#flying cinder

[crispysnakes]

Flying Cinder & Flickering - 1.1 Bolivian holdbacks (Boa c. amarali)

[dzyntara]

"Hehe aww yeah I'm gonna smoke some kids with th- AAAUGH"

*five different laugh tracks play at the same time*

[divine-motion]

practice sketch comic about Raven post Eliminate "Cinder" Carla mission trying to give Carla a proper funeral the best they can even though they can barely walk on their own and also hallucinating a bit bc i was thinking abt how fucked up that whole situation is. how to mourn two people you murdered and betrayed and all, even if it was the right thing to do. also because that mission is one of the most hurtful ones in the game imo

it's not the best, but i do like it! i liked how their AC (named CLOSED CASKET, my beloved glass cannon) turned out at least and experimenting w how to draw Ayre u-u

[bones-n-bookles]

Cave Bean for @losech 💜

[gaymakima]

ooohhh what i would do to know what monty's plans for raven were pre-maiden plotline

[constantvariations]

Given how Adam's scar isn't stretched or distorted, he was probably branded as a late teen

[synthaphone]

Ok I’ll bring it up, I’m actually surprised you’re not a Spyro fan. I feel like the Neopets/Spyro Venn Diagram has a pretty wide intersection, though looking at some other Neopets-centric blogs I’m not so sure anymore! That might’ve just been a me thing lol.

LOL ACTUALLY! my cousin had a Playstation and Spyro the Dragon and i LOVED going to her house to play Spyro as a kindergartner (i was bad at it and just ran around the peacekeepers hubworld burning sheep). I think Spyro was at least partially responsible for getting me obsessed with dragons as a kid too.

I beat the first game on an emulator back in... 2018? 2019? (with the use of savestates) and then got the reignited trilogy + got to varying degrees of completion on all of those before getting frustrated and giving up (final boss for the first game, random other areas of the 2nd and 3rd game).

i really love the unique designs they gave to all of the elder dragons in the Spyro 1 remaster- easily my favorite part of that game. oh and i like the original soundtrack; its got a great sound to it. and i used to have fun looking at the concept sketches for Spyro too because that artist has a neat scribbly style

[gaysails]

black sails 2.10 escape sequence directed by steve thee boyum you will always be famous

[copaganda-clobberfest]

I'd like to suggest Hazel from RWBY. His sister died young while at Beacon and he believes that it's the fault of the adults in charge (understandably) and Ozpin in particular, especially after joining Salem and learning about the war. He is then written to fight and try to kill the very hunter children he's trying to protect and especially a twelve year old who was unwillingly possessed by Ozpin's soul.

Also Cinder, enslaved as a child, tortured and abused. Tried to escape by stealing weapons and killing her owners but was convinced to simply train with the Huntsman she tried to steal from until she turned 18 and could apply to an academy. Said Huntsman then did nothing to help her beyond the training and left her enslaved knowing she was being regularly tortured with a shock collar. Didn't do anything until slave owners tried to take away the swords that were her only way to freedom. Killed the slave owner and was found by her mentor huntsman who proceeded to threaten her and say her only options were death or life in prison (or being on the run for the rest of her life but he wasn't going to allow that one). Cinder kills him. All of her actions here are framed as bad and like a point of no return. Then obviously she joins Salem and does all the shit that happens in the show. Word of called a hate sink (funny how both characters who were canon enslaved and tortured are called hate sinks huh if by funny one means disgusting).

Also Hazel is another "scary non-white" who wants positive social change and therefore will kill children.

[theburialofstrawberries]

I think rockstar lestat would be flying to dubai all the time to have amazing "yeah we're exes of 77 years keep scrolling" sex with louis and he'd looove that a twitter account was tracking his private jet use. He'd be like Mon cherie, do you see....they call me the enemy of the sans-culottes, they say I am scorching this blue marble to cinders, but they have no idea...louis I wear my kilométer count as I wear my heart on my sleeve, every flight path leads to you, mon ange....you have heard that crass ballad about mademoiselle delilah, non? yet it captures avec précision the mind of a crazed lover who, if no transportation were available, would walk to his beloved upon foot....look at my pedicured feet, louis....if there was no d'assault f'alcon, no etihad nor emirates, no jet bleu, why....I would ruin these feet for you....

[crispysnakes]

‘22 Bolivian amarali holdbacks.

Flying Cinder & Flickering.

[remotespontaneouscombustion]

[assumptionprime]

The Burned One

It's the Dark Souls of hair removal.

I am seeing results from the electrolysis, so it is actually a cycle that will end, but in the meantime, ouch ow goddamn FUCK OW.

Twitter / Bluesky / Patreon / Instagram

[Image Description: Comic, 8 images, one panel per image. Panel 1: Narration text on a black background, glowing cinders flying across the frame Narration: "It is a cycle without end…" Panel 2: A knight with brown hair wearing a green cloak looks out over a bleak landscape shrouded in fog, toward a distant castle. Narration: "You will make this journey" Panel 3: The darkened figure of the knight entering the castle, lit from behind as the light from inside comes in through the open doorway. Large pillars line the walls, darkened deeply by the shadows within. Narration: "Again and again…" Panel 4: The knight reaches toward a bright flame in an offering bowl, looking unsure and afraid. Narration: "Seeking to be cleansed of your curse" Panel 5: The knight's face is engulfed in flame as she grips her head, screaming in agony. Narration: "Again and again… you will BURN" Panel 6: The knight is on her knees, gently placing a hand on her face, which is burned and has smoke drifting off of it. She is surrounded by darkness, but appears to be kneeling in grass. Narration: "Then, once pain fades, and memory dims…" Panel 7: The knight is on the hilltop from the beginning, looking once more toward the castle. Narration: "…You will begin the cycle anew" Panel 8: Robin on the couch holding a bag of ice on her lower face, looking haggard. Her spouse Jordan is coming down the stairs and speaks, "Oh, you're back, how was electrolysis?" Robin answers, very articulately, "MRRRPHGH."]

[katzkinder]

people in universe would have common misconception about both Giotto and Tsuna being super honorable in a fight etc etc

No

They’re mean and they play dirty if they don’t like you, but ESPECIALLY Tsuna.

Never gonna forget that Tsuna pretended he was gonna poke Iemitsu’s eyes out only to blast him right in the face with an x burner when his wrist was caught and even reborn was like “lol nice get his ass”

Then there was also him just straight up snapping Mukuro’s trident in two bc he got pissed off

Ripping Byakuran’s wings off… Burning them to cinders right in front of his face while he was in agony because uh hello that’s part of his body you’re fucking CRAZY

Literally just standing there and allowing Bermuda to take himself out by flying straight into Tsuna’s fist. The sheer disrespect was so immense I screamed irl.

Even against Mochida, before he has access to hyper mode. Tsuna pinned his punk ass and tore all his hair out while making a stupid pun. King shit.

Tsuna’s not a sweet little muffin who talks people down with the power of friendship, he’s a piece of work when he wants to be

He’s just also so… Very kind. And forgiving. As long as you show him you mean what you say, that you no longer mean any harm, that you want to make amends? He will forgive and forget.

This isn’t always a good thing. This opens him up to a lot of pain. But I also think it’s the proof of his strength.

A heart which loves no matter what aches it endures. This? This is what makes him so easy to adore, both in universe and out of it.

[ronearoundblindly]

Some Steve for you to enjoy 🥰🫶🏻

Gurl, this f***ed me up! I wanted to try to make it a snippet of Item 107 or The Cinder King, but the muses were just like "you know what you need? emotional damage." So now here we have my first semi-legit period piece (which has zero useful era detail eh) and truly is just the carrier for skinny!Steve love. Hint: It's thirsty, smutty love with hardly any plot ANGST.

Hello and welcome to Lexi's most self-indulgent fic ever. It's got everything: crippling insecurities about my real-life stuff, horniness unmatched even if there were sex pollen shot directly into their faces, and everyone is touch-starved. \o/ Enjoy! WC probably close to 3k but idk because I'm too afraid to look back at it. *slams post button*

Turned away again, Steve "4F" Rogers steps out of the recruitment center to see you standing there, staring up at the posters promising glory.

People hustle around you, several even knocking into you, but you remain transfixed, invisible. You're clutching your purse like a lifeline.

Down one step, worn-through shoes barely hiding every seam in the cobblestone, Steve has to get closer because that's the direction of home and a lonely, empty apartment he can hardly afford. He has to pass by. He has to, but then he sees the amber light reflect on trails of tears down your cheeks.

He has to stop.

"Miss?" Steve clears his throat, his own arm smacked by a rowdy man who then swats at your ass just as Steve tries to get your attention again.

You jolt and turn to him in surprise, hand flying up to cover a sob, sweeping to wipe the evidence of emotion from your face.

Fast--faster than Steve really processes--he's shouting for the guy to apologize before the guy makes to advance, Steve presses himself between you and the asshole still laughing at disrespecting you, and then he--Steve--is getting shoved into the alley with you still at his back.

It's dusk. The alley is nearly black. Steve can hear you crying but he's slipped on the stones wet from an afternoon rain. He scrambles to right himself.

Amidst the cries, he hears grunts of anger and resistance, terror creeping into his chest as Steve thinks you're being assaulted.

"Piece of shit," you bite out. The silhouette of you hurling your bag at the man's face repeatedly is clear from where Steve crouches, backlit as you are by the movie theater marquee.

Then the guy is down on the ground, too, being stomped on by your two-inch heel. "Piece of fucking shit."

"Woah," Steve jumps forward to hold you back. "Woah, language, ma'am. Let's go. Just leave him."

He has a weak arm around your waist, but you kick at the man one more time for good measure, hissing "liar" before turning to follow.

Your hand in his, Steve hurries through the streets, picking the ones he knows are busier but maneuverable to make sure you're not being pursued. Each time he looks back, he sees your sinking face, more tears, more exhaustion, and he makes a flash decision.

He doesn't stop until he locks the door of his apartment behind you both, and you break down on the bare wood floor.

"You hurt? Did he hurt you?" Steve's boney knees land a few inches from yours and he leans over, his long fingers brushing over your pinned hair and stiff curls that dislodged in the commotion. "You're alright. You're safe here."

Where your legs crumple underneath you, your slip lays over your thigh, uncovered by the skirt pooling on the other side of your hip. He can see the outline of a garter strap and the top of your stocking beneath the silky material. Steve's always loved pretty, delicate things. He also loves the faint bulge of flesh around the restraints.

There's meat on your bones, something to hold onto, and he shakes his head, chastising himself for noticing all the wrong things about the crying woman in his home. His lonely, empty home.

Steve attempts to think of anything other than your body.

"Do you know him? What'd you call him a liar for?"

You sigh in defeat, hands flopping into your lap, and confess that it wasn't about him so much as a man not here anymore. Gone. To war. You tell Steve a rambling tale of excuses and snide comments, of a parting that left you wondering why that man--any man--bothered to be with you in the first place, of a surety that you weren't ever wanted.

"I thought he loved me but he lied."

Steve sits cross-legged in front of you now, enthralled and utterly confused. Why would anyone...?

"That's the worst part," you exclaim, voice cracking. "I don't know. I'll never know." Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your skirt. "I heard today that he died. Don't know where. Don't know when. And I hate that I still care."

"But he wasn't good to you," Steve soothes and wraps his hand around yours, "and he wasn't good for you."

All you do is shrug and hide your face. Tears falls to the fabric below your eyes and seep through in dark patches.

He scoots forward and lifts your chin with a gentle nudge. When your puffy red eyes meet his, he's struck by how lucky he feels to see you like this. It's odd to think someone who knew you more and for so much longer couldn't feel infinitely more attached and protective. You're so vulnerable, so open, so...

"You're beautiful." Steve's tongue swipes over his dry lips. "You're so beautiful."

The words are loaded heavier than tanks and pack the punch of a bomb. He can tell you don't truly hear him by the way you shrink and shake your head out of his hold.

"Don't do that," he pleads. "Please don't hide from me."

"You don't know me."

"No, but I--"

"You don't even know my name!"

He sits back and offers his hand.

"Hi, I'm Steve. It's nice to meet you, and I think you're beautiful."

"That's stupid," you lash out, bitterly spitting the half-hearted, heart-breaking words. "You must be an idiot, Steve."

It's not the first time he's heard it, but it is the first time he's not mad at hearing it. He believed those things, too, long ago, before his mom convinced him to see the possibilities in one's struggles. If you perceive it as an obstacle, it is an obstacle. Perceive it as an opportunity instead and use it. Those aren't her exact words, but Sarah Rogers has so many different ways of teaching the same fundamental lessons that Steve can't remember the phrases anymore.

He can remember the feeling. He remembers seeing both obstacles and opportunities.

"Is it stupid to want to touch you?" he whispers. "Because I would love to touch you."

The question is purposefully leading since he knows from your story that's exactly what you long for. It'll be more impactful if he shows you he longs for that too.

Slowly--so slowly--his hand comes up to your cheek again, his fingers tucking behind your neck.

"I don't want your pity." There's still bitterness but no power behind it. You gently shift closer and meet him halfway.

He's kissed girls before, he's fooled around, and he has, in fact, slept with one girl. They went all the way--twice--which means Steve knows what it is to be pitied intimately. He knows what it's like to want something so badly you don't care what the motivation is.

You deserve to know his motives.

"I don't pity you." His focus falls to your quivering lip. "I want to make you happy." He's close. He's so close his breath rolls warm over your face. "I want to make you smile."

A soft whimper leaves you just as his mouth arrives.

"I want you," he says into the kiss.

Instead of fighting, you grab at his jacket, pulling him until you're both falling into the stand lamp. You taste of salt and something sweet he can't put his finger on. Steve resolves to put that on the list of things to find out about you.

He keeps kissing you as you both fall, the lamp now wedged at an angle by the side table. Despite the tangle of tongues, Steve keeps his hands to himself. He doesn't quite have enough answers.

"What do you want, beautiful?"

Hesitant as he pulls away, gripping worn leather like your purse in the street, your eyes dart between his. You're a dream beneath him, but that sounds too selfish to voice.

"May I..." Steve is already panting "...get you off the floor? More comfortable?"

Maybe you haven't been able to say the words, but Steve doesn't need more convincing to know you want him.

He could tell from the way you pawed at him. He could tell from the multiple times you crashed him into the walls along the hall to makeout more. He could tell from the way you melted like hot butter at his every returned touch, but finally, you two made it to his bed.

He'd be embarrassed by the lumpy old thing if there weren't a curvy, luscious dame standing with wide legs at the foot of it, letting his tie slip through your hands as he sits stunned.

Steve swallows thickly.

"Let me see you." It comes out as more of an order than the hopeful question he intended, but when he sees the command shiver through you, he feels six-foot-six and powerful as all hell.

You two share the burden of unbuttoning all of your layers, spinning you a few times to release front and back and side to side. His hands spread and roam to relish each garment, each moment, until you're top half is naked.

He stares, fierce blue irises muted by the dim light on his bedside table, 'beautiful' on his lips every second you spend with your finger yanking the knot of his tie and sliding off the bond. When you lean to pop his shirt buttons, your breasts hang in his face.

Steve stops you by your wrists, peaking up at you through his long lashes as he takes a nipple in his mouth. He keeps thinking it--beautiful--while his tongue sweeps flat across pebbling flesh. Each subsequent swirl has you melting again, pressing more of you to his face, dragging nails up his chest, sighing long and deep. When he switches to the other side, your fingers bury in his hair. He takes his time to worship you, tracing his own fingertips around the hem of your slip and garters.

He doesn't get impatient, if anything Steve feels greedy for wanting more, for praying this lasts forever, for needing all you're willing to give.

His teeth graze your skin in wanton lust, and you flinch in surprise, knocking you off-balance.

You fall to your knees on the mattress, straddling Steve's slender body beneath your hot core.

"Sorry," you mutter, wriggling to stand, forcing Steve to wrap his arms around you and halt your retreat. "I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you."

"You can sit on me morning, noon, and night," he rasps. "I won't complain. I'll thank you, beautiful."

He groans pathetically when you relax, the grind of your ass making his slacks pinch tighter and tighter. Steve lets his head fall back on the sheets, eyes fluttering shut. The army might not want him, the world outside may forget he ever existed, but you see. He could get addicted to this feeling. He might get lonely without it.

Steve isn't strong enough to keep hold of you, but your weight never leaves, his erection still slotted between your cheeks. His mouth drops wide when your hips roll. Steve whines when you rise up enough to resume unbuttoning him. His lungs and heart go into overdrive, but even so, Steve doesn't want you doing all the work.

He flips you--using the sum total of his strength--and shuffles backward to stand, ripping the tails of his shirt from beneath his belt and shucking off his trousers. That part he could have been more patient for, but Steve smirks and brushes away the hair falling in his eyes, chest heaving from exertion.

He's pleased to see you watching him, ogling his body without judgment. You look like you want to eat him alive, and he is perfectly fine with that.

His palm lands on your knee to sneak higher beneath your slip, nimble fingers popping the clasps along your stockings and hooking through the band of your underwear. You lifting for him is all the permission he needs. Steve leaves your slip, garter belt, and stockings in place, and in a cheeky twist, he lets your underwear hang off one of your ankles, kissing your inner thigh, pushing your knees wider for him to fit.

He throbs in his boxers at the sight of your sex.

Nerves roil in his belly at the idea he is solely responsible for your pleasure. As he glances up to you, propped up on your elbows with a fearful and expectant gaze, he sees a poster promising honor and glory, a service to be proud of, and for the first time, he has doubts.

You see it in his eyes.

"Steve?"

He wants to participate and show that he's worthy of you.

This isn't about him though, and Steve Rogers is nothing if not dedicated anyone other than himself.

"Right here." He snaps back to reality, laying his hand to your thatch of hair and gently teasing his thumb along your folds. "I'm right here, beautiful."

It's an honor to touch you. He's proud of the moan elicited because he strokes over your clit rhythmically. The glory of watching you writhe is all his.

Steve's breath stays rapid as yours picks up. You're fisting the sheets, slick pooling beneath the pad of his thumb, helping him pick up speed. He dips into you, tests the breach while pushing his boxers down, and crawls over the edge of the bed. Like magnets, you guide each other higher till the pillows cradle you.

You're a broken record, repeating a desperate loop.

"Steve," you whimper.

"Won't ever lie to you." He captures your lips again. "Want you so badly. I'll want you all the time."

Steve doesn't understand why you won't talk to him, so he slows, eyes questioning and brow furrowed. You have to see. The light is right there.

Bottom lip trapped, you still say nothing, but your arms raise to his smooth face and plead in the silence.

He wants the same thing. He wants to feel. Not just the sting of rejection. Not just the slippery, rough stones through his shoes. Not just the empty ache inside. He wants to feel like someone cares whether he lives or dies.

You care even when you don't want to, but Steve can earn you, your care, your smile and your tears. He'll get up and come home to you every time. He needs you to come home to.

Otherwise, this is a lonely, empty apartment. Otherwise, he is a lonely, empty man.

Your hands bring him close, lips pausing just before contact while Steve sinks two fingers into you.

You gasp. His fingers curl. His thumb goes back to work. You kiss him with what little breath you can hold between muted cries until Steve notices your roving hands tug at his waist.

He wants the same thing.

Sitting back on his heels, Steve drapes your thighs over his, his slick fingers spreading you. He's mesmerized watching his cock disappear inch by inch, and the caress of your walls shuts down all other brain function. All he can do is slide against you, bent into your soft body, your breasts padding his jerky thrusts, the base of him perfectly laving the hood of your clit in the growing mess.

You're wet, and he's driven wild by the need to make you come. He tries to sit up again, to play with you properly, but he's stopped by the weight of your legs crossed behind his ass, the strength of your thighs anchoring him in place.

Steve takes huge, deep breaths through his nose because he won't last concentrating on how your body bounces and ripples, plush beneath his boney form.

You get wetter, looser in a welcoming way that spurs him to drive himself home faster. He sucks in air, though it's futile once his heavy balls start to seize.

Suddenly, you shout, stretching to push yourself completely flush with his pelvis, and he has to pull out, keeping aligned with the cut of you as aftershocks make you mindlessly hump him. Steve's cum shoots all over his belly and your chest, some drops dampening what clothes he didn't discard, stains of joy replacing stains of sadness.

His chest might explode. He's gasping, taxed beyond his naughtiest dreams, head lolling toward the ceiling with his throat high.

He feels your legs fall away, and Steve hopes for an instant that you embrace him even though he might suffocate in the process.

The envelopment never comes. The world is fuzzy and too warm beyond him.

He hears the sink in his bathroom turn on just as he lands palms-down on sweaty sheets. He tries every trick he knows to calm down. The water still runs after all the time it takes for him to recover and stand. The closer he gets to the doorway, the clearer the sound really is.

Sobbing.

"Beautiful? What's wrong? Did I--"

The faucet squeaks off, and you barrel out, nearly running him over, your arms covering your chest and your disheveled hair hiding your face.

"What are you doing? Are you cold?" Steve tries.

"I'm disgusting," you hiss in a mad dash for the pile of clothes on the floor.

He trips over his feet to stop you, corralling you as best he can, but you're quick. You certainly have fight in you. Steve only want to show you you do not have to fight him.

"Come back to bed," he commands hopefully, grabbing your wrist as you scoop up your wrinkled dress. "I should clean up, but please, please, come back to bed."

There is something broken and fearful in the way you finally meet his eye. He's torn apart, shredded down to nothing in a single look. That's not how a feral animal sees the world; that's how an animal, abused and betrayed, locks the world out.

Your protection is what you really took off for him. Your thick armor is what Steve got past.

"I didn't lie." He lets go of you and steps back as calm as his rasping breaths can manage. "I want you. I want you to stay." He wonders whether he ought to cover himself, too, because perhaps total vulnerability makes you more nervous.

So he presents himself as an opportunity, not an obstacle.

Steve finds his boxers a foot away and says one more time, "I hope you stay."

Unmoving, your eyes follow his walk to the bathroom, and in the split second he's looking down to turn the tap, you're gone.

Disappointment floods his system, but like all the other stamped failures in his record, Steve goes through the motions of caring for a body that thwarts his desire to live at every turn. In fact, it tries to die so often, he's always surprised to find himself here, staring at this mirror again, wondering why he gets back up.

He's also surprised to find you here, in the bed with the sheet pulled up to your chin, nodding to the side table where you've placed a cup of water.

The tiniest of genuine smiles curves your lips.

Steve's home is neither lonely nor empty anymore. He could cry.

A/N: this got so incredibly out of hand... I'm so sorry. But also, thank you for reading!

Tags: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

@yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn

@late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries

@rogersbarber @blogbog710 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads

[gay-dorito-dust]

Bro...reader is verbally abuse by stan for like 30 years and ford their last hope just dismissed them like that....what if reader have revenge

They died after weirdmageddon BUT!! but they become a ghost or a vengeful spirit that can't leave Stan or Ford alone because they both are the source of their suffering

Reader is just a chill and kind ghost when it comes to the twins, Wendy, Soos and others but they are a MENACE when it comes to Ford and Stan and just verbally and emotionally torments them and they can't get rid of them not even when they want to

I want reader to have revenge I want my favorite character suffering from their horrible choices cause two can play that game

.ah yes, someone who also knows that forgiveness isn’t easily given either

Also I’d like to think ghost!reader only reveals themself to Dipper, Mabel, Soos and Wendy but refused to show themselves when Ford or Stan ask.

Their reaction to Stan and Ford might be quite…violent such as throwing things, causing things to break especially if they are holding it and or even gaining the ability to screech loudly to the point the windows break, forcing Stan to fork out even more money to get them repaired.

Dipper and Mabel saw you as a ghost that didn’t get the rest required to pass on. That and they felt bad that you died protecting them.

Stan and Ford saw you as a ghost of their failure to reconcile sooner, you died protecting Dipper and Mabel during Weridmagedon, but before you passed on you said ‘I’ll always be with them, never you.’ And soon after, dipper and Mabel told them that they saw your ghost wandering the halls of the mystery shack with a blue glow to your translucent form.

However with Stan and Ford, you were barely seen. but they could feel your pain, your hurt and betrayal so thickly it physically chokes before having to react quickly before getting hit by a flying worktable heading towards them, as it then smashed to bits against the wall.

‘They’re pissed.’ Stan states.

‘That’s more than warranted. We did accuse them without letting them explain themselves.’ Ford replied as Bills words haunted him still, so much for a man of silence and logic, maybe he was a heartless monster for not hearing you out.

Stan looks at his twin with sympathy but that didn’t last long as a ear piercing wail came next, from you they assumed, as it reached a pitch that made anything made of glass shatter or splinter. It was obvious you weren’t happy that they were still here and alive while you weren’t and you were taking it out on them; which they knew was more then deserved but they knew they couldn’t continue living like this for much longer.

They tried everything to get rid of your spirit but everything failed, they even brought a medium to see what you want, and all they said to Stan and Ford while tears streamed down their face was; ‘they want you both to suffer like you’ve made them suffer for thirty years. And when and if either of you enter the afterlife, they hope that your souls would be trapped within the shack for all of entirety, just so they can torment you some more until the shack burns down to nothing but cinders.’

Welp, that didn’t work.

You watched over dipper and Mabel as they slept and ventured out into the forest, all the while destroying the shack however you could whenever Stan or Ford entered the room; even the lab was completely destroyed with important research going missing and or torn to shreds. You didn’t want anyone to be happy but Dipper and Mabel and you’d even keep them up at night by throwing the pots and pans against walls and breaking countertops with your newfound strength.

It was fun for you, but torture for them and this continued for a long, long time.