#will the angst ever end!?!?

[rebisrot]

MY FAVORITE PART ABOUT GRAVITY FALLS IS THE HAPPY ENDING!! STAN REMEMBERS!! FIDDLEFORD FORGIVES!! PACIFICA HAS FRIENDS!! SOOS BECOMES MR. MYSTERY!! THE TWINS HAVE A BANGING BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!!! DIPPER GETS A MEMENTO FROM WENDY!! MABEL GETS TO KEEP WADDLES!! STAN AND FORD MAKE UP AND SAIL AWAY ON THE STAN O' WAR II!! THE WORLD ALMOST ENDED!! BUT IT DIDN'T!! AND WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD IT IS!!!!

[jadastarkey]

free now

silverhair!teen!biliie x gf!teen!reader

warnings: swearing, homophobia, making out, use of y/n, the f slur, abuse

genre: angst, fluff

sypnosis: your strict, homophobic mom catch fem!teen!reader and silverhair!billie together

please dont read this if you're not comfortable with anything in the warnings or anything.

~°•☆•°~

you were laying on top of billie, your cheek on her chest and hands in her hair, silky silver locks weaving through your fingers. her right hand was on your jaw, left under your shirt on your ribs while her mouth moved against yours.

you shuddered when she bit down your lip. you pulled away for air and looked up at her.

"bills, I ever tell y' how pretty you are?"

"all the time mamas" she replied, pulling you further up her body, holding you close so she could nuzzle into your neck, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and cherries.

a calm silence filled aura enveloped the two of you.

it was quickly flipped around, wrung out, and beaten to death as finneas' pleading could be heard. through the wall. "no- no you don't have to go in there!" the door was slammed open by a familiar fuming face. your mother.

you scrambled off her and your throat tightened. you had a small purple hickey on your neck and you were literally in her hoodie, in her bed "u-uh mom?"

"y/n y/l/n what the fuck is going on?" She yelled. if this was a cartoon, smoke would be coming out of her ears and nose.

you were frozen, shaking. billie put her hand in your thigh but you brushed it off and stood up "i-i" you stuttered.

billie just watched. she was upset you brushed her off but she understood. she knew how your mom was. and it wasn't pretty.

"answer me, y/n." she approached. you could smell the dinner on her breath and see the anger in her eyes. "I told you your curfew was 7 and its 7:35."

"i-i didn't know.." you flinched at her tone and looked down "I lost track of time"

"yeah, because you were busy being gay. I should've known you weren't just friends, I mean look at you, cuddling her. do better, y/n. were going home right now" she snapped, grabbing your arm with a white knuckle grip and dragging you away from billie.

you let out a gasp of pain and that's when billie stoofd up and finneas stepped in. "alright that's enough" finneas started but was interrupted by your mom

"No. I don't want any of you being friends anymore. I thought I could trust you, finneas, and Billie? don't even get me started on you. I knew you were a bad influence on her, trying to become famous just to leave my daughter."

you looked up to your mom, then to billie "is that true?" you asked, now on the verge of tears, looking at billie straight in her eyes.

"no— why would I ever even do that? w— that's so fucking stupid" she said. she was confused on why you would even believe your mom.

"she's lying to you, y/n. c'mon were leaving" she said sternly glaring at billie and dragging you out. your eyes didn't leave hers though, the betrayal struck your heart down. you couldn't believe how stupid you must've looked, actually believing that she loved you.

in the car your mom was screaming at you. it was hard to focus. the traffic lights beamed at you, the wind on the outside if the car scraping against it, and your moms angry presence was overwhelming. when she pulled into the driveway your phone was blown up with messages from billie and finneas

"y/n I wasn't going to do any of that, i swear i dont know what shes on about." "please answer me." "im sorry"

"please answer billie" "Idk what your moms on about" "my sister isn't lying to you, trust me y/n"

you read them

you ignored them

"out now" your mom spat, unlocking the car door. you knew you were in for shit now that you were home. no bystanders, no curios drivers looking into loud cars, no cameras. just you, your mom and your dog.

you took a shaky breath and stepped out and into your home house.

the door slammed shut behind you and you knew it before you felt it. she grabbed your hair and turned you around to face her "who the fuck are you. I didn't raise a fucking faggot"

"I'm sorry" you whispered

"sorry won't cut it. you didn't come home on time, I come to billiies and you're on top of her. what's gotten into you" she pulled you closer. close enough to be in the water zone

your eyes stung with tears and she slapped you

"dint start crying you did this to yourself. I want you out of my house. now." she screamed "do you understand me?"

you nodded

"use your fucking words"

"Yes mom" you muttered as she let go of you, pushing you toward the door.

you didn't bother grabbing anything. you just started running out. you ran. your vision blurred and tour breath shaky. you didn't care that it took 30 minutes to get to their house, you knew the way and you were going. you tripped on your laces and sat in a pile of tears, mud and blood for a few minutes, right by her house until you felt a pair of arms wrap around you.

"I've got you, shush, I'm here baby" she whispered. you immediately knew it was her and your tears burst even harder "I shouldn't have let you leave, I'm sorry"

"n-no I—"

she cut you off "shhhh, its okay now. you're safe now" she pulled away to wipe a few of your tears but they just streamed back down.

with the help of finneas, she took you inside, up to her room and just laid with you back on top of her.

"i-it hurts, bils" you whispered.

"where? what hurts babygirl" she mumbled, cupping your face.

"everywhere" you had cuts and bruises forming on your palms and knees from the fall, makes on your arms from the pure dragging, you and the worst headache and on top of that, your cheek was stinging from the hit.

"let me.clean you up" she said.

the rest of your night was spent with her gentle touch and reassurance, finneas doing most of the medical shit and LOTS of cuddles. Maggie accepted you to live woth them with open arms.

the next day, you made a list of things you wanted from your house, which you all went to get together.

you were free now in a home that truly loved you.

[hairmetal666]

Steve doesn't date, not anymore. He goes to bars, clubs, picks people up and makes it clear it's just for the night; that it can't, won't, be for anything more.

He falls too fast and too hard; wants so badly to be loved that he loses himself to it. So, he doesn't date and he's fine. More than fine, actually. Not worrying about finding someone, about falling in love, lets him truly enjoy his life; maybe for the first time since childhood.

He goes with Robin to visit her parents in Hawkins, wakes up at the ass crack of dawn to go for a run. With the sun barely up, he doesn't expect to come face-to-face with Eddie Munson, smoking on a park bench.

They startle each other in the early Hawkins quiet, Eddie jumping hard enough that he drops his cigarette into the dirt at his feet.

"Christ, Harrington!" He snarls a little.

"Fuck, Eddie." Steve fights to catch his breath. "What are you doing out this early?"

He glances up, finds Eddie's eyes raking over this body in a way that makes him go hot all over.

"Haven't been home yet." Eddie smirks. And he can see that's true, Eddie is fully dressed, faint lines of mascara trail across his cheeks.

"Had a show?"

"Something like that." Eddie's cheeks pink, and he pulls a chunk of hair over his face.

Understanding dawns, and Steve points at him, delighted laugh bubbling in his throat.

"Don't--"

"You had an all night Hellfire meeting?" Steve cackles.

"Shut--Harrington, shut-up." But he's smiling too. "I'm in town this weekend. Dustin insisted!"

"You can tell him no, you know?" Steve giggles.

"Like you ever could."

Eddie stands then, and they hug, quick and tight. He practically crumbles into his friend's body, but then, that's nothing new. Steve breathes him in, immediately comforted by the familiarity of tobacco and leather and sweat and weed.

"I'm at Rob's. Come say hi?"

Eddie nods and they trek back together. They kept in touch, after Vecna, and their chatting is easy, like it's not been six months since the last time.

Eddie stays for breakfast tells them with a smile, "I was gonna call but--I'm moving to Chicago. That's why I'm crashing at Wayne's for now, stopped on the way--"

The rest of his words are smothered by the force of Steve and Robin's hug, Steve's heart beating an elated rhythm he doesn't bother investigating.

--

When Eddie makes it to town, they hang out as constantly as an adult with a day job and a touring musician can. It's nice, good, to see Eddie sitting on their couch. To watch him smoke a joint on the balcony. To hangout in his bed as he works on new music. It's just like the summer of '86, before they all went off to find their futures.

They're closer than they've ever been. Crashing at each other's apartments, sharing clothes, meeting for coffee and drinks and meals. There's not a day or night when they're free that they don't spend together.

Steve knows he's falling for Eddie; was halfway there already, and now--well, Eddie's beautiful and funny and smart and talented. He doesn't make a move, though. Because Eddie'll leave, like they all do, and losing Eddie will crush him more than anyone else ever has.

--

In June, Eddie's gone for a month, touring across the midwest. The day he's expected back, Steve's in the kitchen, rolling up fresh pasta, simmering sauce on the stove.

Robin stomps in, eyes flashing. "What are you doing?"

"Making dinner?" Steve raises an eyebrow.

"Steve."

"Robin."

They glare at each other across the kitchen. Steve breaks first. "What's wrong with making our friend dinner?"

"I don't want either of you to get hurt."

Steve freezes, swallows. "I'm not--I'm--I wouldn't."

"Just. Promise you'll be careful?"

He nods, squeezes his hands into fists. "Course, Rob."

And he means it, he really does, but when Eddie lets himself in, Steve runs to the doorway to pull his friend into a tight hug.

Eddie huffs out a burst of air on impact, laughing lightly. "Miss me, sweetheart?"

"So much," Steve whispers. He presses his nose into Eddie's neck, breathing him in, and he doesn't miss the way a kiss is pressed into his hair, the way Eddie's breathing him in too.

They fall into their natural rhythm immediately, Eddie following him to the kitchen, cooing and posturing that Steve made him dinner.

As Steve serves up the food, Eddie wraps his arms around his waist, leaning against his back. God help him, but Steve can't help relax into the hold, turning his head until their eyes meet.

Desire bleeds from Eddie's gaze, and Steve's breath hitches. He wants this so badly, knows he shouldn't, but he lets himself lean in until they share air.

But--he can't lose Eddie. He can't.

He turns away, lets the moment die. Eddie doesn't stay over that night, and Steve pretends like it doesn't make his stomach hurt.

--

They aren't as close after that.

Steve keeps telling himself it's because they're busy. The school year's starting up, Steve's got lesson plans to write; Eddie made an EP, it got interest, he's taking meetings in New York and LA. It's okay that they're spending less time together.

Until Eddie stops returning his calls.

He tries not to worry. But one call becomes two, becomes three, and he can't help it. He goes over, dread a knot in his stomach. Eddie opens the door, and he's shirtless with sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair loose and streaming around his shoulders. He looks happy.

"Steve? What are you--"

"You weren't answering my calls, and--can I come in?"

Eddie winces. "It's not a good time, Harrington."

He stands there for a second, stung, not sure what to say.

"Eddie, I--"

"Babe?" A voice calls from inside the apartment. "Who's at the door?"

Steve freezes. Can't think, can't move. He hopes it isn't obvious that his heart is shattering, but Eddie's blinking at him, panic written in the lines gathering on his forehead.

"Steve, Stevie, please," Eddie is saying, but he can't do this. He can't do this.

He walks away, all the way home, numb to everything around him.

The phone's ringing when he gets to the apartment. He ignores it. Goes to his room, locks himself in, crawls into bed.

The phone keeps ringing. He keeps ignoring it.

It isn't supposed to be like this. They weren't dating, weren't trying for a relationship; Eddie's supposed to be his. He curls into himself, sobs until his ribs hurt, until his eyes are as heavy as his heart, and he falls asleep.

--

Steve startles awake, disoriented, to someone knocking on his bedroom door. He has no idea what time it is, how long he slept, but he expects Robin to be waiting in the hall.

It's Eddie. Hair in a messy bun, face flushed, eyes too bright.

"I'm sorry," falls out of Steve's mouth before he can think of anything else.

"Steve, I--I don't--" Eddie shakes his head. "Do you want to be in a relationship with me?"

"Yes," Steve whispers. "But I can't lose you, Eddie."

Eddie reaches out, slender hand, cupping Steve's jaw. "I need you to really listen when I say this, sweetheart. You will never, ever lose me. Not a chance."

"You can't know that," Steve says. Tears break free, cascade down his cheeks. "I used to think who could ever leave me? You know, back before Nancy. But I realized that actually no one would stay. And I can't--with you I can't--"

"Sweetheart," Eddie chokes on a sob. "I'm yours. Have been for years. I will never, ever leave you, no matter what we are to each other. But I can't be in some of a relationship with you. You have me wrapped around your finger, and I--I need it all, Steve."

"I want you to have it, Eddie." He presses his hand to his heart. "This belongs to you, but I--I couldn't survive you leaving."

"I would stay, Steve. I will. I promise on everything I have, everything I am, that you would never, ever lose me."

Steve stumbles into Eddie's arms, totally gone, and their mouths meet in a clumsy kiss. It wrecks Steve, tears him apart, renders him down to his smallest parts only to build him back together. He knows now for certain that there is no one else in the world for him.

They break apart, but don't move out of each other's orbit. "I love you," Steve whispers.

"Stevie, sweetheart, I love you more than anything." His fingers wind their way into Steve's hair, gentle, holding him. "I promise you'll have me for forever--fuck, longer than forever. My soul will find yours wherever we end up. I swear it."

[starlitvoyeur]

Imagine if there was another member on the crew aboard the Tulpar and meeting Daisuke. He’s a sweet, charismatic, and silly dude and y’all connect almost instantly. Inside jokes, teaming up on game nights, sharing hoarded sweeteners (although it’s very tough on your soul). However when you were first introduced you kept calling him Daisuki; and he never had the heart to tell you it’s wrong. Just a slight mispronunciation that sounds close enough right? The rest of the crew side eye him as if to say “that’s not right?” And he desperately side eyes all of them “PLEASE STAY QUIET” Anya thinks it’s kinda cute and keeps her mouth shut but there’s something in her expression that doesn’t quite look right. Curly taunts him Relentlessly. Swansea right behind him, saying that the kids these days are so ridiculous and so avoidant and just messes with Daisuke just after you walk by. Jimmy just raises an eyebrow but doesn’t seem to care too much about it… he asks every once in a while how the two of you are handling being on the ship and you answer so freely “everything’s going great! Daisuki and I really appreciate you guys being so understanding with us newbies :)” and Jimmy just nods and looks at Daisuke and replies “glad to hear it. Later Daisuki” and walks off leaving Daisuke a little embarrassed and blushy

[sorry-not-feeling-it-right-now]

Thinking about writing shenanigans with Smitten and Cold

Smitten would write the most sappy and fluffy romance stories with happy endings every time. Cold would say that it’s getting predictable of how the story ends every time.

Smitten gets peeved and told Cold to write a romance story himself. Cold takes the challenge.

Smitten reads what Cold has written and lo and behold it’s the most heart wrenching, most antsy love story with pinning and longing that can never be filled.

Smitten cried reading it. He hated admitting that.

[sarawritestories]

Azriel X Fem Human Reader

Summary: Azriel finds your journal and reads your depictions of the life the two of you have spent so far...

Content Warning: Memory loss, Death of a character, grief, someone on their death bed. Mention of Poison

Word Count: 2.9K

Dedicated: to @daycourtofficial who broke my heart with her Az fic this week

Tags: @milswrites @berryzxx @lady-of-tearshed @simple-fan2 @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @riddlesb1tch

ACOTAR Masterlist

There once was a human girl, who fell in love with a fae male.

After the war when borders had blurred, a young human woman traveled to Prythian the land of the fae. Not aware that some still held hatred in their heart for her kind. The woman cornered by fae males twice her size, looking at her as if she were their next meal. Slamming her eyes shut the woman began to tremble and wishing she would have stayed in her safe little hut.

Yet no one had laid a hand on her. Not a hair out of place. She only opened her eyes when the shrieks and snarls of males overwhelmed her ears. Flashes of cobalt lit the alley. The males scurrying with their tails between their legs, no longer fierce predators, but the fearful prey.

Swirls of shadows slithered around the woman’s body, their touch soft kisses against her skin. They wrapped around her neck and back down before slithering away, one lone tendril remaining and resting against the woman’s wrist. Despite her life being threatened moments before she laughed. This sentient magical being was not scary, but playful and cute.

Then she heard the clearing of a throat and her head slid up, no longer paying attention to the shadow, but the person who wielded them. Whispers of the male and his friends were the talk of the village.

“Shadowsinger.” The male blinked in surprised at her knowledge of who he was.

The male spoke, and the woman, never heard a more lovely sound. “Most people call me Azriel.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Are you alright?”

The woman slid her hand into his and a spark erupted from his touch and the woman panicked as a gold thread wrapped tightly around her heart, she couldn’t see it. She felt it. Something in her mind told her that the other end led to the person in front of her. “You’re my mate.” He whispered. The woman didn’t know what he meant by that. She didn’t have to know. Two things she knew was true:

This Male’s name was Azriel, and this male named Azriel made her feel safe.

A few years went by and the woman absolutely adored her mate.

She had a mate! Someone who was her equal in every way. Someone who promised the day she accepted the bond to love and cherish her until the day air left his lungs for good. Only to promise that in case, he would simply find her in the next life.

The young woman now had a family to call her own and a loving partner to walk through life with. New adventures awaited them.

But she will always be grateful for making the trip to Prythian, the beginning of her Happily Ever After.

The end

Azriel closed the journal, his gaze eyes meeting your cloudy ones. “That was a lovely story, young man.”  He smiled and gripped your now elderly hand. In the Spymaster’s eyes, you had only grown more beautiful with age. Your smile lines grew deeper from the years of laughing with Cassian. Forehead creases from playing too many games with Rhysand focusing on your shields so he couldn’t cheat. Every wrinkle, every crease, every spot told a story. Your story. As your body grew more wrinkles and your hair began to gray, the shadowsinger somehow fell deeper in love with you, your beauty knew no bounds and he thanked the mother that she chose you as his mate.

“You wrote it, my love.”  Azriel gave you a rare smile and you returned it with one of your own. “It’s about how we met. About our bond. You wrote it to tell Nyx someday, to tell our children someday.” Children the two of you were never destined to have, your body too fragile to carry an Illyrian babe to term. You were devastated when Madja revealed that to you. You thought you were broken; Az recalled the numerous times you apologized to him simply for the human body you possessed. Your apologies met with arms around you and Azriel rocking you murmuring how you had nothing to apologize for.

You looked upon the fae male whom in the last 50 years had not aged. His hazel eyes felt familiar to you though you couldn’t place how. One thing you knew for certain was that this male was in love. “You have a woman in your life.” There was a flicker of sadness in the male’s eyes, but he blinked, and it was gone. “An old woman can tell these things.”

The male gave you a smile, you felt inclined to reach for his hand, he immediately grips your hand in his own, the raised skin of his scars colliding with the frail now thin skin of your own. “I do. Would you like to hear about her?”

“Please.” The handsome male squeezed your hand. “She must be special, your eyes light up, just asking to talk about her.”

“She’s wonderful.” The male’s timbre shook slightly, you patted his hand encouraging him to continue. “When she reads, she always crinkles her nose, and her face always flushes when she reaches a smutty scene.” You chuckled, “When I return home from a mission, without fail she is the first one to greet me. Leaping into my arms, her scent consuming me entirely.” His thumb idly stroked the top of yours. “My favorite thing about her, is late at night before she goes to bed, she would sit at her desk and write in her journal.”

You blinked and you smiled at the sight of your best friend, your husband, your mate. “You always scolded me to come to bed.” Azriel let a sob lose as he pressed his forehead to yours. “No fair.” He sniffled as his shadows came to greet you, as if you had been gone for ages, “You haven’t aged in 50 years.”

Azriel pressed his lips to yours, “You have only gotten more beautiful with time, my love.”  He pulled away and you were able to see every emotion in his hazel eyes. Most people had a hard time figuring out what Azriel was feeling. You always knew he held every emotion in his beautiful eyes.

You lifted a hand to his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, you swiped away his tears, “We agreed,” You whispered, “No tears. No goodbyes.”

Azriel whimpered and it was the first time you ever saw the spy master look defeated, broken, lost. “We were younger when we agreed to that. You can’t ask this of me.” His palm pressed over yours. “Not when we have such little time.”

“Az, look at me, baby.” His watery gaze met yours, “We were running on borrowed time. I’ve made peace with that years ago.” Another broken sob escaped him, and you began to feel your own tears coming to the surface. “I don’t want this to be how I remember you. This isn’t how I want us to part.”

“This life isn’t worth living, if you’re not here.” His shadows kissed your cheeks, drying your tears. “I can’t live without you, Angel.”

You pressed your forehead to his once more, your arms barely able to lift you up anymore. “You can, and you will. Nyx needs to see how you are not just serious. That you’re funny, and kind, he needs to know that Auntie loved him so much and will watch over him. Just like I will with you.” Your vision blurred as the tears trickled down your aged cheeks. “Maybe we’ll be lucky, and the Cauldron will turn me into one of your shadows.” A strangled sound came out of Azriel. “I love you, Azriel and I will love you in every lifetime.”

Azriel brought your lips to his once more. “I Love you too. Wait for me in the next life.”

“Hold me. One last time.”  You moved to make room for your mate. He slid his boots off and tucked his wings tightly to make room on the cramped bed. He scooped you in his arms, his shadows resting comfortably around your waist. Your whole world holding you close to his chest. “Az?”

“Angel?”

“Will you sing me to sleep?” You whispered, your eyes growing heavy, your body feeling so weak.

Azriel’s wing came over as if knowing you had caught a sudden chill. “For you, my love. Of course.” Azriel’s melodic voice singing words of love and devotion. Before unconscious held a grip on you, you felt his lips on the top of your head, “Until we meet again, My Angel.”

Azriel awoke at the sound of feet pattering on the hard wood floor down the hall. He looked over at you, your skin paled, lips a slight shade of blue, Azriel couldn’t hear your heartbeat and the bond had faded to a dim light sending his love down only to feel hollowness at the other end.  Tears slid down his cheeks as his shadows confirmed what he already knew:

Gone

Gone

She has left.

A little dark head of hair wandered in and Azriel jolted as the heir of the Night Court climbed on the bed. “Auntie!” His little jovial voice echoing through the room. Azriel moved and covered his mouth as he shut his eyes fighting the sob. “Auntie, it’s time to wake up.” The Shadowsinger opened his eyes to find Nyx brows furrowed. “Auntie?” He shakes your lifeless form before he places his head against your chest, as Rhys and Feyre reached the room. Nyx lifted his head, his lip wobbled, as he met Azriel’s eyes.  “Uncle Azzy, why can’t I hear Auntie’s heartbeat anymore?”

Feyre’s cries broke the silence as she also realized how still you had become. Rhys looked at his brother as he held Feyre close. Azriel didn’t miss that he held her closer than normal, not that he faulted his brother.  Rhys’ throat bobbed as though he was trying to contain his emotions, for his mate, and his son. “How long?” The High Lord’s voice cracked.

“We fell asleep. Her memory came back last night.” Azriel picked up Nyx.  “I woke up, she was gone.”

“She’s right there.” Nyx argued. “Auntie, didn’t leave.”

Feyre sniffled as Azriel pressed his cheek to his nephew’s head, “Her soul is gone, Little one. Her body was not meant to live as long as us. She aged and yesterday her soul left this plane of existence.”

Nyx’s eyes, so much like his father’s, lined with silver. “Will she be lonely? I don’t want her to be lonely.”

Azriel held the boy close not noticing Cassian rushing in, pain lacing the General’s face as he walked over to your body. Grabbing your limp hand Azriel whispered, “No she’s not alone, sweet prince. She’ll be busy.” Cassian kissed the top of your hand and Azriel tried to keep his composure.

“With what?”

Feyre answered, “Watching over us. She’ll want to see her favorite nephew grow up.” She walked over, opening her arms so that Azriel would hand Nyx. “Uncle Az needs a minute let’s go down and grab you something to eat.”

The small child simply nodded as he cried into his mother’s sweater. Rhys and Cassian lingered, “I’m sorry, Azriel.” Cassian was the first to speak. “She was a wonderful person.”

“A better friend,” Rhys interjected.

Azriel climbed back into the bed and pressed your lifeless corpse to his chest, allowing the tears to fall. “My perfect mate.” A shadow slithered from your ankle and swirled wildly until spotting its master. The lone shadow lingered by his ear whispering.

I’m Here

I’m With You.

Forever.

🌟🌟🌟

A century had passed without you though Azriel never felt alone. Not when one shadow would remind him you were near. Especially as he lay in the same bed you once did after a mission had gone terribly wrong leaving the spymaster fatally wounded. Sweat coated his brow as Nyx now a grown fae male held his hand, “Uncle Az, I’m sorry I should have listened.”

“Your stubborn, like your father, I’m used to it.” Azriel coughed and blood sputtered from his mouth just as said brother walked in, Cassian in tow.

Nyx rose, “Father, I.”

Fury laced Rhysand’s eyes, “Go see your mother, Uncle Cass and I will be having an at length discussion with you about following orders.” Guilt laced the young males’ features but to Azriel’s surprise, the prince puffed his chest out and walked out of the room, not sparing his brothers a second glance. Azriel smirked.

You would have been so proud of the male he has grown to be.

“He’s grown up so much, hasn’t he?” Your voice carried and Azriel’s head snapped toward the door. His shadows scurried away and began swirling around your body. Not the older woman you were when you left this world, no you were the young woman who braved the fae lands alone. The fierce youthful woman, Azriel had fallen in love with, the only difference was your skin had an ethereal glow and your dress of tool, sleeves draping off your shoulders and down your feet.

“Angel,” Azriel whispered smiling, as Rhysand and Cassian sat at either side of him.

“Madja, said that the wound was laced with poison, she said he might hallucinate.” Rhys spoke holding onto his brother’s hand as if the grip alone could keep him from disappearing.

“We have spent over 600 years together,” Cassian’s tears falling. Azriel’s eyes remained on you as you walked deeper into the room. “I was supposed to go first.” Cassian’s sobs were thunderous but were muffled to Az as he watched you place a hand on Rhys. The High Lord briefly looked over his shoulder as if he felt your touch.

“You noticed my shadow huh?” You giggled as your eyes met Azriel’s hazel ones “I promised you I would be with you. I kept it.” Azriel wanted to speak but you held up your hand, “Baby, save your words.” You looked over at your friends. “They need them more than me right now.”  You moved and Azriel thought you glided from one spot to the other where you pressed a kiss to Cassian’s cheek. A gesture the general always returned. Cassian’s hand slid there tentatively as if remembering your sweet gesture from years ago.

“Cass,” Azriel’s lips chapped throat tight, “You are my dearest friend. Thank you, for being kind to me and showing me what a brother really looks like,” Cassian’s voice broke as he kissed Azriel’s knuckles.

“Fuck you, you prick. You can’t leave. Please don’t leave.” He choked out, Azriel’s gaze turned to Rhysand.

“Rhys.” Azriel wheezed, “It was an honor to serve as…your spymaster…” Rhysand silently cried as he rested his forehead against the shadowsinger’s knuckles. His shadows are still swirling and kissing you. Azriel continued, “Being your brother, and Nyx’s uncle…has…been my greatest…honor…go…easy… on him…” Rhys nodded not being able to form words.

You approached your mate, “My love.” His eyes fluttered shut as your hand reached out and cupped his cheek. “I have been granted the greatest gift.” You pressed your lips to his head, “I get to bring you home with me. We can be together again.”

Azriel hummed as another fit of cough erupted from his mouth jolting his two brothers’ alert. “Az, stay with us.” Rhysand’s voice grew panicked. “Azriel, please we still need you. Nyx needs you.”

Azriel’s eyes creaked open, and Cassian noticed life fading from them. “I love you both. Take care of each other.”

“Az-

Azriel cut the general off, “She…” both Cassian and Rhysand stilled, “is calling…me home…”

Rhysand and Cassian then looked to where his shadows were swirling, as if they could see you there. Cassian squeezed his hand fighting the tears. “Tell that little spitfire, hello for me.”

Azriel’s eyes began to droop. “I understand,” His violet eyes looked to where yours would be though he couldn’t see you, “I know you’ll take good care of him, like you did when you were here.”

You leaned down your breath lingering over Azriel’s lips, “It’s time to come back to me.” You kissed his lips and as you did, Azriel’s grip loosened from his brothers’. The roar of Cassian deafening. You pulled away from Azriel’s lifeless body only for hands to grip your waist hoisting you up, there was a glow to the now tanned arms, though his hands, no longer scarred, they were how he had always wished them to be, unharmed, undamaged. His nose grazed your skin, “I missed you too, Azriel.” He hummed.

“My Little Angel.” He pressed his lips to your cheek, “Take me home.”

You led him away, your hand adjusting to the now smooth skin of his own. He looked down at his hands and grinned, and your heart soared “No phantom pains, no ugliness.”

“They were never ugly, Azriel.” You scowled and kissed his knuckles. “Come now we must go.” You led Azriel away from his lifeless body, only to pause and turned to his shadows that were following the two of you, “Take care of them. You hear me.” The shadows nodded and swirled around Rhys and Cassian as if wrapping them in a snug blanket.

As they walked down the hall, glancing at Feyre holding a sobbing Nyx tear of her own, Azriel’s voice broke your concentration. “Tell me the story.” He didn’t need to elaborate.

You paused causing him to stop too, you pressed your lips to his, and he cupped your cheek. You put a hand to his chest and lightly pushed, “There once was a human girl, who fell in love with a fae male.” Azriel smiled as you led him to the afterlife.

His Perfect Little Angel.

~Fin

[thelilylav]

And you never knew

How much I really liked you

Cause I never even told you

Oh, and I meant to…

angst feat. my favourite three person lesbian disaster throuple (they will never know happiness as long as I’m in charge of them)

[melmedardasworld]

Yes, I will be writing their reunion and posting it before Act III drops.

[autisticaradiamegido]

day 231

doomed timeline

u ever think about how literally every single one of the thousands of aradias that traveled back to fight in the trolls' boss battle was from a doomed timeline where she had to a) watch all her friends die b) process that she was also doomed and c) then power through all that to do a bunch of time travel detective work so that she could advise the alpha iterations of her friends on how to avoid splitting into that doomed timeline in the first place? before traveling to a battle she knew she wouldn't make it out of?

yeah man

[elliada]

Alternate Universe: In which Kafka self-sacrifices during the final battle.

[hitlikehammers]

This Is Your Life (¿ǝɟı˥ ɹno⅄ sıɥ⊥ sI)

Steve Harrington never thought he’d end up like his parents. He never thought he’d allow his life end up like this.

…but did it really?

He wants to grab for his wallet: he knows there’s gotta be pictures there, he always knew if he did become a dad he’d be that dad and maybe he can’t fucking grasp how he’s here, how it all went wrong, but he, it’s… He can’t have gotten it this wrong; he might have fucked up the love of his life, somehow—and he knows that’s what it was, the one, came out of nowhere and made him feel more than anything he’d ever known his chest could hold: he might have failed the soft brown curls he can feel against his cheek with his eyes closed, but he’s shaky on the smell of them, the scent of this person he knows that he loved, fuck, no, he knows that he still loves—but he can believe that part. He doesn’t want to believe it, really thought this was different, feels it in his chest that this was so different, and this time was forever—but Steve’s history speaks for itself. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to think it fell apart—again. But. That said: he swore he’d never be his own parents. He can’t have gone and failed this bad, with his own kids—

rating: t ♥️ tags: post S4, established relationship (?), drama, introspection, angst (?) with a happy ending (!), steve harrington and the inescapable reality of becoming your parents no matter how hard you try, (it IS inseparable, right?), creeper hitting on a sad divorcé at the bar, SINCERE APOLOGIES TO PEOPLE NAMED A NAME MALIGNED HEREIN SOLELY FOR PLOT PURPOSES

for @steddielovemonth Day Twelve—“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.”―The Sandman —

“You look like you shouldn’t be alone.”

Steve, actually, feels like he should definitely be alone. Certainly isn’t looking for company from this random, hair-slicked-back, not-even-being-subtle-about-the-sleaze stranger.

Who sees fit to put his hand on the back of the empty chair across from where Steve sits.

Alone.

“I meant,” and his voice is…soft, but like he wants something. Soft like he means to pull you in. Steve doesn’t fucking need this, not tonight. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Steve wants to laugh. Steve wants to throw his glass and watch it shatter, watch the other patrons of this fairly high-end restaurant gasp and clutch their pearls for it.

He wants to know how he ended up here. How his story unfolded to this. He knows there was a time when they were happy. When he was happy. Lots of memories of being unhappy, especially when he was a kid, but Steve knows in his bones there was happiness, there was lov—

“Hmm,” the stranger hasn’t figured out he’s unwelcome yet, apparently; Steve tries sipping his drink as a hint.

It has the opposite effect.

“Ah,” the man watches Steve’s hand, then points: “it’s been a while, but you still remember the weight, no?”

Steve makes the mistake of taking his eye off this nuisance of a human to follow the pointing: he grabbed for his drink from the left.

Yeah, he does still keep his presently-empty ring finger the slightest bit off the glass. Like a habit.

Motherfucker.

“Children?” the stranger who absolutely cannot take the goddamn hint presses on, too curious, too poised at innocence to be wholly genuine.

Steve doesn’t know what could have possibly given him away—he knows he looks run through the wringer, but kids, there wouldn’t be a tell for the kids in his wrinkled suit, his mussed-up hair from running his fingers through it, greasier than he ever allowed before, tie rumpled and half-undone, what—

His right thumb catches his eye, just out the corner: nail polish. He didn’t have the heart to take it off, and, well. There’s a little corner of Barbie pink on the inside of the tip, hanging on months later. Taunting him.

Must be pretty quality stuff.

“How old?”

And Steve’s lips part, he intends to answer actually because the drive in him to tell this asshole it’s none of his business and that he needs to fuck off was strangled in a second at the thought of the girls, his three girls, the six little nuggets he always dreamed of, plus one more besides as a bonus, a fucking gift, and maybe it’ll hurt less in the long run to say anything about them to a faceless person he’ll never see again, so he intends to answer, but…

Suddenly he can barely form a coherent thought about his kids, it all hurts too much—like the burning, the wetness caught on his lashes; like that’s flooding full-on in his own mind’s eye as much as his lungs all at once.

He wants to grab for his wallet: he knows there’s gotta be pictures there, he always knew if he did become a dad he’d be that dad and maybe he can’t fucking grasp how he’s here, how it all went wrong, but he, it’s…

He can’t have gotten it this wrong; he might have fucked up the love of his life, somehow—and he knows that’s what it was, the one, came out of nowhere and made him feel more than anything he’d ever known his chest could hold: he might have failed the soft brown curls he can feel against his cheek with his eyes closed, but he’s shaky on the smell of them, the scent of this person he knows that he loved, fuck, no, he knows that he still loves—but he can believe that part. He doesn’t want to believe it, really thought this was different, feels it in his chest that this was so different, and this time was forever—but Steve’s history speaks for itself. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to think it fell apart—again. But.

That said: he swore he’d never be his own parents. He can’t have gone and failed this bad, with his own kids—

“She took them?”

Steve turns—he hadn’t been looking at the pestering asshole, had kind of forgotten he was there. Steve stares at him a little open-mouthed; blinks. The fuck is he talking about—

But it makes sense. Steve got his picket fence and his gaggle of Harringtons, maybe only got a handful of their trips across the country under their belts before it went to shit, before Steve fucked it up like it was always in his blood to do: lost his marriage. Lost his kids.

“For Henry?”

Finally, the man turns away, automatic: so that’s his name. That’s the only reason anyone looks so quick.

Steve…doesn’t know any Henry, but he bristles to hear it anyway. Like a…a back-of-the-mind instinct that it’s a bad name for bad people.

Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s obviously had too much to drink, for now fuzzy him mind is proving; for how quick his eyes are to sting in public—for how much of a mess he is.

How much of a mess it all is—

“Let me grab that, but,” and the man, this Henry, he gestures to Steve’s glass of mostly-melted-ice; “what were you drinking?”

“Old Fashioned.”

Steve’s voice is metal on gravel. He licks his lips.

“I’ll bring you back another,” this Henry, he thinks he can touch Steve’s shoulder as he walks away.

Once he’s reached the bar and shoots Steve a…deeply discomforting smile as he waits on the second drink and—

Steve doesn’t remember what he had been drinking.

But he knows in his core, somehow, that it wasn’t an Old Fashioned.

“Shame they can’t just turn the music off,” Henry slides the drink Steve’s way before sliding back into the seat he was never invited to sit in in the first place; “not loud enough to really hear is it,” and where he’s started the out-of-fucking-left-field comment with more annoyance than Steve thinks it warranted, he hadn’t even noticed there was music playing until now; “but not strong enough to make an impression.”

Henry ends with more…satisfaction, and weirdly, kinda like self-satisfaction, and fuck but this guy’s weird as shit.

“Oh, unlike the drink,” Henry laughs, shifts the mood—or tries to—after a sip of whatever he’s got for himself and he laughs…too forced. Too much like a game, and unsettling for it when Steve doesn’t know the rules, let alone the playbook.

And honestly, Steve is more interested in the music, now, than his unsavory tablemate.

“You were talking about your children,” Henry leans close his arm extended like it wants to grab for Steve’s in something comforting, too presumptuous—Steve moves that closest arm to grab his glass, but not to lift it.

“I’d rather not,” he says as flippant as he can because he doesn’t want to go back to the hurting, to the lack of anything to hold to in remembering that’s still closer to the surface than the actual face of his kids, his kids—

“Don’t see them much,” Henry says, kinda…tuts, like he’s regretful on Steve’s account, and it’s less a question than an observation, but Steve’s face must do something without his permission at those words because to en Henry’s got this too-bright, too eager sympathy painted all over him before he starts damn-near cooing:

“Oh,” he says, breathy, sour at the back of Steve’s mouth somehow; “oh you poor thing, you’re not even in their lives? Barely remember them sometimes, no?” And the weird thing is…he sounds too invested, yeah, but not just like a creepy fucker looking to maybe take a sad sap to bed. It’s…

It’s different.

“Like they never existed.”

Steve doesn’t understand why of all the things this asshole says, it’s that that shakes him, that trips in his pulse in a way he can feel, and hard.

He stares, jaw clenched, at the unsampled drink still in his hand: whiskey.

Like your eyes, sweetheart, just like whiskey in the morning sun, magic and full of their own perpetual light—

“She took the house, I bet,” Henry sighs, shaking his head, while Steve shakes his own from the voice that had floated at the back of his mind through to the front, close, so close and so fucking clear; “your white picket fence. Your Winnebago.”

And he looks over Steve’s shoulder like he’s really aiming at sympathizing, but…

Something about those exact words seems too precise. Lights something up in Steve’s wobbly memories—but the light feels old. Like it’s a thing he did know, once; followed and looked to, but…changed course.

And how the fuck does this jackass know that Steve maybe wanted, ever, or thought he could have wanted but knew it was a past want, a no-longer-want—in the marrow of his bones he knows the way he’s remembers it, if he is remembering it, he knows the last time it left if lips he didn’t mean it anymore, he’d turned toward wanting something else, something somehow more—

His chest feels stretched for thinking all of it through and…something equally uncertain and shimmering, just out of reach: that part knows this.

And is very fucking suspicious of how this fucker sitting across from him knew about a fucking Winnebago he doesn’t even want anymore?

“Love,” Henry, fucking, yes, Steve is now 100% convinced that that’s a bad name, it’s a bad name that means a bad person, his brain might be fuzzy right now but he knows that part: “even if it werereal,” and he says is almost dreamily but more mocking, kinda, but he’s…he’s not sincere in it. At least not the hints at empathy.

Steve knows he’s being played, even without having the rule book. Even without knowing the game.

“It’s never quite enough, is it.”

It’s not a question. But still. Nonetheless.

Love isn’t enough?

Wrong.

That he knows deeper than any narrow. Closer to the soul of him than of the other things his brain has thought it’s known so far, he’s—

Wait.

Wait, why did Steve think that? Whose voice was that, in his head? A deep voice, smooth and sweet and beloved, Steve feels that undeniable in his chest—thinks it might have been the same voice as the one that talked about his eyes, and, he, it’s…

Is that what he lost, the ring not on his finger, the kids he’s apparently walked out on in every way that matters—if the voice is right, if love were enough then why is Steve, why is Steve here, now, and he’s—

It’s always enough..

It’s a man’s voice. Steve tried to think of any man in his life who would say such a thing in the first place—no family, and friends? He—

Maybe not enough to fix everything alone, but it’s the foundation, Stevie. If it really is love, then it’s more than enough to build anything out of, or back up from.

That’s a man’s voice. And it rolls through Steve’s veins like embers, like the light catching precious stones and sparkling prismatic.

Steve may not be able to place the where or the who just yet. But he knows that it’s there.

There was no ‘she’ to take anything from him, not anything that mattered, when it mattered.

It’s the weight of the memory between his lungs and his steady-pounding heart, gaining pace and punch with every breath—the first inklings of some knowing. It’s the face of kids he’d die for. It’s the knowledge in his bones they’re not the only people he’d die for, and that he’d feel his life more than well-served in doing it. More than.

Steve swirls his glass, watching the smoke from the bar haze through real crystal—thick where the cloud in his head is dissipating more every second. It’s a meta…metafort? It’s a thing that’s making a point about another thing. Illustrating it poetically, or whatever.

The smoke left in his head. The clearest thing shining through it is that voice. That voice telling him not just about love, but something crucial embedded inside: this man seated across from him.

That man is wrong.

“What did you say your name was?” Steve asks, because there’s power in redirecting someone’s attention. And Steve feels…electricity building in his body. Lightning in his limbs; familiar.

He’s on the brink of something, and if all of the losses this man is underscoring are the reflection of who Steve’s grown into, after all that he’d sworn not to become what he knew, what nearly ruined him growing up, fucked him up so bad it took another fucking dimension and its literal monsters to yank him back from the path to becoming like the monsters at his mother’s cocktail parties, his father’s business dinners—

If this man, sitting here, is still somehow who he’s become anyway?

If Steve feels on the brink of something, so fucking close—and maybe the thing he’s close to is total oblivion, to whole-on forgetting and decimating any chance of recovering the losses this fuckface across from him with his martini glass has lifted up to the light—if he’s this close?

Last time Steve can remember breaking through the disaster of his present self was swinging a bat, and swinging to crack fucking skulls.

He’s not sure what that means but he feels weirdly inclined to trust it. So…he figures: what’s the harm?

He’d very much like to break this sonofabitch’s skull in, so.

“Could have sworn you did,” Steve finally takes a sip of his refreshed drink—the single sip alone is sharp assault on his tongue, and he bites at his bottom as the taste shoot through the nerves in his limbs and the pathways in his ways and lights them all up at once, and he hears the music in the background make a bigger impact than the way his heartbeat starts picking up in his ears as he set the drink back down, and leans in on autopilot to meet the guys eyes and make sure the way every cell in his body’s waking up is real, is telling him the truth:

“Henry, right?”

The man barely blinks, just hides less a smirk now and more a grimace in the curve of his martini glass.

Fucking bingo.

The clouds are gone. The haze has fully lifted, or at least is on its way. Steve couldn’t have said how much his body felt like a wrong-sized suit before this very moment until this very moment, when it starts to feel like his own again, like this body and every scar it’s marked with belongs to him alone.

“I’m also in the mood for forgetting this evening,” Steve lowers his tone a bit, bats his lashes as subtly as he knows and then tips his chin down the look up through them, a move that’s never failed him once when he really tries:

“Could I persuade you to accompany me?”

Henry tries to play his wordless agreement cool, almost aloof, but now that Steve knows the truth of it all, now that his own mind is clear, it’s so obvious.

Motherfucker’s champing at the bit.

They make it just out the door into the half-packed parking lot before Steve pauses, looks up at the sky—notices the eerie starlessness, the shadowy-faltering veil over the ominous red of the clouds.

“It’s funny,” Steve tells the sky as his eye catches the impression of a bolt of lightning behind the shade; “what you said earlier.”

Henry hums, but it’s…it’s an impatient, or maybe unsettled, at the very least annoyed sort of sound. He wants to leave. He wants to take Steve farther from a neutral setting.

Or at least: neutral by comparison.

“About the music,” Steve tosses his head back toward the bar beyond the doorway. “Too low to really set the ambiance,” Steve agrees, because he knows the why; “but there enough to be,” Steve sucks his teeth, pretends to look for the right word: “distracting.”

Distraction.

Henry stills. Steve isn’t feel patient enough to drag this out any further, really, now that his gaze is clear.

“We knew it wouldn’t work this time, the music,” Steve taunts, feeling the adrenaline suddenly rise in his veins like an untamable force; “you’re not strong enough for it to matter, can’t even lift the tool you need for half your dirty work.”

Literally. Because Steve’s still cognizant. Steve can feel the bleed of the real world—even if he’s floating he’s not down for the count yet. And by rights, he damn well should be—based on all previous encounters.

And yet here, on top of everything, all the memory and clarity rushing back in one heartbeat, one breath—the choice of the cocktail, the song in the background wasn’t a song anyone would know, it was written for Steve and it was in the voice of its composer, probably sang at his side without any instrument to smooth it out to anything less than raw and real—

The last nail in the coffin were the eyes.

“Can barely hear at all, the state you’re in,” Steve kicks at the ankles of the man unraveling before him as the parking lot around them starts to fade into dead trees and shot-red skies; “the bats could have, if they’d made it.”

And there it is, even diminished, even rotting: Vecna’s eyes were always the same; unmistakable. Dead giveaway.

Still full of the same fucking unhinged, megalomaniacal hate.

“She took everything, didn’t she?”

Because Steve knew it didn’t sound right for him, when it was thrown at him beyond all of it being twisted and wrong—that part had felt different, and now he knows why: no woman was taking his house, was dismantling the life he was building with someone his heart belonged to, full stop.

But this sorry excuse for crawling corpse had a young woman whose buzz cut was growing back to her curls again; and she sure as shit took everything, and was poised now to come back for the stragglers and make it final. Make it done.

All this pathetic scrap of not even a man, not even a monster—this pathetic scrap of nothing really was?

Was lingering in the dead space, half-a-ghost on borrowed time.

So Steve thinks, given his role in this was always to be the bait, and to keep him preoccupied until that ill-borrowed time needed returning to its rightful owner, and what was left of Vecna had run out of it entirely—Steve thinks he’s more than entitled to kick this fucker when he’s down.

He doesn’t even feel bad when he trips the bastard up again, too uneven on his disintegrating legs to even try to fight; honesty feels kinda giddy, like he wants to laugh when the fucker let’s loose a fittingly inhuman scream when Steve jumps with both feet on what’s left of his knees, one by one.

“Never tell me my kids don’t exist,” Steve growls, enraged, half-feral at what this creature tried to sell him; “do not even suggest I don’t remember my fucking kids.”

Because Steve could never. Steve would never. He had the nuggets he used to dream of. Almost missed the gift of those shitheads, for too long, in clinging to a different version of it he’d just absorbed from what he thought was the way the world worked; hadn’t yet readjusted to knowing the world worked wholly fucking differently, and the things he heart really wanted of course would shift accordingly.

Had shifted. Goddamn perfectly.

“And it’s wild,” Steve takes a second, considers the writhing vermin on what’s given way entirely from the mirage of anything else than soggy ground, littered with dead leaves, blackened bark.

“I’m really not a whisky drinker,” Steve muses, circling the pathetic heap of this self-style god: some fucking god.

“Not yet, anyway. I’ve been told it’s a drink you have to grow into,” Steve hums consideringly, even as he catches a hand try to reach, try to grab, try to bring Steve down again and sap his energy, the lifeblood in him to steal a few more minutes, a few more gasps before the end.

Steve crushes the hand that darts out from what’s left of the wrist, unforgiving under his heel.

“But you ordered me that cocktail with bourbon,” Steve says, almost blasé, as the figure on the ground writhes and howls.

“I drank a lot, after our first round with you,” he had. Figuring out you might very well be falling in love with someone when that someone’s not guaranteed to make it through the night for too many nights in a row takes a goddamn fucking toll. “Only time I’ve ever touched bourbon,” and it’d been top-shelf shit, his dad didn’t keep anything less on hand:

“Only time I ever will.”

Maybe Steve could grow into enjoying another kind of whiskey in the future but…that taste was always going to be tied to the heart-pounding nightmares, the bitter fear of unmitigated loss.

“Really throws me out of the moment here and now, though, y’know?” Steve makes a point of crushing every individual finger on the hand he’s still got under one shoe with the other. For insurance. “Takes me back somewhere else.”

When the cretin slowly quiets his yelping to heavy panting—and Steve is not above admiring to himself that he does weight crushing his windpipe next because Steve’s not a vicious person, he’s not violent like that but this animal nearly cost them everything, nearly cost him everything.

Might still, if Steve can’t get back out of this half-mindfuck, half-hellscape.

He really, really thinks about it.

“You fucker,” he desires to hiss, to lean down little and catch those wrathful eyes; “you really thought you had me, didn’t you.”

And the second hand tried to shout up to take Steve by the neck, but Steve’s faster, not least because he’s not coming apart at whatever stands in for the cells of a reconstituted corpse multiple times over. He knocks that arm away hard enough to snap something clean enough to echo, and then takes his time repeating the through crushing of wrist, finger, finger, finger, finger, thumb.

And then, because the screaming isn’t load enough for Steve’s liking just now, not for this monster, he decides to see if there’s anything in the crotch area left of this wrinkled ballsack of a man. It never really looked like it, the few times Steve had seen him in full, in better days for his…already-rotting body…thing.

But the pitch of the agony that rings out when Steve grinds his heel down in that general anatomical…area must mean there’s still something.

It’s something like the middle of that scream that Steve catches under his shoe at what’s left of the neck he wanted to crush before but now…now it’s just pressure. Painful. Inconvenience, dialed up to Eleven.

“What’s wrong, Henry?” Steve taunts, meets those eyes with what he knows, means to be a crazed fucking grin:

“Never heard of a Piggyback?”

And those hate-filled go wide, go fearful.

Fucking excellent.

“El, take him!” Steve cries out and feels a seismic wave knock him far from where he was standing, but he’s still grinning wide when he lands far in a heap, knocked hard but…this was the plan.

Everything goes dark very fast after he crumples in the ground, hears mostly yelling—rage and pain, triumph and total decimation—and it’s the last thing he does hear, might be the e last thing he hears ever, save for a desperate cry of one word before it all fucking fades:

“Steve!”

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

…..tbc??😬🫠

SERIOUSLY: I have nothing against people named Henry! I promise! 🫠

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @eternal-sunflowers @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and, oddly, also me!

[guardian-angle22]

GUARDIAN'S GIFSET GLOWUPS ↳ 2017 TK breaking my heart [originally posted March 2022]

[evil-swedenish]

Cas AGAIN

[rubytheyubi]

“That doesn’t answer the question”

She’s just a little confused guys, give her a moment

[thelilylav]

Ok but like imagine this: you're best friends with the straightest girl in the world. She makes jokes about you being more fun and amazing than any prince. You make jokes about her naming her firstborn after you. You're destined to lose her. One day your whole world will be gone, all your friends and family, and it will just be you and some stranger who came to rescue you because it was written down. It's all any of you have ever known. You will marry a boy born a century after you. But you see the way she smiles when you guys talk about your future, so you keep it down. It's what your parents expect, what your friends want, what the world is telling you is the right thing to do. You swallow down the apprehension and fear and eventually it becomes so easy it's second nature.

Then something changes. A girl says this isn't how things have to be. Maybe this isn't even how things are supposed to be. And you're angry, because you've been playing this stupid part your whole life and it's as bad as hers, so why can't she just fall in line? Can't she see the pain she's causing everyone (the pain she's causing your best friend)?

You try to make things right. You tell people that the girl is wrong, that things aren't meant to change, that everything is fine. You do everything you can to make your best friend feel better, you push down your own thoughts on the situation because they're not what's important right now. Your opinion has always waited in second, it clearly can now too, right?

Right?

But you can't stop thinking about that day. The sound of the page tearing. At the time it sounded like something horrible, like something disgusting and forbidden and scary. But you keep going back to it. You keep thinking of what would happen if you did the same. If you didn't have to leave your friends behind. If the terrible future you'd resigned yourself to your whole life wasn't as inevitable as it once seemed. The sound of the tearing page begins to sound like freedom.

Your best friend doesn't get it. She thinks you're being selfish and erratic and crazy. You push each other away. Of course she didn't understand. She never thought about things like that. Never thought about you like that.

Things keep changing. More people say they haven't been happy with the way things are. Your other best friend says she's in love with a boy she's not supposed to be in love with, and you start to realise that things are more broken than they seemed.

You go to Wonderland. You made a mistake, a big one, but you're trying to fix it. Things are still awkward between you and your best friend. She still thinks you're wrong. But she accepts that she can't change your mind, and you guys are beginning to admit that, even though things can't go back to how they were, maybe you can still have a future together. Maybe you don't have to lose her after all.

[lopsaii]

Witnessing the consequences of my actions