I’m literally fine I don’t care its not even that big of a deal it’s whatever who’s Hilda

"I forgive you." It came out like a blood clot—like an artery dripping gore—like an oil spill. Crowley felt his shoulders rise, fall, fall, fall. The air between them hummed, the tension of six thousand years turning every atom electrified and silently screaming. Breath shuddered out of him, human and terrible and hollowing. He had never been more grateful for the swallowing darkness of his glasses, for the way they hid the centuries of pre-emptive grief and wicked terror. The air was suffocating, the once familiar bookshop turned catacomb.

And then, hating himself for it but seeing no other way forward, he spoke the words aloud. "Don't bother". And then he was out in the middle of Soho and the breeze was harsh against his too-warm skin. Stepping out into the sun felt like rising to the surface of some great ocean—the gasping, desperate feeling in his lungs, the sudden crash of noise. A woman across the street called for her wife. A car horn. A dog barking. Laughter, cruel and far-off. He pulled breath into lungs that didn't need it, winced as he felt slivers of cold drive into the soft flesh of his throat.

So that was it; five and a half million years of want and need and burning, aching somedays, cyphered pleas for "our side". All gone in the space between shaking half-breaths and a kiss still seared against his lips.

Fuck it.

He'd ruined it the first time, had forced them both to look directly into the sun, to face the thing they'd been dancing around for the better part of six millennia. He could do better—would do better. At a music café some years ago, a human had been playing the piano—something soft and slow. A jazz number, if the demon remembered correctly. But the remarkable thing wasn’t the song itself, but that they were playing it with their eyes closed. Aziraphale had pointed this fact out to Crowley, excitement lilting in his voice (even then, the sound had thrilled him, sent a stab of warmth through his heart). It was only after the final note reverberated through the room that the artist opened their eyes, blinking in the sudden rush of stage lights. Aziraphale, ever the music connoisseur, approached the musician. The pianist had explained that, for them, reading music never came easy. Rather, they learned by touch, by the way the keys felt on their fingertips. In fact, the only way they could play a song was with their eyes closed. If they watched their hands as they played or thought too hard about their next move, they got confused and tripped over the notes. Muscle memory, they’d said.  It was muscle memory—the galactic familiarity of finding the space between seconds and prying—that guided Crowley now. He hadn’t done it since Not-Armageddon, but it came easily to him just the same. Time, you see, operates kind of like sound, like music; it loops and sways and carries forward in waves. If you know where to look (as the demon did), you can disrupt the flow, send it back towards the shore. 

And this was what Crowley did now. Drawing his hands through the ripples of minutes and seconds and hours and millennia, time stilled around him. It was natural. Easy, like breathing or sleeping. Or loving Aziraphale.  Slowly, the world turned backwards; humans retreating from whence they came, cars driving in reverse, the wind blowing in the opposite direction. If Heaven had taken notice of their "half-a-miracle", Crowley expected them to be able to see this from every edge of the universe. He likely only had one shot at this.

The world aligned itself once more, and time returned to its regular, steady gait—a rubber band snapping back into place. Something hummed in Crowley’s chest. Something bright and burning and the shape of a neutron star.  Hands shaking, he reached for the handle of the bookshop and pushed. The bell above the door rang, clear and and too-loud in the morning air. Aziraphale whirled around, a trembling half-smile on his face. Oh. Oh, somebody, this was going to be harder than he thought. It felt like all the oxygen, all the courage, had been punched clear out of him "Crowley!" A beat, a shuddering breath. "Angel". He pressed his still-trembling hands into his pockets and strode forward. "Oh, Crowley, dear, I've been looking for you. I have excellent news." His stomach did a little flip, something deep within him growing hollow and fearful. "We have to talk," he managed to choke out around the heart still lodged in his throat. "Yes, I quite think we do. I have something to tell you." Aziraphale strode forward, all grins and beauty like a flickering star, all plasma and heat. He could practically feel the agitated warmth roll off of his angel. Crowley shivered. "I just met with the Meta—” "No. Wait," the demon held up a hand, pausing the rushing torrent of Aziraphale’s words. "Just let me say my thing, please." "My dear boy, just—oh, what is that lovely human expression—"

"Hold that thought," Crowley muttered. His eyes burned behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked pleasantly taken aback.

"Yes, how did you know? I—" "No." The angel's eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "No?" "No," he repeated, enunciating each letter with perfect clarity. He was going to do it right this time. He was going to keep him from leaving. He could be good. Right? "I’m gonna speak, and I want you to listen to me without interrupting, m'kay?" Words were building in the basin of his sternum now, pushing up on his airways. He was going to have to say it outright this time; no more waltzing around this frenzied galaxy of emotion. Willing his hands to steadiness, he pulled his glasses from his face, and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale's breath seemed to catch for a moment, meeting the ferocity of the demon's gaze head-on. A deer in headlights. And then, "Crowley, I really—" (Eons hurtled through his mind in a split second, the serrated knife's-edge of want like a being all its own. Aziraphale in the garden. Aziraphale in the tavern, on the cliffside, on the West End stage, in the Bentley, in the bookshop, in the very marrow of Crowley’s bones.) "I love you," he rasped, ichor writhing in his veins.

There, he'd said it., said it fully and completely, without so much as flinching. It was the same love he'd expressed for the past several thousand years in a million little, unspoken ways: an ox rib, a revolution, a church, a burning bookshop and the bottom of a glass and a lost best friend. A yellow Bentley, a lifetime of tethering his life to Aziraphale's, of trailing after him like a moth to flame—like a dog to its owner. "I love you," he pushed on. They were both looking directly into the sun again, Crowley urging them to stare straight into the heat of it all. The words were spilling out of him now, a heaving, thrashing current falling to the bookshop's hardwood floors. "I love you and you can't go to Heaven." Aziraphale froze, pupils blown wide and unblinking, for just a moment. Tension stretched out like a thread between them. And then he pulled in breath like a drowning man (who wasn't really a man at all), and tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes, and oh god, he'd made his angel cry. Fear and guilt and horror slammed into him at a million kilometers an hour and left him halfway between dizzy and nauseous. His fingers tensed at his side, desperate to do something, fix what he'd so obviously broken. Heaven would be on the front step any moment. It was too late, wasn't it? It was always too late. "Crowley—what?" Aziraphale breathed, mouth twisting into a brutal, terrible, heart-wrenching sob. Crowley ached, panic lancing through him like a knife. "I—I really, I can't. You could come with me." He stepped forward, moving to place his hands on the demon's shoulders. Crowley leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously. "Don't go," he croaked, tears beginning to prick his own eyes once again. This time he didn't reach for his glasses, didn't try to hide his fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And then Aziraphale could hate him and his desperate, hungry, reverent love in the aftermath. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please".

His angels blue-grey eyes searched his own, and the weight of his gaze was impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like a river-smoothed rock. "Crowley, please. I don't understand. The Metatron said—" His palms found the sides of Crowley's throat, thumbs resting gently on the side of his jaw. Crowley sucked in a breath. "Angel," The scent of earl grey—of old books and soft tartan chairs. Aziraphale's hands were shaking. "I know what the Metatron said," he intoned, soft as rainfall. "You can't go. It's not—they won't change. You're better than that." "But you could be an angel. With me," he murmured, soft thumbs running across sharp cheekbones. "Be my second-in-command." "Don't want to be. Want t' be an us," he felt tears—traitorous, burning tears tip over the edge of his lashes and fall against his face. "Crowley, darling, please." A beat. "I love you." The bottom of the world dropped out from under him in that moment. Aziraphale loved him. He loved him and he'd said it aloud and now it was out there in the world and it was as though every nerve on his body was on fire. His angel pushed on, "Truly, I love you. I need you with me. Please, come with me. We can do good, I know it." He could never say no when his angel asked something of him. Especially not when his kind, gentle hands were holding him like something good, something precious. Especially not when Aziraphale had just admitted to needing him, had injected the word with so much warmth he thought his all-too-human heart might beat clear out of his chest. But there was a first (technically, second) time for everything. He drew in a heavy breath, and tilted his head, breaking his angel's hold on him. Aziraphale's hands—now empty, still shook. He made a soft whimpering sound, and Crowley ached to kiss his fingertips, banish the fear. But instead, he looked up towards the ceiling, to a God who was not there—who maybe had never been there at all. He felt the Heavenly Host drawing near, a sense of hollow emptiness, the scent of absence. This was the time of last-ditch efforts, of holding his heart out and hoping Aziraphale might take it as it was, bruised spots and all. "I can't. I won't. I need to be here, on Earth, with you." "Crowley, please. I don't think you understand what I'm offering you," he huffed. A residual shard of anger stabbed at him then, and he turned his gaze sharply back to the angel before him. "Oh, I understand perfectly well, angel. I'm fairly certain I understand better than you do." Aziraphale's mouth drew into a thin line, tears welling fresh in his eyes again. And still, Crowley ached. A beat. Something in the angel shifted, then, turned on its edge—the walls beginning to go up again, and it was just like it had been not fifteen minutes ago. He was watching the same moment play out over and over again; some cyclical, torrential nightmare. "I would like you to come with me, but," Aziraphale paused, voice breaking in the middle. "But I'm leaving, with or without you." And there it was, like it was predestined. Despite the love, despite the want, despite every shared bottle passed between them, every half-accidental touch and glance and whispered word—despite the way he would’ve let Aziraphale run a sword through his chest... It wasn't enough. It was never enough. They were re-enacting their old magic trick, right there in the bookshop, this time with Crowley staring down the barrel, letting Aziraphale pull the trigger. Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear. Aziraphale wasn't shooting past his ear. His bloody ribcage felt as though it might splinter apart. Wingbeats in the distance, a grief wide enough to drown the sea. Crowley reached down, pulled his sunglasses from their resting spot against his clavicle. And then the hunger in his eyes was once more hidden, and he was walking towards the door like a man headed to execution. "Crowley—" Aziraphale nearly keened, the wall crumbling for a split second. Without turning, Crowley said the only words he could think of. "I forgive you."

a silly inconsistency that drives me nuts is in after school special it's november 1997, which makes dean 18 going on 19 and he's still....in school ?? a 19 yr old wouldn't still be in high school unless he got held back (which, very likely for dean and moving around so much) except i don't believe he'd still keep bothering to go once he hit 18 and could instead be working somewhere to make money they desperately need. then there's the only-canon-when-i-feel-like-it John's Journal which says dean graduated high school at 18. and you know, i could actually see dean lying to john (who hasn't been around enough to know if dean's been going to school or not) and telling him he actually graduated but really he's been working part-time jobs this whole time. but dean actually still going to school in late-1997?? it's pushing my suspension of disbelief lol. like i could only see if really if he's like trying to keep an eye on sam and stuff. but even then i still think he'd prioritize making money over going to school esp after yrs of being made to feel like he's not smart enough

I'd like to rec the Between Worlds series by Paryton, it's absolutely breathtaking and deserves to be celebrated.

Third Degree Burns (and the blisters that follow) by Paryton

Rating: Teens and Up

7,713 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: Major Character Death

Tags: Hurt No Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Lesbian Robin Buckley, post-season 3, the opposite of a fix it fic

Summary:

Robin Buckley makes it out of the Starcourt mall. Steve Harrington does not. This is the part that comes after.

Thanks for the rec!

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

Leo's free from the prison dimension and the day is saved. Now that everything has started to settle down again, the scars left from that day are starting to hurt.

Some silly au where Mikey loses an arm because if Raph, Leo and Donnie all get an au where they get dismembered Mikey should get one too

[Tap for better quality please im begging you]

I’ll explore this au more soon but take these for now teehee

Close-ups of the notes as well as the design without them under the cut

Once Upon a Dream - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Forget-Me-Not

Chapter Text

The forget-me-nots bloomed in a perfectly preserved collection, despite the lateness in June. The wildflower was easily maintained and augmented by the fresh hyacinth the sorceress brought daily. It had been no more than a few weeks since the funeral, and still Yennefer could not bring herself to leave this godforsaken place. 

Aretuza remained in ruins on the cliffs of Thanedd. In its current state, it became a stark reminder of what it had always been: a tomb. As macabre as it was, Yennefer knew Tissaia poured everything of herself into the school and would not want to be buried anywhere else. Her grave stood as far out on the cliff as the remaining sorceresses dared to place her with an ornate marble stone marking her final resting place. 

Triss had stopped dragging her inside after the first week of failed attempts. Yennefer spent as much time as she could sitting in the summer grass next to the stone marker. Even the coastal rains couldn’t keep her away. 

Today was no different. 

Yennefer languished against the mound, aimlessly twirling and pulling at the grass as she stared out to sea. Daylight melted into night and she remained. Where else was she to go? Geralt convalesced in Brokilon, Ciri was missing, and Tissaia was…gone. 

She angrily swiped at the stray tears that dared to slip over her cheeks. She could feel the bubbling of chaos under her skin, rearing like a viper ready to strike in response to her anguish. There was none of Tissaia’s touted balance and control to be found. Control was an illusion. An artifice buried with her. 

A choked sob clawed at her throat and the venomous snake of her restraint hissed warningly. 

What was the point of getting her magic back if it was useless to do anything to help her? To do anything to take this pain away? Maybe, in another life, things would have been different. 

Yennefer grit her teeth and the coiled tension snapped. With a shuddering scream, every ounce of grief, each anguished regret, and all of her rage exploded out of her in a catastrophic blast. Wave after wave of chaos poured from her until she felt as hollow as her heart. Her energy fizzled and crackled in the air as her eyesight began to fade. And as she fell, she brokenly observed the crack down the middle of the marble headstone. 

Forget the bottle. Let your chaos explode!

____________________________________________________

“Is she okay?”

“Is anyone a doctor?”

“Someone get her some water, please!”

“Miss, are you okay?”

Yennefer swatted fussing hands away from her neck and cheeks as she would irksome flies. The ground beneath her was hard and brought back a muscle memory she had hoped to never remember. 

“What happened?” She groaned against the graveled sluggishness of her tongue. 

The hands she had pushed away returned to her shoulder and neck, offering support as she began to push herself up. 

Yennefer peeled her eyes open squinted against the glaring sun determined to blind her. 

“You collapsed, likely from the heat.”

The figure assisting her leaned over her in concern, blessedly eclipsing the harshness of the sun. Yennefer blinked away the spots in her vision and her eyes settled on those opposite of her. 

Familiar, crystalline eyes searched her own and Yennefer’s heart stuttered. 

“Tissaia?”

Chapter 5 of "Remember My Name" is Posted!

"Across the Galaxy" was a long time coming, but here it is! TBB season 3 is literally making my heart burst from all the cuteness, and I finally felt inspired to get back to my clone fic :')

I hope y'all enjoy this next addition!

oya Manda!

the way id get back into doing rp simply to play out a kipperbees romance 😳

Guys - what do you say to me bringing Tech back in my fic?

Self Promo Sunday: “Just As Much As I Do”

Notes: This is another little one shot I originally wrote in the summer after Season 3 of OuaT.  Post Season 3 finale, this one is meant to be the very next day, waking up back in the present, the Wicked Witch defeated,and Pirate and Princess maybe - just maybe - stealing a quiet moment or two in the afterglow. Rated T, though the reasons for that are only implied. Title and song lyrics included are from Snow Patrol's "Crack the Shutters", and of course I don't own that lovely song any more than I do OuaT or its characters. Enjoy �� and please leave a review!

Also available on AO3 or ff.net, if that’s more your preference

Summary: The morning after the finale, waking up in his room at Granny's, for Killian Jones, it seems like his wildest dreams have come true magnificently.

“Just As Much As I Do” 

by: @snowbellewells 

Sunlight pours in through sheer white curtains, bathing the small room in golden glow and warming the darkness into hazy morning. As the sun's rays fall across the tangled sheets on the bed and heat the bare skin of a pirate, Killian Jones' eyes ease open, blinking in the sunrise and slowly regaining his bearings.

He rubs a hand over his face and back through his tufted, disheveled hair, confused and disoriented for a moment, not sure how he is once again in his familiar room at Granny's when yesterday he was sitting at a campfire in the Enchanted Forest of his past. Memory filters back to him with the same sort of gilded pleasure as the morning light. 'Emma,' his mind whispers, 'I brought her home.'

Turning from where he sits up in bed, bare to the waist as the sheets pool at his hips, he sees her lying beside him drenched in the wash of gold through the window, that cascade of blond hair lit up as if on fire. She is still fast asleep, splayed out luxuriously on her stomach, pale, flawless back on display for his perusal. As Killian gazes on her, admiration swirling within him, Emma mumbles drowsily and smiles without conscious thought, looking so much more peaceful and satisfied than he believes he has ever seen her while awake. She scoots closer to him, seeking contact in the depths of her slumber.

He reaches out to brush a lock of hair off her shoulder, smoothing it down her back with its fellows and letting his fingertips trail along the graceful path of her spine. That he can touch her at last, after so long – after so much wanting and denial – seems almost a dream. Killian's breath catches for a moment as he wonders whether he is awake at all.

Smiling to himself, he cannot help snuggling back into the mattress, studying every relaxed, glorious inch of Emma Swan while she is still unaware, knowing she would be blushing and trying to hide from such frank adoration, ducking her head self-consciously to avoid his gaze, if she were awake. Somehow he has earned his place beside his golden goddess – and no one or nothing, not even the sun itself gilding her in splendor before his very eyes, can worship her as much as he does.

Crack the shutters, open wide

I wanna bathe you in the light of day

And just watch you as the rays

tangle up around your face and body

I could sit for hours

finding new ways to be awed each minute

'Cause the daylight seems to want you

just as much as I do

The peaceful quiet of morning's first light is broken before he wishes as Emma's cell phone rings from the nightstand of his rented room and stirs her from her slumber. Her hand shoots out blindly to snag the offending object, and she mumbles "Hello?" blearily.

Emma sits up as she listens to the voice on the other end, bringing the sheet to wrap around her body as she does. Killian can tell already that it is someone needing something from either the Sheriff or the Savior, but she doesn't seem to mind the duty settling back onto her shoulders as she has in the past. Instead, she seems pleased, as if she finally knows that this is not a curse or a burden so much as her calling, part of belonging to people and a place of her own at last. She glances at him over her shoulder, a sly smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes; even as she nods and goes back to assuring the person on the line that she will be right there.

Once she has hung up, she glances at him sheepishly. "Back to work," she says with a shrug and that quirk of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Aye, Darling, so it would seem," he replies, reaching out to run his fingers through her hair and pull her in for a quick kiss.

To his surprise, she nuzzles into his touch, eyes closing for a few precious moments, savoring the warm expanding feeling rising in her chest. He half expected her to pull away – push him back and shut him out once again – when she woke this morning. It would seem instead that his Swan has bested him one more time, and his devotion to her only grows.

"No rest for the wicked, as they say," she murmurs affectionately, pulling back with reluctance to stand and begin redressing in the clothes they had shed in such haste the night before.

"And just which one of us are you calling wicked, Lass?" he questions, brow arching and grinning at her in a way that he hopes will sorely try her resolve not to crawl back across the bed and let the dwarves deal with their stolen trash bins on their own.

"Oh, I meant both of us," she teases back, mischief in her expression, "but those lips and that hand of yours leave no doubt where you're concerned."

He laughs, taken so by surprise that he tips his head back with it, a full-bodied, strong chortle. "Oi, Swan, what would you have had me do, you vixen? You were practically begging me!"

She actually giggles, looking so happy and completely pleased with herself that he wishes to keep that expression on her face forever. The flush that colors her cheeks and spreads down her neck to disappear in her shirt is so fetching that Killian is hard pressed not to haul her back into his arms and refuse to let her go.

"Shall I accompany you, Swan?" he offers, moving to get up as well and already scanning for where she had flung his shirt and vest.

"No, you stay put," she says with a hungry glint in her eye. "Go downstairs and have breakfast or something. It shouldn't be long before I can get back here."

"Oh," he smirks, looking terribly proud of himself, "I see. Am I under house arrest because you cannot get your fill of me, Sheriff?"

"More or less," she grins evilly.

"Insatiable minx," he returns, tongue peeking out to brush across his lower lip in a way that sends sparks along her veins and graphic images flashing behind her eyes.

"You've got no one but yourself to blame, Pirate," she throws out, giving him one last playful look before she slips out the door. Inside, her heart is swelling while she marvels at the absence of panic, at the fact that she truly wants to stay in the perfect little cocoon the two of them have created, and yearns to be back with him as soon as possible.

It's been minutes, it's been days

It's been all I will remember

Happy lost in your hair

and the cool side of the pillow

Your hills and valleys

are mapped by my intrepid fingers

And in a naked slumber

I dream all this again…

The next morning dawns in much the same way, and Killian's eyes crack open with the sunrise once more; years ever-alert from life on the high sea never failing to pull him into early wakefulness. He is stunned all over again by his good fortune: Emma is with him still. This time, instead of a sprawl, she is curled up into his chest, head tucked under his chin.

Still reverent as he touches her, almost afraid to shatter the illusion, he lets his fingers ghost over the apples of her cheeks, along the line of her nose, and twine themselves in her hair, cradling the back of her head, his handless arm tucking her even more securely into the shelter of his body, stump gently caressing her lower back. Her sleep seems calm and dreamless, which she had confided in him is new and rare, and Killian dares to believe that he has helped to make it possible. Her presence is soothing to him as well, banishing haunted nightmares he never thought to lose. There are no creases of worry marring her forehead, and the tiniest smile rests on her senseless lips, tilting them upwards in a captivating, if unknowing, manner.

Killian places the softest of kisses to her smooth brow, loving her just as he has ever since she stared deep into his soul in the diner when Storybrooke faced oblivion and offered him a second chance – a way to belong to something, to someone…to her. He had seen it then, desired it so ardently that it has fueled every action he has taken since. The intensity of this love, now that Emma recognizes and even welcomes the power she holds over him, and is even trying to give herself to him in return, is overwhelming in its power.

He simply rests here, ignoring the sun's rays spreading across the covers and attempting to rouse him from the most peaceful moment he has ever known. He has traveled a dark, harrowing road to reach this place and moment in time, searched lifetimes for the feeling of completeness in someone who loves him, who will fight for him as fiercely as he fights for her. He can see the warm wash of light over Emma's skin and appreciation for her steals his breath anew. A vision forms of each new day beginning like this one: the pattern of their future together.

Allowing his eyes to drift closed, Killian gladly disregards the dawning day for staying beside his love a little longer. He does not need the sun's help to adore the sight of Emma in his arms; she is branded on the back of his eyelids and in the depths of his soul, every detail of her safeguarded in his heart.

I could sit for hours

finding new ways to be awed each minute

'Cause the daylight seems to want you

just as much as I want you…

Tagging a few who might enjoy:  @jennjenn615​ @kmomof4​ @searchingwardrobes​ @jrob64​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @laschatzi​ @apiratewhopines​ @spartanguard​ @therooksshiningknight​ @tiganasummertree​ @optomisticgirl​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @xarandomdreamx​ @cosette141​ @stahlop​ @sotangledupinit​ @elizabeethan​ @donteattheappleshook​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @gingerchangeling​ @gingerpolyglot​ @xsajx​ @teamhook​ @revanmeetra87​ @winterbaby89​ @hollyethecurious​ @thislassishooked​ @drowned-dreamer​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @zaharadessert​ @caught-in-the-filter​ @ineffablecolors​ @let-it-raines​ 

Not a choice

This is a prompt I found on Twitter that inspired me to write the scenario where Bellamy is tortured by Jaha (and Kane) instead of Abby in 3x15. Thanks to  @ohsupernaturalI for the inspiration!

When Clarke sees them putting Bellamy on the crate and tying his hands above his head, she feels her heart sinking, her only thought being ‘Not him, God, please not him too.’ Her mom was enough of a struggle and having to see Jaha and ALIE torture him would be too much...she was afraid she’d break.

“It’s okay, Clarke.” he told her as Jaha tore his shirt apart and revealed his chest. That beautiful, warm chest that hid his heart from plain view, his big, stupidly accepting of everyone heart. 

Of course the first words out of his mouth would be ‘It’s okay.’ She’s not surprised, it was just so Bellamy and while he may appear strong, she knew she wouldn’t be.

So she shook her head and looked at Jaha.

“Please, don’t do this.” she begged “He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Yes, he does.” Jaha insisted “He’s the key to everything just like Kane said.” Kane who up until that moment had been ildly staying by the window, not really participating in the torture, moved up in the robotic way ALIE controlled everyone and came by Bellamy’s side. She noticed he furrowed his eyebrows but held his chin high when Kane took out not just the shock baton but a knife too.

“Please, don’t hurt him!” Clarke begged and Bellamy moved his head to hers, calling out her name.

“Hey-” he said as loud as he could “No matter what they do, don’t break, okay?”

“Bellamy, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll be alright.” he insisted and before he could say something else, Jaha nodded at Kane and watched him press the shock baton against his chest. Clarke screamed and tried to free herself of her restrains, pulling as hard as she would and feeling the collar around her neck dig in her skin uncomfortably.

“Don’t stop, Kane.” Jaha instructed as he came by Clarke’s side while she screamed and watched Kane repeatedly shock lash Bellamy, five or six times in a row without a break. He tried not to scream but his back arched and his legs buckled, making him fall off the crate and leaving him hanging a little above the ground without anything to support him under. 

“Please, he’s innocent.”

“No, he isn’t.” Jaha whispered back at her “If anything, it shouldn’t be as hard for you to watch him die-he did help Pike, he was involved in the massacre. I wonder...” he took a turn around her and rested his chin against her shoulder, whispering in her ear in the most sickening way possible “How is it that you couldn’t stand him when you first landed but now you’re willing to break just so you wouldn’t have to watch him die?”

“KANE, PLEASE, STOP!” she begged when Kane picked up the knife and made two identical big slices on both his sides, right under his heart and over his ribs. They were deep because the blood tickled down his stomach and painted his body red immideately. Bellamy coughed and tried to fight back, move his legs up and hit Kane in the chest. She wanted to smile-he’d never go down without a fight.

But then again Kane was faster and so was ALIE, she could predict their moves, she could break her...she would.

Kane pressed the shock baton not just against his heart but really close to the cut he’s made again and Bellamy screamed this time.

He hadn’t been fast enough. He wanted to bite it back, keep himself together, but he couldn’t do it.

It just hurt too much.

“Please, Jaha, please....I’m begging you, don’t kill him!”

“What’s the passphrase, Clarke?”

“I don’t know...I never knew!”

“Liar!” he yelled back and nodded at Kane, who now didn’t just make a cut, but instead shoved his knife between Bellamy’s ribs, making him squirm again. 

“STOP! Please, please-”

“Clarke, DON”T!” he managed, biting back his pain in favor of talking to her. She noticed he spilled blood, though. “Don’t. He’s right. I deserve it. This way...I’ll free you...and my sister. Just tell him.”

“He’s right, Clarke.” Jaha whispered in her ear and Clarke felt the anger bubble in her. She turned around and knocked Jaha’s forehead against hers. It hurt like hell but she wanted to make him shut up and give her the time to talk.

“Bellamy, I need you to stay with me! Don’t give up!” she yelled back while Jaha was distracted. Bellamy’s eyes that were half-closed, opened up and he smiled at her just as Kane picked up the knife again and shoved it up in his shoulder this time. He screamed once more and it was a sound so horrible, it made her heart stop.

“One last chance, Clarke-” Jaha, who hadn’t felt the effects of her hit, stood before her, leaning in, pressing her hard against the pole she was tightly put to. “Or the next one will be his heart.”

“I can’t...I can’t.” she cried out and bowed her head down. What should she do? If she told them the passphrase, they’d free Bellamy but ALIE would win. If she didn’t...she had to watch him die and the moment the thought passed through her brain, she knew she couldn’t do it.

She wouldn’t be able to take on that suffering.

She couldn’t lose Bellamy Blake.

So she moved her head up and met Jaha’s eyes as she felt the tears roll down her cheeks. Bellamy was hanging limply behind Kane, now possibly passed out while the former chancellor was holding the knife, getting ready to strike again.

“Clarke-” she thought she heard him say. So he was still here with her, sitll conscious. She moved her head, so she could look at him. He used all his effort to lift his head up from where it was pressed against his chest and despite being at a fair distance from her, she saw the warmth in his beautiful brown eyes.

It was that-the love he carried, the compassion, his big heart. That was what was worth living for, worht dying for too-Bellamy Blake may have made many mistakes in his life but his love was bigger than the ocean. He gave his heart out willingly, without a question or expectation. He came to the ground for his sister but adopted a hundreth kids, then went in and risk his life for them in a mountain and did his best to protect them under the horrible circumstances they were put in. If ALIE tapped into people’s minds by using a chip, Bellamy snuck into people’s lives by willingly giving parts of his heart away without expecting them to come back to him.

He broke himself open for those around him without caring if he’d have nothing left in the end.

That was what made Clarke love him. It’s also what made her decision.

“Fine.” she agreed as she pushed her back against the pole “I’ll tell you the passphrase. I’ll take your chip.”

“Clarke, no!” Bellamy tried wekly but Kane simply picked up the shock baton and pressed it against his chest, this time leaving it there longer and making him scream and pass out, hanging on his arms.

A few more tears ran down her cheeks but she tried to compose herself.

“But I won’t do it unless you stop torturing him.”

“Kane, you can move away now!” Jaha ordered and just like before, Kane’s body went a little limp and he walked back robotically to the window, where he rest his back against the wall and let his head bowl down to his chest. 

Clarke watched Bellamy’s body hang lifelessly from the ropes, swinging left and right just a bit. She wasn’t certain she could see his chest rising and that scared her. 

“Let me see him first, make sure he’s alright.”

“That won’t work.” Jaha said and picked up the chip from a small metal bowl “It’s time to put your words to actions, Clarke.” he insisted and Clarke took a deep breath as she closed her eyes and opened her mouth.

She knew this was wrong, that she was about to forget everyone she ever loved-her dad, Finn, Lexa, maybe even what has happened to Bellamy now. It all flashed before her eyes-his smile, his soft hug, the way he sent her off at those gates after mount weather, how he begged her to come home after...all of it. 

And just when she was about to lose it all, there was a loud bang, the main doors to the left opened up and Murphy, Indra, Octavia, Miller and the others came rushing in, shooting at Jaha and Kane, fighting them down and knocking them off before they could react.

She had never been more relieved in her life.

“Bellamy!” she shouted and found Octavia’s eyes just as they were untying her from the poll “We need to take him down, he’s really hurt. Kane stabbed him and shocklashed him.” despite the anger his sister surely fell for him, Octavia was scared and Clarke noticed it because she got there and cut down the rope before Clarke could run to him.

Miller softened his fall and lifted his head up in his lap while Clarke screamed for bandages.

There was a lot of blood and the burns from the shocklashes would surely leave a mark. She quickly tried to assess the damage as she ordered the others to put pressure on the knife stabs while she checked for pulse and leaned in to listen to his breathing which she found shallow and unstable.

“We need to get him to a bed, there’s a room adjacent to this one. I’ll need hot water, moonshine and lots of bandages. Get me a needle and a thread from somewhere too.” she shouted orders as Miller and Monty carefully lift him up and started carrying him away. 

“Clarke, wait-” Octavia stopped her “You need to take care of yourself too.”

“I’m fine.” she cut him off “He lost too much blood, I need to take care of his wounds. You can stay behind if you want to.” she suggested, knowing that Octavia was the one to put the scars on his face after Lincoln’s death. 

“No...” her voice was weak now, different. In a way Clarke hadn’t heard before “I want to help you.” she stated and Clarke simply nodded, but made a note to herself to keep a close eye on her.

Once they were in the room and he was placed down, Clarke focused and started working through the wounds. Thankfully the cuts were easy to close but the stab wound in his shoulder, the one above his heart was really deep. Kane had twisted the knife and she was afraid he could’ve left permanent damage to his nerves but hoped she would end up being wrong. The shocklashing exhausted his body, made him burn with fever and she found not one but two broken ribs on the left as well as multiple other bruises that could’ve came from Kane who also hit him in between the knife torture but some seemed a bit old and judging by the guilty look on Octavia’s face were probably her fault.

She bandaged him as best as she could but worried most about infection. They had no sea weed, no medicine-being too far away from home put his life at risk.

“Will he be okay?” Octavia asked when Clarke was done and threw over one of the pelts from the bed over his trembling body.

“I didn’t think you cared.”

“Of course, I do, he’s my brother.” Clarke didn’t believe those words. She couldn’t accept the fact that someone would hurt their family the way Octavia had, that she would lay a hand on the brother who sway her in his arms and told her stories of Greek gods and brave princesses.

“He needs to be observed. I’ll stay with him tonight. You should go get rest.” Octavia simply nodded, taking the hint but lingering by the door before she left.

“Thank you, Clarke.” she finally said.

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for him.” she whispered back remembering of speaking those same words to the older Blake not so long ago.

Once alone, Clarke finally relaxed and rest her back on the chair. It’d be a while before he woke up but that didn’t mean she would ever leave his side. She changed his bandages and pressed a cold cloth against his head, while he went through his delusional feverish state which involved to her surprise him speaking out her name more than once.

“I’m here.” she promised whenever he tried to reach out to her “I’m right here, Bellamy.” he mumbled something and smiled a little but only calmed down when she leaned over and kissed his forehead.

He finally woke up at down, finding her asleep on the uncomfortable chair next to him. He looked down at his broken body and felt all the pain rushing in but he choked it down and tugged her wrist.

“Clarke-” he said and she immideately jumped up which made him furrow his eyebrows-she wasn’t even resting properly.

“Hey!” she greeted him and when he tried to move up on the pillows she immideately pushed him back “Don’t think about it. You’re not moving from this bed for a while.”

“You...you saved me?” he croaked out after she gave him some water and adjusted the pillows behind him. “You chose me.”

“It wasn’t really a choice.” she said back and leaned over to press her lips against his forehead again. When she pulled back, she looked into those same beautiful brown eyes and felt love pouring not just from him and his heart but from her own too.

She smiled and when he tugged her down and looked at the pillow beside him, suggesting she took that place, she didn’t fight it, not because she couldn’t.

She just didn’t want to.

Peppy— Peppy look out!! Oh shit they can’t hear us he has his AirPods in

@saltydkart-reblogs

A Promise of Sunshine by rajumat

Word count: 20,459 (complete) / 1/1 Rating: M

Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson & Steve Harrington's Mother

Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington's Mother

Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmates share injuries, Season 3 AU, Canon Typical Violence, Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Soulmates to Idiots to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Russian violence but make it worse, Steve Harrington can have one good parent, as a treat, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Small appearances from other Party members, Hurt Steve Harrington, Hurt Eddie Munson, Steddie Big Bang 2023 (Stranger Things)

Summary:

Eddie had always expected that he would find his soulmate through the snap of a broken guitar string, or the needle burn of his tattoos. Instead, Billy Hargrove breaks a plate over Steve’s Harrington’s head and Eddie finds himself tied to a boy he knows only through the lens of the high school hierarchies.

Almost a year later, Eddie has spent time learning everything he can about Steve - the way he thinks, the things that send him into a panic he can't - or won't - explain, the look in his eyes before he says something heinously bitchy and devastatingly funny. He and Uncle Wayne have found themselves permanent seats at Victoria Harrington’s Sunday Dinners, and Eddie can almost ignore the rabbit pace of his heart when Steve smiles at him.

Except that Steve has gone missing, had bailed on their plans for the Fourth of July weekend without a word and this would be fine, really, except…

Eddie’s getting bruises that aren’t his own and Victoria hasn’t seen her son in days.

While Eddie's injuries get steadily worse, he and Victoria scramble across town to try and find Steve and save him from whatever nightmare situation he landed in before it’s too late.

Project 040 of the Steddie Big Bang 2023!

Soup of Life

A canon-divergent outlander fix-it fic

Fate has decided to be kind to Jamie Fraser for once in his life and intervene in yet another terrible moment in his life. All of the infinite possibilities of the universe through reincarnation and microorganisms can sway the cosmos onto the right path.

Read on AO3

me, adding FIONA 'FI' PHILLIPS? believe it, babey !

Victor is such an interesting character to me and I don’t ever know if I can fully put into words on how complex he truly is.

But his quest for immortality is something that I can’t just help but feel more sympathetic towards to, because I don’t think it’s truly something he wanted of his own accord as a child. His father was a cruel and unfair man, constantly threatening to disown his son for not wanting to grow up too soon; for not spending his life to pursue immortality. And it’s just so saddening to see that flashback because Victor was happy, he was friends with Sarah and her parents were kind to him! But he couldn’t have that due to his father’s influence and he was cruel to Sarah because of that.

Even when she did forgive him, Victor still saw that moment between him and Sarah as an opportunity to interrogate her over the cup— but yet he realised it was too late to fix things after she died. Quietly attending her funeral and reminiscing while looking at a painting of her.

And at the end of season two where Nina passes on his father’s message and gives him the ring, seeing Victor sit there and silently grieve his lost childhood and process his father’s last words— the dawning realisation that his quest for immortality was over. There wasn’t anything else at this point.

His father was a coward, apologising when it was far too late and yet also continued to blame him even after his passing.

I think that’s why he’s practically unhinged in season three, he’s desperate to complete a quest that has been going on for far too long, kidnapping students and threatening them— but his desperation is his hubris and that’s what seals his fate when he becomes a sinner.

Man,,, something about seeking immortality is just so saddening because not only you lose everything around you, but you lose yourself too.