#so much angst

[badookie]

Is there a name for the phase in every fandom where we put them in a Pacific Rim AU?

Anyway, Pacific Rims your Jayvik! >:) Their Jaeger is called "Hammer Time"

[ash-and-fog]

I love making myself cry :D

[moss-in-my-shoes]

i absolutely loved the prison au you wrote!! i would love to see more if you’re interested! maybe something with reader temporarily getting thrown into solitary confinement after being blamed for something they did not do? no worries if you aren’t comfortable writing that scenario bc i know it’s a bit more intense! hope you’re having a wonderful day and thank you for feeding us with such lovely writing 🫶

The Garden of Prisoners: Part 3

UGGGGH ANON I LOVE SOME ANGST YESSS

Thank you for the kind words! It’s always appreciated! Thank you all for being so kind and supportive, I’m having a lot of fun and I’m glad people enjoy what I’m putting out!

Project Hail Mary x Iron lung X reader (platonic!)

Spoilers for Project Hail Mary and Iron Lung so be aware!

TW: Heavy angst, PTSD, references back to abusive situations, light starvation, violence, death, blood/injury.

MDNI

Masterlist Here!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

—

It was any ordinary day in prison, or as ordinary a day in prison could be. You were busy sewing up a blanket for Grace, extra thread pinched between your teeth as you used a handmade needle to close the tear.

You weren’t one to cause trouble, simply trying to survive in a place where people died daily from violence or starvation. You were lucky to be under the protection of some of the most feared and intimidating people there, kept safe just by association.

That didn’t stop jealousy.

“Inmate!” You flinched, dropping your tools on your bed as three guards bullied themselves into the room, grabbing you by the arms and slamming you face-first into the cold floor. You choked on spit as pain reverberated throughout your body, arms harshly pulled behind your back and cuffed.

“What the fuck?! What gives?!” You were manhandled onto your feet, unanswered. You thrashed as you were dragged from the room and down the stairs, watching people stare in shock, confused on what you- the most behaved inmate- could have possibly done to invoke the authority of the guards. Your scared eyes locked with Simon’s as they filled with poorly-contained rage, only for a moment before you were pushed in the direction of solitary confinement. It felt like the floor was pulled out from under you, cuffs removed and shoved into a room as small as a closet. The door slammed before you could ask anymore questions.

You panted, lungs heaving as you scrambled for the door covered in dents and scratch marks. You almost slipped on slightly wet blood that stained the floor, pounding on the metal frantically, “hey!! Let me out! I didn’t do anything!!” No one heard you. No one came.

You sunk to the floor as panic seized you, pulling you down until you were curled up and squeezed into the furthest corner from the door. It felt claustrophobic and small, like the walls were slowly closing in, about to crush you and end your tragically young life.

You tried to remember the breathing exercises Grace taught you, but it was like your mind was scrambled, thoughts sporadic and all over the place. What did you do?? You never caused any trouble for anybody! You kept to yourself, listened to the guards, never caused fights, what happened??

You tangled your fingers into your clothes, making yourself smaller.

The walls were closing in.

You couldn’t breathe.

—

“Where’d you take them?!” Simon got up in one of the guard’s faces when they walked back into the common area, snarling through his teeth. The guard shoved him back, aiming the equivalent of a stun gun at him, “back up. That’s none of your concern.”

“None of my concern?! Tell me where-“ a firm hand gently pulled Simon back, Adrian’s smooth voice breaking the tension, “so sorry, I’ll handle him.” Simon grunted, but let himself be brought back to the table, hands shaking as he clenched and unclenched them. Adrian pushed him to sit, opening the handmade notebook they traded for a while back, “I think I know what happened.”

“You don’t seem too upset about this..” Grace kept anxiously looking at where they’d dragged you, like you’d be back any second now, but he knew deep down that wasn’t going to happen. Adrian scoffed, slamming their notebook down, “oh. I’m enraged. Trust me.” They pointed at a sketch, one of an inmate that’d been there for about a month. He was a little younger, brown hair that he kept tied up high, a shit eating grin on at all times, acted like he owned the place.

“You have sketches of every inmate?” Grace grumbled, staring at the skilled sketches in awe. Adrian nodded, “Yes, but not the point. He’s been eyeing [Name] since he got here, I think he set them up.”

“What?!” Simon stood up again, rattling the table as his knees hit the bottom of it. Rocky sighed and pulled the man back down, wrapping an arm around him, “Simon is angry angry angry. Needs to breathe, statement.”

“Go breathe yourself.” Simon snarked, earning himself a smack in the back of the head. Adrian and Grace both rolled their eyes, looking back at the sketch, “what do you think he did exactly?”

“[Name] was on lunch duty yesterday, I heard some of the equipment was destroyed. He-“ Adrian pointed at the sketch again, “was on lunch duty with them, so I think he did it, blamed [Name], got away with it.”

“Why would he do that?? [Name] doesn’t even know him.” Adrian clicked their tongue, “to get to us. Probably thinks if he cuts out [Name], he can swoop in and take their place.”

Grace’s expression darkened, bringing a hand up in thought, “anything we do wouldn’t stop him from harassing [Name]- unless we killed him. I don’t think that’s preferable right now.”

“It’s preferable. Statement.” Rocky tilted his head away, scanning the room until he saw the inmate Adrian had sketched. His eyes locked with Rocky’s, a shit-eating grin splitting out across his face before turning back to the conversation at his own table. Rocky didn’t like that, glaring at the back of the guy’s head like he could blow him up with his mind.

—

“I said I’m sorry!!” You screeched, thirteen years old, kicking and punching at your older brother as he dragged you by the front of your shirt. Your dad may have been the dictator who ran the house, but your eldest brother dueled out most of the punishments. Despite your begging, he didn’t respond, stone-faced and stoic like always, ignoring your tears and cries.

Your breaths quickened as he opened the closet inside your dingy home, tossing you inside with little care before slamming the door shut. He placed a metal staff underneath the doorknob and kicked it tightly into place, keeping you locked inside until he decided you could come out.

You banged on the door and screamed for your dad, your siblings, anybody and everybody. You prayed to gods that never heard your pleas and a universe that had long died out. You starved and grew weary as days passed by, convinced you’d die in that closet with the mold and the dust.

Your younger brother had opened the door on the fourth day, yelling out in a panic at your almost lifeless body on the ground. You were curled up in the furthest corner from the door, vomit staining the front of your clothes and holding yourself like it could keep you safe.

Your eldest brother had forgotten he’d put you in there after you grew silent, anxiously waiting for someone to let you out and end your punishment. You hadn’t eaten, drank anything, bathed, disgusting and dying.

He never apologized.

You ran away three months later. You heard that he looked for you, people told you that he cared, but you don’t put your loved ones in boxes to make them comply.

—

Adrian had a plan, they always did.

The inmate who’d framed you wasn’t well liked, seen as snarky and incompetent, wearing a mask of cunning intelligence. He talked over people, said terrible things under his breath and blamed people for getting upset, and had just sealed his fate by targeting the prison’s youngest (and most well liked) inmate.

Adrian didn’t have to do much, just clear up what had happened to one person, then let the dominos fall.

Adrian told Grace what to say and he offhandedly mentioned it at his next class, watching the faces around him morph into anger and disdain. Those inmates told their bunk mates, they told the people they sat with in the common area, eventually reaching every person who took up a bunk.

What Adrian hadn’t expected was how the guards heard, probably someone not following protocol as they should, but it worked in their favor when the inmate (after being beaten near death) was dragged off to his own solitary confinement.

They just had to see if you’d be released early. Adrian hoped you would. They all did.

—

The door opened, light spilling into the dark room from the hallway. Guards, much gentler than before, cuffed you and led you back to the common area in the prison. You were hungry, a bit gross, definitely dehydrated, but you were alive.

Grace shot up from where he was sitting the second he saw you, pulling you into his arms of swamped fabrics before the guards could properly undo your restraints. They had to push the blonde away with threats of his own solitary confinement just to get him off you. Once you were free, he ushered you to the room, helping you clean up and sending Rocky to grab food and water.

Adrain sat at the end of your bed, frowning at the troubled look in your eyes, “Is there anything you need?” They brushed the back of their knuckles against your face, heart squeezing as you leant into the sensation, “I was..wasn’t there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I-I was there physically, but in my head it was like I had gone back in time. I wasn’t with you guys or in the prison, I was trapped at home again.” You whined a tragic sound, pressing your palm to your mouth to stifle it, “I was so confused, scared that this- meeting you guys- had all just been some sick fantasy my brain came up with to keep me sane. Is this fake? Is this real?” Adrian pressed their forehead to yours, attempting to calm you before you could spiral, “This is real.”

Rocky seated himself beside you, wrapping his strong arms around your shoulders to pull you in close, “Adrian took care of it. Statement.”

“Took care of what?”

“Not important. Adrain took care of it.”

“Huh??” You had a feeling they weren’t going to elaborate, despite the festering curiosity. Rocky pulled you down to nap, tangling a hand into your clothes, almost like he was convincing himself that you were really there.

Adrian leant back against the wall, the two refusing to leave.

It didn’t matter because you didn’t want them to leave, closing your eyes and letting your body rest. It was easy now, especially when you knew you were safe.

—

That’s it for now! Hope you enjoyed! Stay safe and have a nice day!

- Moss Man

[damnamour]

I BASTARDI DI PIZZOFALCONE ― Season 2

[bridgekc]

sorry for the slow posts, my wrist does NOT appreciate a college work load of art projects 🥲

but anyways here’s an absolutely DESPICABLE line from a fic i read the other day

like i asked for hurt/comfort, not shatter my heart to pieces

[artbymeow]

Eyes are the window to the soul

[thestoryteller-thedreamer]

So we know that both Nya and Jay were dropped into the Land of Madness, right?

What if they arrived together? Both of them flung through time and space but still somehow united despite it all, clinging to each other as the Merge rips and restitches the universe together.

And then they crash into the Land of Madness, where the Administration, for whatever reason, separates Nya and Jay, taking his memories and leaves her to fend for herself.

When Lloyd asks about her adventures, Nya only says that a lot happened and doesn't get into the details. So there is a lot of room left to fill in the gaps.

Maybe the agents tried to erase Nya's memories too, but after Seabound, her mind doesn't work the same way, or she's learned to cling tightly to her memories, and the machine wouldn't work. So instead she was trapped in the Administration for a while, so close to Jay without knowing he was only a few cubicles over?

Or maybe the agents did manage erase Nya's memories, but only the bit about landing with Jay, before releasing her into the Land of Madness. She was just the casualty for getting Jay into their weird bureaucracy.

But it really does pose the question- why did the agents want Jay so badly?

[xechowritesx]

centerfold || three

summary → Stuck in the Upside Down, Steve and Dustin are forced to confront all the things they've been choking down since Eddie died and you left. And it gets ugly. Little do they know, you're making your away across the country to come home to them. (Steve Harrington x Henderson! Reader, Dual POV).

word count → 2.5K ( I know this one's lengthy, but it's so worth it!)

warnings → 18+ (MDNI), emotional angst, grief, verbal conflict, physical altercation, guilt, mutual pining, references to character death (RIP Eddie, you deserved better), canon-typical violence/danger, heavy trauma.

notes → This chapter HURT to write, y'all! But I love it so much, I'm posting a little early! I think my favorite part of this series has been incorporating canon, and turning it into something new. Thank you so much for all the love so far, on this series, on my drabbles, etc. As always, feedback is loved & appreciated! New chapters every Friday ♡

previous chapters → prologue. one. two.

series masterlist → here.

November 5, 1987. 2:30 AM. Hawkins National Laboratory — The Upside Down

This was not part of the plan.

In fact, Steve had lost track of what was part of the plan sometime between kidnapping the Turnbows and chasing a Demogorgon straight into hell. Everything after that blurred together into a frantic sequence of bad calls and worse instincts, burning rubber through a portal, the Beamer screaming in protest, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might split him open.

Now he was here, trudging through the rotting remains of Hawkins National Laboratory, following Dustin down a corridor that smelled like mold and something coppery and wrong. Dustin was rambling about forcefields and containment thresholds and some half-cooked Star Wars metaphor Steve didn't have the energy to parse.

Steve is tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that makes his thoughts sharp-edged and his patience nonexistent.

And the tension with Dustin has grown into an ugly, living thing.

Dustin stops at the entrance to what looks like an old daycare room, rainbows painted in looping arcs across the walls. Bright once, now dulled and peeling, warped by the Upside Down’s rot. Melted toys litter the linoleum floor like casualties. The room is obscene, in a quiet way. 

Dustin’s shoulders are tight, his posture slumped. He’s trying to look stubborn and failing. 

“You would just love that, wouldn’t you?” Dustin snaps without turning around. “If this theory doesn’t pan out.”

Steve scoffs, folding his arms casually over his chest. “I’m just stating a fact. I think you got it wrong, Henderson.”

“No.” Dustin retorts. “You’re gloating. And if I’m wrong, we don’t get past the wall, and we don’t find Holly or the other kids.” His voice cracks. “Do you understand how gross—how selfish—you’re being?”

Steve feels something unpleasant coil in his chest. “Me? Selfish? You want to talk about selfish?”

The Upside Down breathes around them.

“How about the fact that when we finally reached Hopp and El, we ditched them to chase this bullshit theory of yours?” Steve presses, heat creeping into his voice. “Or the fact that we lost contact with them in the first place because you didn’t show up to the crawl? This whole mess is on you—and I haven’t heard so much as a sorry yet.”

Dustin flinches, hands slapping hard against his sides. “Shit, I was attacked, Steve. It’s not like I just blew it off.”

“No,” Steve snaps, anger sharpening his words. “You wanted a fight, and you got one. Look at your face, man. You’ve done stupid shit before, but this? This takes the cake.”

“You want to talk about dumb shit? How about pining after my sister like an idiot while the world is literally ending?” Dustin turns on him, eyes blazing. 

The words hit Steve square in the chest. For half a second, his mind blanks. Then instinct kicks in, ugly and defensive.

“Y/N is a friend.” He says tightly. “She’s a just a really good friend. You remember what that’s like? Having friends?”

“Yeah. I remember having real friends. The kind who believed in me. Who were actually kind to me.” Dustin’s laugh comes out broken, his eyes brimming with tears.

Something in Steve’s chest twists hard enough to hurt.

“Ah-ha! There it is,” Steve barks, lashing out before he can stop himself. “That’s what this is really about. Eddie. And Y/N.”

Dustin stiffens. “Steve, don’t—”

“All this shit? Pushing everyone away?” Steve continues, voice echoing off the rainbow-painted walls. “It’s all because no one could ever be as perfect as Eddie. No one could ever be as smart as Y/N.”

“That’s not—”

“Well if I’m such a goddamn idiot,” Steve snaps, the words spilling out before he could swallow them back, “how come I’m the only one still standing here?”

The room goes still.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dustin asks.

“That night, I told you not to be heroes. I told all three of you. And what did Eddie do? He charged into a swarm of killer bats.” Steve’s entire body buzzes with anger, grief, guilt. Frankly, too many emotions to identify.

“To save my life! To save Y/N’s life!” Dustin is shouting now, his voice cracking painfully. 

“He saved no one.” Steve spits back, the venom of his own words bitter on his tongue. 

“He saved everyone!” Dustin screams louder now, pointing an accusatory finger at Steve. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Henderson. Deep down, the reason you’re so god damned pissed is because you know the truth.” Steve half-whispers. “You think surviving makes you special? Like because you’re still here, everyone else just made the wrong choices?” Dustin queries in disbelief.

“That’s not what I said,” Steve shoots back, even as the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

“It’s exactly what you said,” Dustin pushes. “You’re acting like you’re better because you didn’t fall apart. Because you didn’t leave.”

“I didn’t have that option.”

“Yes, you did,” Dustin snaps. “You always do. You just don’t take it.”

Steve steps forward on instinct, the space between them tight with something volatile. “Careful.”

“No,” Dustin shouts, eyes blazing. “You be careful. Because you don’t get to act like Eddie was inevitable. Like Y/N leaving was inevitable.”

“Dustin, man, that’s not—”

“Eddie didn’t die because he was stupid,” Dustin cuts in, voice breaking through Steve’s interruption. “He died saving me. He died saving Y/N. He went into that swarm of bats, fearless and determined, because he knew that was the only way to keep us alive.”

The words land like blunt force trauma.

“And Y/N didn’t just disappear,” Dustin continues, relentless now, “Y/N left because everything here broke. Because Eddie died. Because I shut people out.” His voice wavers. “And because you stood there and let it happen.”

Steve freezes.

“Y/N needed someone to tell her to stay.” Dustin says, tears spilling freely. “Someone to say it mattered. That she mattered.”

Steve opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“And Eddie?” Dustin whispered. “Eddie didn’t have to die.”

“Dustin.”

“You could’ve stopped him.” Dustin’s word sound like an accusation that Steve is entirely unprepared for. “You could’ve told him not to act as bait. You could’ve pulled him back.”

Steve’s chest feels too tight to breathe. Adrenaline surges and pumps through him, painfully.

“You could’ve stopped Eddie from dying.” Dustin says quietly. “And you could’ve stopped Y/N from leaving.”

Silence forms thick and suffocating between them. The rainbows on the walls suddenly feel out of place. 

The words hang between them.

You could’ve stopped Eddie from dying. You could've stopped Y/N from leaving.

Steve feels it like a hook under his ribs. He doesn’t answer. He can’t. If he opens his mouth now, something worse than anger will come out, something fragile and damning and far too close to the truth.

Dustin takes one step closer. “Say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” Steve laughs, sharp and empty.

“I want you to admit it!” Dustin snaps. “That you didn’t even try!”

That does it. Steve shoves Dustin. Not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough to make a point. Dustin stumbles back, eyes flashing, fury overtaking grief in an instant. 

“Don’t touch me.”

“Then stop running your mouth,” Steve snarls.

Dustin lunges.

The impact is messy and graceless, years of trust and resentment colliding in a burst of motion. They crash into the wall, toys clattering to the floor, fists swinging without strategy or restraint. Steve catches a blow to the jaw, the jolt rattling his teeth. He barely feels it.

All he feels is the heat.

The pressure.

The need to make it stop.

They grapple, slipping on cracked linoleum, Dustin landing a hit to Steve’s ribs that knocks the breath from his lungs. Steve responds on instinct, shoving him back again, harder this time.

“Get up!” Dustin yells, voice breaking. “Fight me!”

And Steve does.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But anger is easier than grief, and pain is easier than guilt, and anything is better than standing still with that sentence echoing in his head.

You could’ve stopped Y/N from leaving.

Steve swings again, jaw clenched, mind screaming at him to not think about it. Not think about the airport. Not think about the way you had looked at him when you left. Not think about how easy it would’ve been to say stay, or how terrifying it felt to realize you might have listened.

He doesn’t want to think about that. He can’t.

Dustin shoves him back once more, both of them breathing hard now, blood at the corner of Dustin’s mouth, Steve’s knuckles throbbing.

They stop only when there’s nothing left to throw.

Silence settles again, heavier than before. Steve straightens slowly, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the floor. His hands are shaking. Not from the fight. From the truth he’s refusing to touch.

Because if Dustin’s right, if he really could’ve stopped you from leaving, then this isn’t just bad luck or bad timing or another loss Hawkins demanded.

It’s on him.

And Steve Harrington doesn’t know how to live with that yet.

So he turns away.

Lets the anger burn a little longer.

And pretends, just for now, that some things are still out of his control. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

November 6, 1987. 6:58 AM. Indianapolis International Airport — Indianapolis, Indiana

The soft ding of the in-flight announcement systems pulls you from your thoughts.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve begun our final descent into Indianapolis International Airport. The local time is 6:58 AM, and the temperature is a chilly forty-three degrees. I hope you packed coats!”

A shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with what lies ahead.

“Please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop. When opening the overhead compartments, please use caution, as items may have shifted during the flight.”

Your forehead stays pressed to the small airplane window as the familiar patchwork of Indiana comes into view. Your heart twists, your stomach heavy with anticipation.

“On behalf of the captain and crew, thank you for flying with American Airlines. We wish you a safe journey to your final destination.”

Your final destination. 

Hawkins.

Despite the exhaustion and panic thrumming through you, you keep your expression calm. You move on autopilot, body running on muscle memory and dread.

You gather your belongings, tug on Steve’s old hoodie, and begin exiting the plane. All the while, your mind drifts to the journey that lies ahead. You quickly shove back the thoughts of all the obstacles that you’ll undoubtedly face, choosing to focus instead on the relief of finally being reunited with the people you love the most.  

The scent of stale coffee, jet fuel, and industrial cleaner immediately stings your nose as you half-stumble out of the narrow jet bridge and into the terminal. You’ve been awake for close to twenty-four hours at this point, your body running on nothing but adrenaline and the kind of dread that keeps your heart hammering even when your limbs feel like lead. The terminal lights are too bright, the announcements too loud.

Every sound feels like a reminder that the world is still turning while Hawkins burns.

Your backpack cuts into your shoulder as you speed walk toward baggage claim. Your pager feels heavier than it has any right to, a constant weight against your hip. It sits, silently, reduced to a useless piece of plastic that hasn’t provided any news. 

You find Dr. Owens near the edge of baggage claim 4, posture rigid, eyes scanning the crowd with military precision. He looks older than you remember. More tired. Like the last eighteen months have hollowed him out in the same way they have everyone else.

“You made it.” He says quietly when he spots you, relief flickering across his features before it’s tucked away.

“Barely.” You admit. Your voice sounds wrong to your own ears, flat with exhaustion. “I was half-convinced I was going to fall asleep standing up waiting for my connecting flight in Denver.”

Owens gives a tight nod. “Well, I’m glad you’re upright.” He pauses. “Why don’t you take a minute to freshen up? We’re heading straight to Hawkins from here.” 

“I’ll only be a second.” You promise, half-jogging toward the nearest bathroom. 

You use the opportunity to splash some water on your face and change into a fresh set of clothes. You keep Steve’s hoodie, though, because it feels like a tether to what this is all for. You tell yourself that’s the only reason why. 

You meet Owns again by the exit, the late afternoon light washing over the terminal windows. The world outside looked painfully normal. 

Too normal.

You walk in comfortable silence until you reach the rental car.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Owens says, as he unlocks the door, “this is all really delicate.”

You let out a weak laugh. “That seems to be the theme.”

He glances at you as he finishes loading your belongings into the trunk.  

“You’ll be going in under the guise of a biomedical engineering intern. Emergency federal support for Hawkins Memorial, with a start date of this upcoming Monday, November 9th. Your Stanford credentials and your knowledge in the field will get you in the door. Your clearance will come from me.”

“What about Kay? And the military?” You ask. 

“They won’t know the difference unless they look too closely. Which is why you cannot give them a reason to.” Owens says simply, as if the notion isn’t absolutely terrifying. 

“And if they do?” You ask, swallowing dryly. 

“Then I won’t be able to protect you.” He says plainly. “I’ve been entirely removed from this operation. I have no pull, no weight. This is the best I can do. And, once you cross that perimeter, I can’t promise I’ll get you back out.”

You stare at the concrete beneath your feet, at the oil stains and cracks in the pavement. At the invisible line you were about to cross.

“That’s totally fine.” You reassure him, and you actually mean it. “You’ve done so much already.” 

Owens studies you for a long moment. “This isn’t just about helping, is it?”

You think about Dustin’s voice breaking over the phone, about Steve sounding like he was holding himself together with duct tape and stubbornness, about Hawkins cracking open and bleeding into the world again.

“No.” You admit, both to Owens and to yourself. “It’s not.”

“All right. We leave in ten.” Owens nods, offering you a gentle smile. 

You slide into the passenger seat, body sagging into the seat the second the door shuts. The exhaustion finally catches up with you, pressing heavy against your ribs.

As the car pulls out of the airport lot, you watch Indianapolis blur past the window.