Dark SBI & Fluffy Oneshots

Melted Gold

A/N

IM BACK FROM WRITERS BLOCK

Anyways, have some crimebois content.

Please be mindful of the tws for this one, it can get pretty dark even while there is crimebois fluff

TWs: graphic injuries, MCD (major character death), suicidal thoughts/implications of suicidal thoughts

and i hope you enjoy! :D

Synopsis: or, Wilbur saves Tommy from a dealthy fall (cue the crimebois)

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There comes a time in life where your only option is to run.

When everything you know has been lost. When you're at your breaking point, like chilled glass touching a flame and shattering without warning. When you've lost everything, clothes tied in stacks with twine and thrown into a fireplace; left to burn away and hide the blood soaking the once-fine threads. Weapons taken from their place hung on the wall and strapped to your side, hand itching to grasp the handle at any small sound.

Running brings forth paranoia. Paranoia seeps into fear.

Fear kindly introduces weakness.

Tommy was learning this lesson the hard way as he dragged another chair beneath the doorknob of his bedroom, eyes rapidly darting to every corner as shadows twisted and flickered with the flames lighting the room. The fireplace burst with crackles and pops like fireworks as his wardrobe burned, accompanied by glinting flashes of jewelry that cost enough to support an entire family for years. The legs of his desk and pieces sawed from his headboard fueled the fire, splinters of wood dotting the floor from his rough attempts at making strips of kindeling.

What once was an exquisite room was now abandoned. Any sign of Tommy's life there was now transformed into nothing but a pile of ash.

If it was any other day, Tommy would mourn it. After all, he'd spent his entire life within these walls, signing paperwork with a flourish of ink, laughing with Wilbur while they lay on his bed, enchanting his first sword with Techno's guidance, and throwing shreds of parchment at Phil when he tried to drag him away from his work.

It was a peaceful existence. One that most in the Kingdom would be grateful for.

He was rich. He had a loving family. He was a God .

Tommy's fingers wrapped tightly around the crown in his hand, knuckles turning white and spikes nearly cutting his skin. It was a simple thing in comparison to the fine pieces the rest of his family wore; only a band of gold with three emerald jewels, the middle the brightest of the bunch and wrapped in perfect swirls of metal.

It matched him well. The most joyful– the most lifeful– of the three siblings. One to stand out amidst the few, smile printed on his face and stark against the worn faces of his brothers'.

It had been a gift he'd received when he turned a year old. When he was old enough to fully understand what it meant, what his life was meant to be, he had laughed in joy to be so fortunate.

Now it felt like a curse.

Tommy carefully lifted up the heavy crown to his face, running his finger along the delicate carvings. They were written in a language he couldn't understand, some lost blessing made by the Gods that had been passed down through the family. It must have taken ages to make by hand, hot metal prone to melting any carving tool they attempted to use, each symbol needing to be perfect in order to suite the youngest prince. He didn't know the name of the craftsman that had made it. They were likely gone by now.