ways Mystra never could, better the world.

Situation: But as a god, he loses all sense of his kindness. Humanity. All who loved him leave him, and even Tara spurns the image he's become. With power, he's gained the respect he thought he always wanted... but in turn, he lost in even greater measure all the love he's known.

Endnote: But healing, knowing to forgive himself and knowing he's deserving of care simply for being Gale Dekarios will remain, always, the best path for him.

#HEADCANON.#Oh... anyway. This. Was. A lot.#And it was a lot for me mentally and emotionally to write.#So much of this hit home.#Gale isn't perfect. He can be petty and immature—a byproduct of not being all too good at venting his frustrations when #it gets to a point. He has very bad self esteem. He is not forgiving of himself and is too forgiving of Mystra.#He endured FOR DECADES the cold indifference of a goddess he called his lover.#I know people dog on him because he's a grown man with these hurts and traumas and responses #but just because his trauma manifested in ways you don't find palatable or hot or sexy #doesn't mean they aren't scars left by trauma buddy!!!#And quite frankly that bit about God Gale sounding vindictive and angry #yeah! SOMETIMES people who have so cold and uncaring and belittling a partner #end up angry. You shoved someone into a corner and hounded them for SO LONG. Don't start crying when they rear back on you and bite #I have a deep connection with godhood Gale. But obviously a healed Gale that finds love and acceptance in himself is so much healthier.#I'm rooting for you Gale (always).#So much of this was typed up with a lot of first hand experience so... to say this was a Gale exploration #as much as a way to navigate my own trauma is an apt one.#No two tales of abuse are alike of course. Gale's experience isn't my experience. But I can sympathize a great deal.#TL;DR: This meta post means a lot to me. K. Thanks.

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dailykugisaki · 5 months

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Day ninety-five | id in alt

Long time no Nanami💥

#dailykugisaki #jjk #kugisaki nobara #nanami kento #i hate his fuckass tie but like anything for the cool man who cares bad #she likes the fit nanami has but she glares at the tie he has sometimes but it eventually grows onto her like a fucking parasite #also idk how yall sukuna likers do it idk how yall like this man because its so hard for me not to roll my eyes at anything he does #trust me im not biased i roll my eyes at Gojo and co too #i just idk. i feel like ive gone through somebody with a personality like sukunas before and i just want to push him into a black hole #buckets aggression is showing #anyway back to Kugisaki!#she exaggerates the image of nanami a lot but i feel like she'd respect the guy y'know #thats a whole apt teacher dawg #also Nobaras drink...she does like popular shit but i feel like her actual tastes lay with more like refreshing stuff if that makes sense #maybe it could be a little sour #idk she doesn't seem like the weirdo that drinks horrible sweet shit but she would put like an energy drink in that shit #she woll die before she's dehydrated and from experience #sweets dehydrate a bitch #hitting nanami with the melanin beam #i fucking giggled while writing the image description im fucking done for‼️#Kugisaki would fucking preen at praise from nanami because in her head nanami is probably a massive hardass #yes i like drawing hands

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wintaerbaer · 2 months

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thinking about doing a teaser for twds 6 in the next week if people are still interested?

#i feel bad that it's taking so long lol #if people are not interested then that's fine too!#the story will get done one way or another because these are my BABIES #and it has been kind of nice writing without pressure so i appreciate the patience!#but if you're still interested in the story then let me know too #sometimes it can help the writer's block to remember that other people actually care and are waiting lol #writing update #fic: things we don't say

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erabundus · 6 months

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HAPPY BLOG ANNIVERSARY!

it's officially midnight here, which means i'm allowed to post this! so ... happy one year anniversary of enduring the plague of avalon upon your dashboards! alternatively, thank you so much for giving me a place to babble about my #1 favorite comfort character who has experienced zero comfort. ( i swear i am being SO NORMAL about this. yes i did literally buy cake and party hats. ) whether we speak on the daily, you've just gotten here or anywhere in between, i want to extend my sincerest gratitude for being on this absolutely wild ride of a blog with me. there's been ups and downs, but ultimately i feel like my passion for writing has been ignited stronger than it's ever been before. i am still always so excited whenever i get the chance to log on here and create stories with all of you — and i wouldn't have that opportunity if it wasn't for this little corner of the internet you've helped make truly special.

there are so many of you i feel lucky to have met. ( and so many i would love to get to know better, too! ) i hope we can continue writing together for many more anniversaries to come. and if the day ever comes that they finally pull the plug on this cockroach of a hellsite, i'll forever remember this community as the rpc that got me to laugh at petrichor.

have a wonderful day / night! i'm sharing the cake with everyone in spirit.

#𝟎𝟎𝟏 : 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. ◟ ooc .◝#( i struggle sometimes because i know i tend to hide behind my muses / headcanons / ic posts --#because i am honestly just so bad about talking about / as myself & i think part of it has to do with me being really nervous / awkward )#( we all love ye olde social anxiety & the myriad of ways it manifests etc etc )#( but!! i just wanted to do / say something silly because i really do appreciate you all so much )#( even if we don't actively talk / write imagine me liking your posts as a little high five of appreciation for what you create here )#( this blog & rpc have helped me grow so much both as a writer and as a person. )#( having a place to express my interests & meet other people with similar interests has had such a positive effect on my life )#( i'm making plans to meet my best friend in person one day and it's only happening because i made this account & reblogged a gifset )#( yes it's sappy but i really do mean every word )

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simgerale · 2 months

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me after attempting to get back into sims and realizing i had a lot more to do than play the game

#hi everyone #I’m going around hugging you all #okay now that we are gathered here today #i will simply acknowledge that i have been gone for a very long time and then also acknowledge that maybe it was for the best #i relied on sims to be my only creative activity even if i tried to write a book at the same time #and also. i prioritized sims over real life responsibilities. that’s just a deadly combination lol #but I recently noticed I just replaced sims with Netflix. with YouTube. with anything that gave me quick dopamine #literally became addicted in a sense. still am but I’ve been cut cold turkey from most everything #I get off work and go. okay I’ve done the dishes and the laundry……..I could read or write or bake….#I try to write and sometimes i get a good hour #then I read for a few hours and then get tired of it #and I made cookies Tuesday so I’m waiting for those to be gone before baking again #I’m just so pitiful that I feel BORED and don’t know what to do #so I said….. okay what if I do sims for an hour.#I downloaded some new cc Tuesday and tried to play yesterday #y’all ……………….. I can’t find the energy anymore to set up elaborate scenes and pose my sims and plan posts #I said wow… this is boring without my intervention and fake story #I said wow…….. all this for what? for tumblr? yes I created cool things and provided joy. but is that inherintly important compared to my #own joy? my own everyday activities I should be doing?#y’all I do not leave the house unless we got out to eat or shop or travel to our parents #.. I have little desire to. I’m trying to find that desire #but my husband is busy with grad school and work and I don’t want to do anything by myself #I’ve found myself in one heck of a slump #I didn’t want to be human for awhile. just had no desires no interests no ambitions #I was slacking off SO HARD at work. I just had no drive to do well #I’m still working on it. I’m still trying to get caught up. I’m still trying to force myself to move every day.#but I am struggling y’all. and I can tell you that sims… sims isn’t helping rn but I want it to so bad. I want to get back into it #I didn’t mean to disappear on everyone. I got married and then life got busy and then I fell into this hole of nothing #I didn’t even WANT to crawl my way out. but my husband has helped a lot. I feel like such a child!!!!#I reached max tags. 🙃 bye love you all. till next time

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uncanny-tranny · 11 months

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My disability-adjacent hot take is that subtitles alone aren't really enough. I have trouble differentiating where sound comes from, for instance, so it's wildly helpful to have clarification on where sound is supposed to be coming from (right versus left, ect).

On a related note, if your subtitles are not clear, accurate, or translated in the case of foreign language, your subtitles aren't good. I don't want to read a paraphrased, censored version of what people are saying. I want to know exactly what they're saying because omitting even one word can dramatically change the tone, implication, and the entire meaning of what is said.

#disability #subtilties #like i love that minecraft had (has?) the feature where it points out where sounds are coming from and what is making those sounds #though i don't think i have access to that on my version which SUCKS #(clarification that i play on the nintendo switch because my laptop probably cannot handle minecraft)#(actually it probably could but i don't feel the need to have the PC version)#(maybe one day)#ANYWAY. i think that's an accessibility feature that's sorely lacking and lacking in terms of depth and accuracy #like i love watching breaking bad but the subtitles are TERRIBLE and i hate how censored they are...#...it's like they captioned it like a youtuber would to avoid demonitization (which is also annoying and almost insulting sometimes)...#...like sometimes it comes across as infantilizing for captioners to REFUSE to write the 'fuck' word or 'shit' or ANYthing that's ~raunchy~#especially when you pay for the service/product!!! i HATE it so so so SO much

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sciderman · 4 months

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I would say you’re more of a Mr peanut butter type yeah

doggy doggy what now?

#sci speaks #i love mr peanutbutter.#i think i love especially that eventually people stopped liking him.#cute quirky doggy winds up being a JERK actually just like the rest of us.#i love him and i love that.#really need to rewatch bojack actually because i don't remember it very well but god do i remember Loving it.#i think it's probably the best adult animated series i've ever seen. just. like. i don't know. it's the kind of writing that i really love.#where all the characters are bad actually. and you think they might be outwardly put together but they're not.#bojack is a GREAT SHOW. depressing but great.#i can't even like recommend it to anybody i'm like. yeah. it'll depress you. sorry. but that's why i like it.#i like those kind of ugly sincere emotions that make me feel less alone for being an asshole sometimes.#not in a “haha this character i like is an asshole so i can be an asshole too” kind of a way but in a .#i shouldn't despise myself because this is just part of what it is to be human i guess. you'll mess up and make selfish choices.#we all have that same software and i don't know. makes me feel less alone. i love to see that nobody else has it put together either.#it's not just me floating in the world with no direction.#it do be why i hate people who point at a character and say “BAD ROLEMODEL!! why aren't they PERFECT??”#get out shut up i hate you.#try living LIFE for five days maybe.

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zukkaoru · 3 months

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the disparity in kudos between a skk fic and a fic for literally any other bsd characters/ship :/

#like okay i get it skk is the most popular bsd ship by a longshot #but it does kinda suck that my skk fics will always end up being more popular than literally anything else i write for bsd #when i have way better fics tbh #okay i'm unleashing this from my drafts lol #like i get it kudos/hits/bookmarks counts aren't telling of how good a fic is #but out of my last five fics. my skk one has ONE HUNDRED kudos more than the next most kudos #and idk it also sucks that i know my skk is better than 90% of the fandom but. even my skk fics get significantly less kudos/etc #than big writers in the fandom who AREN'T EVEN GOOD #or are like. mid at best #i know in theory that the bsd fandom doesn't care about characterization but like. not only do they encourage bad characterization #it feels like sometimes they're actively against good characterization #even in j.jk and a.tla where there are major issues with bad characterization #more people seem to at least appreciate the good characterization. (even if they aren't good at it themselves.)#but i swear to god no one in the bsd fandom cares about anything besides whether dazai and chuuya are kissing. it begins and ends there.#it never ceases to amaze me (derogatory) how a fandom where the source media draws So Much inspiration from classic literature #can somehow have NEGATIVE media literacy skills #why don't you guys take a break from your edgy dazai x softboy chuuya fics and you fems.kk with dazai in skimpy clothes and your #beast chuuya sobbing and killing himself over dazai's death #and go read some of the books by the actual authors. and then write me an essay about the themes that has nothing to do with shipping.#and THEN you can come back to the fandom.#listen i love skk but oh my god sometimes the fandom makes me hate them.#anyway one of these days i'm going to get anon hate for complaining about the bsd fandom so much but that's fine #at least i know there are characters in the show besides dazai and chuuya. and when i do write skk AT LEAST I DO IT RIGHT.#hello grace here

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seventh-district · 16 days

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not even gonna tag this properly bc i don't wanna get Involved but i do have some Thoughts i need to get out into the void so here we go

(aaa quick edit: CW for mention/discussion of Boothill leaks)

#today's gone Badly and i'm upset but instead of venting abt it i'm gonna channel that energy into doing a bit of tag rambling abt Boothill #well. less abt Him and more abt uh. self-analyzing my anxiety surrounding contributing to fandoms. he's just today's catalyst #like. i know it's mostly a me thing. i'm hypersensitive to criticism and very conflict avoidant + socially anxious + perfectionistic etc.#so I'm the one that keeps myself from posting more stuff out of fear of being criticized or called-out for what i've made #bc inevitably Someone's gonna see it and think its OOC or a problematic take or they'll misread my intent. etc etc what have you #but like. that's inevitable. there's no way to communicate every single thing with all of the nuance required to avoid misunderstandings #and other times it's not a misunderstanding it's just a difference of opinions and that's Fine!! there's no accounting for personal taste #there's no accounting for several things actually. taste‚ bias‚ lore-knowledge‚ differing levels of chronic-online-ness‚ etc #so this isn't me complaining abt the state of fandom culture (although i do think. sometimes. ppl take shit a bit too seriously)#but anyways all of this is mostly just anxiety-fueled. it's not like i very often actually even receive negative feedback or anything #if anything ppl tend to tell me that i'm overthinking it and killing my own fun and worried that my stuff is more OOC than it is #which like. yeah. Yeah u right :) but that's just the way that i am! always losing the idgaf war i suppose #anyways what's Boothill got to do w this ur wondering. well. i've been thinking abt the quickly emerging concept that he's illiterate.#and it just. has me feeling a lot of ways. and watching ppl disagree over it has me feeling some Bad ways. bc it's def a loaded topic!#if you'll pardon the pun there. and i don't rlly have anything new to add other than that i'm conflicted abt it.#like yeah i saw the leaks days ago. of him mentioning 'not hitting the books' much as a child when we ask him why he sends voice messages #or voice Transcriptions ig. ykwim. and like. *braces for impact* ...i liked it? like. it doesn't feel right to call it endearing #i'm not trying to infantilize him. ok that's not the right word either but ugh. you know? what i mean?? who am i kidding even i don't know #it's not quite right to say that it feels like Representation either. but it's something close i guess #as a southern person myself who didn't receive a 'complete' education due to factors that weren't to do with my intelligence #the concept of seeing him as a capable force to be reckoned with and respected who also happens to have not received much formal education #i like that. i do. but there's so many issues w it at the same time. like. as i said‚ being southern myself has me Wary of the way Hoyo is-#writing him. as well as of the way that the fandom is taking the bits of his lore and running away w them. and i'm Very aware of how ppl-#will see a southern character and be All Too Eager to agree that they're lacking intelligence based on our Redneck™ stereotype #sigh. and before we even go too far with this. it's not even confirmed that hes completely illiterate. which is a valid criticism i've seen #there's Multiple reasons that could make him prefer voice to text. but regardless. i'm just worried that ppl will misconstrue my intentions #like. example: that edit i made the other day of him saying 'no thanks i can't read'. wasn't me playing into the stereotype of-#'haha dumb country boy can't read!' it was. in my eyes. something he'd say as a joke to make light of a potential insecurity #like. i think there's far more depth to Boothill's character if ppl could look past the surface. and i dont wanna contribute to the problem #but sometimes ppl Will have stereotypical traits and i wish the same could apply to characters as long as it's done Thoughtfully.

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toaster-fire-art · 1 month

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been drawing an obscene amount of these two as school eats me alive but hey! I got a job on my uni campus so I am so happy I get to quit my miserable one. This is now my little treat in celebration.

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shmorp-mcdurgen · 8 months

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Home Sweet Home AU: Martyrdom

Thatcher gets a late night call from an unknown number, saying they have something they need to discuss.

TW: blood, mentions of/implied character death

Notes: around 3'800 words long, being the shortest HSH fic so far. I don't have much to add here, but hope you like it!

February 12th, 1995. 10:24 PM.

Thatcher was awoken that night by the sound of his cell phone ringing in his office.

He couldn’t recall falling asleep on his couch, lying on a pile of discarded papers and dirty clothes. If he had to guess, it was due to exhaustion and/or sleep deprivation, though he could barely remember anything aside from staring at the wall for an hour or so. He groggily sat up, holding his head and wincing when an all-too-familiar headache pounded in his skull. Everything felt sore, with his right shoulder feeling as if it was ripped out of socket again. He looked down at his shoulder, pulling away his shirt to see that his collar bone was still pressing against his skin awkwardly, causing a bump in his shoulder. He sighed, remembering the reason he no longer laid on his side as he tried to ignore the deep pain shooting from it.

Oh right. The phone.

Thatcher stood up, letting out a deep, somewhat annoyed groan as he made his way to his office, pushing open the door to see the phone on his desk. He stood still for a moment, pondering whether or not he should simply let it ring and go to voicemail. Despite his best efforts not to care, he sighed in defeat and answered the phone, expecting to hear the sound of one of his co-worker’s voice, telling him to come into the station for some late-night incident or something.

“Thatcher Davis, MCP—”

“I already know who you are.”

A familiar voice, though not one that felt necessarily comforting in that regard.

“Who is this?” Thatcher furrowed his brows, absentmindedly beginning to pace back and forth in his office.

“That doesn’t matter right now.” The man on the other end of the phone stated. “St. Gabriel’s Church, as soon as possible. I need to talk to you.”

Thatcher paused in place, staring at the floor before speaking quietly yet urgently. “…I won’t do that until you tell me who is speaking.”

Silence for a moment.

“You know me.” The man said. “You ruined my life.”

“…I d—”

“Meet me at the church, tonight.” The man commanded. “This is an urgent matter. I’ll be waiting in the west bell-tower.”

The caller hung up, leaving Thatcher in a confused haze as it attempted to figure out who it was, or why the voice was familiar. The man’s somewhat raspy, yet desperate-sounding voice resonated in his head, despite the concern and almost fear of taking the call. He stood in place, staring at his phone before flipping it shut and shoving it into his pants pocket. He took in a breath as he silently approached his desk, opening a drawer and seeing nothing but junk inside. He brushed it all away before he finally found what he was looking for; his pistol. He grabbed it, checking the magazine to see that it was loaded before looking back into the drawer and fishing out his gun holster. He threw the holster over his left shoulder before sliding his gun into it, deciding not to change into a better outfit aside from his worn jeans and faded, oversized shirt.

He walked back into his living room in silence, grabbing his grey, shabby trench coat before pulling it over his arms. He tried to ignore how it too was oversized, nor the fact that he had received it as a gift from a friend, despite it being a reminder of her every time he wears it. Perhaps it was a good thing to be reminded of her. He snapped out of his train of thought, realizing he stopped moving for a second before he finally walked into his kitchen, grabbing a pair of leather gloves to somewhat protect his thin hands from the cold. He let out a deep breath as he grabbed his keys and headed for the front door, pausing as he turned his head to look behind him. He looked towards the dining room table, one that had multiple chairs despite no one coming over. On it was nothing but a single police radio, resting in the middle of it. Thatcher stared at it for a moment, pondering whether he wanted to take it, just in case, before he decided against it. He shook his head, walking through the front door into the night, only hoping he wasn’t walking into another trap.

He at least had some comfort in knowing he had a weapon.

11:03 PM

Thatcher wished the radio in his car worked as he drove down the dark, damp road to the church. The sound of his barely functioning heater blowing through the vents was the only sound that even remotely replaced the music that would’ve been playing, though it wasn’t enough to drown out much of anything. Thatcher stared forward, seeing the snow-covered trees pass by on the sides of the road, along with the snow landing on his windshield. He glanced at his right hand, wishing he could just take a break and scratch where his prosthetic rubbed against his skin under his glove, though he decided that getting the call over with was better; at the very least it meant he could go to sleep earlier.

If he’d be able to go home at all.

After all, he was working off of the assumption that the man on the other end of the phone was a human; a real person that knew Thatcher in the past and genuinely wanted to talk about something important. Thatcher felt a sense of uncertainty wash over it as it turned down a gravel road, wondering if he was going to be lucky again and that if the man wasn’t who, or rather what, he claims to be, the gun pressed against its left set of ribs would be enough to scare it off. Though perhaps Thatcher was stupid to think it was capable of being lucky.

Thatcher slowed to a stop when it saw the tall steel gate that led into the church property, barely seeing the church behind it through the trees and snow. Light from the lamp-posts bled into the gravel lane as Thatcher exited its car, looking around before approaching the gate and pushing it open, happy to see it was unlocked. After he swung the gates to the side, hearing the shrill squeaking coming from its hinges, he jogged back to his car, hopping inside and slamming the door shut. He glanced into his rearview mirror, checking that his back seat was vacant before he drove through the gate, finally driving onto asphalt as he pulled into the large parking lot.

He parked in one of the spaces, seeing a short fence between him and the church in front of his car. He exited his car, locking it before shoving his keys in his pocket and staring up at the towering cathedral before him. It had two large wooden doors at its entrance, along with a giant circular, stained-glass window above it, with many smaller circles surrounding it. A large, metal cross was to the left side of the entrance, seemingly rusted despite the church still being active from what Thatcher remembered. He looked up towards the slanted roof, seeing two giant bell towers, with one to the right, and one to the left, reaching towards the pitch-black sky. Thatcher couldn’t help but notice the pit in his gut he felt looking up at the giant building; it almost felt like vertigo, despite not looking down. He shook his head, letting out a breath as he turned to the right, following the fence towards concrete staircase that led down to the entrance. As he walked, a figure stared at him from the west bell tower, watching him as Thatcher walked towards the entrance, pushing the heavy doors open and walking inside.

The first thing Thatcher noticed aside from the deafening silence was the vastness of the inside of the church. It had a domed roof, with painted patterns on the walls. He looked forward, his shoes clacking against the marble floors as he looked around. Lines of pews ran down both sides of him, all facing a stage to the front of the room, one with a large organ front and center.

“Hello?” Thatcher called, his voice echoing off of the tall walls. “Thatcher Davis, MCPD. You called me here?”

No answer aside from his own voice reflecting back at him. He looked to his left, seeing a few archways that led to other parts of the church, deciding it was the best place to start looking for a way into the west tower, like the man had said to meet him. He walked in between pews and walked through one of the archways, being met with a hall that led into a few smaller rooms. However, when he looked to the left, he saw a stairwell, one he presumed to lead into the tower. He paused, thinking of the inevitable pain his knees were going to feel before beginning to scale the stairs.

He walked, further and further up into the dimly lit tower as he pushed his trench coat to the side, exposing his holster and firearm in preparation in case something other than a human was up there. He could smell dust and an overall musty smell as he pushed open the small door above him that led into the belfry, poking his head into the room to see a small electric lantern in the corner, lighting up the room. Thatcher huffed, pushing the door to the side, letting it clatter off of the floor as he hoisted himself up into the room. The belfry was larger than he expected it would be, with one large, brass bell hanging in the middle of the room. He looked around, seeing a large, arched window in front of him, with the cool wind hitting his face as he approached it.

“You actually came.”

Thatcher turned around quickly, the voice startling him enough to instinctively hold his hand close to his firearm. He turned towards one of the corners, seeing a man leaned against the wall, holding his arms close to his torso, clearly cold despite wearing a thick, turtleneck sweater. Thatcher looked up at the man’s face, his intense stare and low brows feeling familiar, though it took a few moments for Thatcher’s mind to finally connect the dots.

Arthur.

“Mr. Heathcliff.” Thatcher stated, almost surprised to see the man after so long.

Arthur’s eyes had dark rings around him, and his blank, yet irritated stare didn’t wane. “Lieutenant.” He responded, as if saying the word was some sort of profanity.

“Why did you call me here?” Thatcher questioned as Arthur stepped away from the wall, approaching Thatcher yet keeping his distance.

“I needed to…talk about some things.” Arthur said. “With you.”

“How did you even get my number?”

“Asked around.”

Thatcher remained silent, not super confident that who he was looking at was human like it seemed.

“…It’s…quiet tonight, isn’t it?” Arthur stated, looking through the window, past the parking lot and towards the lights in the distance from the town.

“What are you even doing up here?” Thatcher questioned, standing beside Arthur as he stares at the priest with a look of mild annoyance.

“It has the best view.” Arthur stated simply. “I come up here to…get my mind off of things, y’know?”

Thatcher gazed out into the distance through the window; Arthur was right about the view being nice at least, though it was hard to make out anything outside of the light from the lamp-posts.

“Though tonight, I couldn’t help but think.” Arthur continued, turning to face Thatcher with the same, almost angry look in his eyes he’s had the entire time. “…It’s been…what, nearly 3 years now?”

“…Since what?”

“…Since Mark went missing.”

The mention of the Mark Heathcliff case sent a shock to Thatcher’s system, making him skip a breath. He couldn’t respond, with an all-too familiar feeling of dread and guilt beginning to creep up inside of him.

“I’ve…been thinking about it…nonstop lately.” Arthur explained. “And I just…is he…dead, or not?”

Thatcher remained silent, staring at Arthur with a tinge of sadness added to his tired stare.

“…Well?” Arthur appeared impatient. “Is he?”

“We did all we could.” Thatcher stated, trying to cover up the uncertainty in his voice. “We…never found anything.”

“…Of course.” Arthur said under his breath, barely audible enough for Thatcher to hear.

Thatcher felt the weight of the thick air of guilt and anger around him, with the silence making it feel heavier than ever. Arthur crossed his arms, looking through the window as he thought to himself.

“…God teaches to…forgive and forget.” Arthur said quietly. “To love thy neighbor…to forgive thine enemies.” Arthur turned towards Thatcher, his face barely lit by the light outside and the light from the lantern. “But for some reason I can’t bring myself to forgive you.”

“I’m not asking to be forgiven.” Thatcher responded plainly. “…I understand what—”

“No, you don’t.” Arthur glared at Thatcher, lowering his arms as he faced the lieutenant. “Do you know how much I’ve lost? Mark runs off, and because of that, I lose the only people in my life that matter.” Arthur paused, taking in a deep breath. “…Leah and Sarah moved to Bythorne recently, you know that? Left me here…to just…rot. To try and figure out how to…fix all this.”

“I tried to help you and your family the best I could,” Thatcher responded. “I’ve done all I possibly could to try and solve this case, but I’ve already told you, we found nothing.”

“Right.” Arthur nodded, though it didn’t feel genuine. “So you ignoring the many disappearances in this town and brushing everything under the rug is you giving your all?”

Thatcher couldn’t even get a word in as Arthur continued.

“I’ve tried to forget about this; to move on and just live my life the way the Lord above wants me to,” Arthur stepped towards Thatcher, who backed away a few steps. “But it keep coming back to me, ALL of this. I’m trying to keep up a sense that I’m alright even though everything in my life is falling apart, all because you couldn’t do your God damned job.”

“You don’t think I’ve given everything to solving this case?” Thatcher snapped back.

“You failed to find him, Davis.” Arthur accused. “You barely did anything to help aside from twiddle your thumbs and take some of Mark’s junk. At least the other cop tried to help Leah as she went through the worst event of her life; but what did you do?”

“Arthur, you don’t understa—”

“I’ve lost more than you could ever know due to your negligence,” Arthur interrupted, standing in front of the window, the light from outside hitting his back. “I lost Leah, and now I won’t even be able to see my own daughter grow up. All because you didn’t do anything to he—”

“Ruth is dead because of this case.”

Thatcher felt the words leave his mouth, his tone sour and hateful. Arthur appeared to pause for a moment, at least giving Thatcher time to speak. “At least…that’s what everyone else thinks. She…I lost her, and…I don’t know where she went. I tried my fucking hardest to fix things, but now only more people are gone because of it. Arthur, I know what it’s like to lose what’s closest to you because I’ve gone through the same thing.”

Silence fell between the two, leaving them to stare at each other in a hateful silence. At least, until Arthur started speaking again.

“…All I want is to have my family back, yet you won’t even help me with that.” Arthur continued. “If you find Mark…then maybe I’d be able to have it back—”

“You talk about Mark like he’s a burden.” Thatcher stated. “Like he’s just a prop that will fix everything in your life. Do you truly even care about him?”

Arthur stood in shocked silence, staring at Thatcher with an appalled stare for a tad too long for comfort.

“Do you?” Thatcher questioned. “Or did you just want to make another you.”

“I did.” Arthur claimed. “I…I did love him. He was my son; you think I didn’t love my own flesh and blood?”

“I never got the impression that you did.”

“God damn you, Davis.” Arthur said quietly. “I hope God will have mercy on your soul.”

“I’m not religious.”

“You bastard.” Arthur said, his tone hateful as he clenched his fists. “I’ve tried all I could, and I can only hope God will forgive me for having the hate I feel towards you. This town is in shambles because of you! All because you refuse to help those you claim to protect!”

Arthur stepped towards Thatcher, who stood his ground as he grew closer.

“If you won’t do anything, I will.” Arthur claimed. “And I know that God will reign by the end of this! I know that these ‘alternates’ will cower away from his light! And by the end you will be left alone, all because of your own mistakes!”

“Get away from me.” Thatcher growled as Arthur continued to step closer.

“By God, I’ll show everyone just how much of a coward you are!” Arthur yelled. “You failed to help the vulnerable, and now you will suffer the consequences of your actions!”

“Step BACK!” Thatcher shoved Arthur away with one of his arms before turning away. He went to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of a surprised yell behind him. He swung around, seeing that Arthur was gone, leaving only an empty, cold room behind. He heard screaming outside of the window, fading away for a second before he heard the sound of a sickening crack that sent a chill up Thatcher’s spine.

Its wide eyes stared at the open arched window in silence. Its face was a shade paler, with its eyes unblinking and its jaw slack. He couldn’t even believe just what happened, wondering if it was just a dream or nightmare. It went to fast for him to even process the events that transpired, with all that was left being a feeling of pure shock and a rapidly beating heart.

Thatcher couldn’t even bring himself to move as he stared at the open window, with the silence feeling all encompassing, choking out whatever words Thatcher could possibly say. He stumbled backwards, looking down to see the trapdoor leading into the stairwell before he silently, yet hesitantly, began stepping down the stairs, shutting the trapdoor above him.

As he frantically descended the stairwell, only one thought ran through his head, over and over like a skipping record: “No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” He couldn’t even process what he was feeling as he entered the auditorium, running into the middle aisle before rushing towards the front doors. He froze when he reached them, staring at the wood before he pressed down his sudden pensiveness and pushed open the door.

He walked out of the church in silence, staring at the pavement, feeling as if he couldn’t even force himself to look to his right in fear of what he’d see when he did. It continued to stare at its feet before forcing itself to look up and forward, his eyes not blinking once despite the growing stinging feeling from the cold. He turned to his left, walking up the stairs to get to the parking lot, staring at the ground as he walked to his car. He unlocked the driver’s side door, opening it and stepping into his car as he silently stared at nothing in particular. He started the vehicle, finally looking out his windshield, staring towards the bottom of the west tower. He froze, staring at the crimson blood dripping onto the pure white snow from above. He quickly looked away, hands trembling as he grasped the steering wheel. He drove out of the parking lot the fastest he could. He knew the guilt of what happened was going to take hold of him later on, but at that moment, he thought of nothing more than going home and trying to grasp the situation.

All he knew was he wasn’t going to sleep any time soon.

February 13th, 7:16 AM.

Thatcher blankly stared forward, his mouth covered by his hand as the light from the television reflected off of his wide open, bloodshot eyes. He sat in a dark living room, all the curtains pulled over the windows and the lights off. He watched, not blinking once as the news program played in front of his face.

“—Right now we are following the breaking news at the St. Gabriel’s church, where the priest of aforementioned church, Arthur Heathcliff was found dead on the property just this morning. Our reporters are at the scene now, with the most up-to-date news on the situation.”

The camera changed to shots of the church from a distance as another broadcaster spoke over the footage.

“We are currently at the St. Gabriel’s church, right on the border of Werksha and Mandela county, where a nearby home-owner reported that they heard screaming at around 11:45 last night. The scene is closed to the public until further notice, with the circumstances of the death remaining unkno—”

Click.

Thatcher shut off the Television, delving the room into near complete darkness. He stared at the black screen, his breath quiet and his mind blank. He was going to be called about this as soon as he went to work; he knew it. He didn’t move from his spot on the couch, instead hunching over and clasping his hair with his hands. He thought to himself, wondering how many more people were going to die due to his own mistakes; how many more people were going to suffer while he was on the force. The image of Arthur’s body, hanging from where it was impaled on a metal cross was burned in Thatcher’s mind, refusing to leave no matter how hard he tried to get it out. He hadn’t slept the previous night, remembering the hauntingly vacant stare and look of horror on the body’s face.

He couldn’t. He just couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t handle being the cause of more and more pain and death. The next time he went to work would be his last. Thatcher was a coward, and now, he knew it, so the only option he felt would help people, was to quit. He was sorry; so deeply sorry for everything he did, and everything he failed to do. He just hoped the next lieutenant would be better than he was.

He was no lieutenant, just a scared boy with a gun.

How ironic.

#the mandela catalogue #mandela catalogue #tmc #tmc home sweet home au #arthur heathcliff (tmc)#hsh thatcher #character death tw #blood tw #shmorp writes sometimes #Yippie!! Thatcher has a bad day the au!!!! /VVLH HJ #I feel like this fic speaks for itself so i'm not sure what else to add that won't hint at anything in it- /lh #So. read it. now /LHJ NF

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