#breniatham

[brutlista]

     it’s weird , seeing faces from a time that feels faraway when they’re not a constant presence in one’s life     ---     it’s that brand of eerie , when recognizable features , something nearly human forms in smoke or steam , or the condensation on the window when the chilly day begins to perspire . not ghosts , not anything strong enough to have a tangible presence . a creature to graze against the outskirts , in amorphous form . still there . still a thing to recollect .      he should have stayed on the stupid boat . he could go a few more days without supplies .     “     if you’ve come here to yell at me too , i can save you the time and recite exactly what you’re going to say to me , back to you . if you want . you and mable are kinda beginning to sound a lot alike .     “ 

@breniatham // starter

[laufum]

" quite a burden, is it not --- shouldering the burden of might and power. i see you. i understand you. "

ICHOR    VEINED    ;            FRAGMENTED    ,        THOUGH    COURSES                the    worst    of    a    𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐧    ——    -            (        electrifying    ,        thrilling  .            mere    echos        &        yet    loud    enough    does    thunder    ring    through    these    walls    ,        wildfire        distant            &        still    !                they    boil    these    vessels    ,        raising    fever    -    wrought    𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐦        &        dismantling    actuality        )            -    ——    alongside    altruism        &        amiability  .                𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦    𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬    𝐧𝐨𝐭    𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥    𝐢𝐧    𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧    ,        &        of    what    there    is    least    ,            still    threatens        &        may    corrupt  .                creeps    through    crevices    into    his    head  .                already    a    weight    physically    set    ‘pon    him    ;                        ❛                    i    don’t    think    you    do  .                    ❜                        &        another    ,        melodies    of    𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐅    drum    his    chest  .

this    stare    ,        motionless    a    moment    ,        to    burn    into    the    other’s    own    gaze    ;            these    eyes    of    his    𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫    ,        apricity    in    winter  .                ‘neath    them    :            mirage    of    olympian    hearth  .                raging    ,        seeking    to    consume    ;            this    is    of    his    father    ,        what    may    be    contained    though    never    put    to    rest  .                welled    with    faintest    sorrow    as    they    tear    away        &        put    forth    between    them    the    distance    of    miles        /        hidden    ‘neath    veil    ,        ‘neath    slate    near    -    blank    of    emotion  .                𝐰𝐞    𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭    𝐠𝐨    𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤    𝐭𝐨    𝐭𝐡𝐞    𝐰𝐚𝐲    𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬    𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞    𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞  .                though    unearthed    new    understanding    ,        there    is    still    brume    ,        each    day    thicker    ,        each    day    heavier  .

shoulders    shrug    as    to    release    tension    from    them  .        the    elf’s    mere    shadow    looms    over    him    ;            short    at    stature    ,        though    with    an    air    that    more    than    compensates    for    it  .                a    sharp    breath    is    taken    ——    -            &    he    speaks    :                        ❛                    if    you    understood    me    ,        you    wouldn’t    speak    of    it    so    quickly  .                    ❜

[brutlista]

     “     you know ,     “     he announces in a space now , that feels so very vacant , and resentful of his occupation of it’s walls , to a glass he mulls between his fingers of sloshing amber drink that was not his ,     “     for as skillful as my father had been in keeping his dirty little secrets , you’d think he’d know how to hide a bottle of fucking brandy better than he did .     “ 

@breniatham // starter

[fcrrous-blog]

@breniatham 😏😏😏😏 did u think u were safe?

[fcrrous-blog]

“ Don't rattle your cans at me, Tony, it's too early and I haven't even washed the blood off me yet. ”

“ You kind of dig it, I can tell. ”

The first time he says it, Tony’s there holding a rag and a promise; that ‘ I’m not that bad a guy, look, I’m looking after you ’ --- it’s that kind of thing that makes you stop, makes you question what he’s up to, but already a poke, a prod, and hands that gesture for Theron to sit ( for the love of god, c’mon man ). 

It’s not his; biometric scans and a few bodies on the floor are proof of that. From where he sees, all this guy’s got are grazed knuckles and a bruising ego as he takes what’s given. Something fierce in his eyes then, and Tony tries to avoid it ( I know what you’re doing, but you couldn’t bother me if you tried ) --- too much of a risk, he already bites the inside of his cheek. It’s a victory; one rare when it comes to the guy that seems to be on the THIGHMASTER 3000 more than he should.

Action comes with good intention, at first anyway with a rag pointed, and gentle hands lifting to clean the blood off his face --- only...well... black wasn’t supposed to smear across his face. Oh shit, almost slips from his lips. Roll with it; that thought comes second as features settle into something stoic. 

Theron knows. 

The second time he says it, Tony barely hears him over the beat of his own heart. A flash of red and the danger that comes with FRIDAY telling him there’s trouble. He doesn’t ask for numbers, and she doesn’t let him know --- something to find out when he gets there. 

Though there’s relief, there’s the seething rage beneath his skin. This isn’t a world where he’s made friends easy ( lost more than he can count, some skewed equation in supply and demand that keeps pointing to a loss and no break even ). He cares, for the love of god he gives a fucking damn and doesn’t quite know how to deal with it. Never could, people’d say --- mistakes made along the way, a protectiveness was much like the hand that holds the bird a little too hard. 

Tony’s stopped, he bites down the words that rise like bile, sour in his mouth and opts to stretch his hand towards a dish cloth by the sink. Wet with water, he tosses it, and keep’s the distance between them. Why? He wouldn’t tell you. 

“ Asshole. ”

[fcrrous-blog]

SC: @breniatham

“ You know that saying; fall down seven times get back eight? Yeah, this is the eighth. ” Damage done and decisions made, what’s needed now is a sense of control, a stability in a situation that breeds chaos as much as it breeds an every growing sense of fear. Own it, he’s said it once, forced it upon himself like that bitter pill to swallow. It’s the reality of it all, the nitty gritty, and dirt and dust.