#canon mcd

There’s absolute silence for a few seconds, and then there’s this broken and wounded sound. Eddie bolts up in bed, heart racing in his chest, “Buck?” “H-he’s…he’s…” Buck chokes out another sob. He sounds like…well, like he’s dying.

OR: Eddie finds out.

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Decisions

It’s just past midnight so I can post this before going to bed!

@febuwhump day 2: Holding Back the Tears

Warning: Potential MCD, CPR

~

She was standing at the window, looking out over the back yard where he assumed Gordon and Alan were splashing in the pool while Scott supervised and Virgil pretended to be meditating on what he would paint next but was fooling no one with his snores…

John couldn’t see her face but he knew his Mom would be smiling while the bowl on her hip was furiously whisked. He leaned against the door frame and continued watching.

The light was on the side of her hair so that one side looked almost fiery red with golden highlights while the other stayed a little duller, the loose curls bobbing in time to the beating whisk.

Mom was dressed as always – a simple combination of slacks and blouse with a bright emerald scarf tied around her head to keep her hair out of her eyes. Upon her feet were the mismatched house socks she favoured – never the same together in a way that used to make John’s OCD itch but now made him smile sadly.

Something outside made her laugh and she turned as she put the bowl down, catching sight of him and grinning at him.

Written/set the day before the end of the war. @lyssarose, Lyssa, I dedicate and write this for you. Thank you for all you've done lately to encourage me and just generally be an amazing friend. Here's some angst <3

I don't have much time. But I'm not sure if I'll have a chance to do this when most people do. I also have no idea if I'm doing this right. My only experience with this was with Dumbledore, and to be honest I didn't pay much attention to the wording.

But either way, if you're reading this, please make sure it gets to the right people.

The Last Will and Testament of Harry James Potter.

To Molly and Arthur Weasley, I leave all of the contents of the Potter vaults. Thank you for accepting me into your family and being the guardians I never had.

To George Weasley, I leave the Cloak of Invisibility. I know you'll put it to good use. Thank you for the map; I hope this is enough to return the favor.

To Neville Longbottom, I leave the Sword of Gryffindor. You're one of the bravest, most Gryffindor people I know. This should belong to you.

To Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, I leave 12 Grimmauld Place. Yes, this is for the both of you; to share, even if you're both too shy to admit you're in love with each other. Maybe this will help you both get your heads out of your arses.

(Is that bad, to curse in my will? Whatever, I don't have time and I don't really care. Sorry 'Mione.)

Thank you both for being the best friends I could've asked for. I hope you have the happiness and life you deserve.

Finally, to Draco Malfoy, I leave your wand (thanks for that by the way), and this snitch. It's not too late.

I have signed this 1 May 1998.

canon mcd, billy hargrove poetry, steve harrington POV.

. 

It was winding, 

his death,

as the path

and the murderer

itself.

Shadowy

arms or legs 

(or arms and legs)

they drew him, 

puppetry, 

a boy-toy on strings, 

and led him

to only pain

and purgatory—

so it thought. 

Only that many legged

mind-creature

could not have

anticipated

how, in the end, 

the kid walked

a different path, 

a noble path.

Redeeming. 

Because

in the end, 

that kid, he

was a saviour;

a brutally 

autonomous 

selfless warrior;

a goddamn hero;

a real human being.

.

Hey Nonnie!

Thanks so much for this. Honestly, this is the first thing I’ve written in I don’t know how long and it felt amazing to just sit and write this, so thank you! I hope you like what I did with the prompt, I added in number 11, the ‘I almost lost you’ kiss because it fit with my idea! 

TW: Nightmares, canon MCD (kinda, it’s Harry), panic and shock associated with that, and crying. Hope you enjoy! It’s definitely angsty!

Gasp.

That’s all he can do. 

As the world fades of colour. As the icy chill floods his body. As the maniacal laugh grows louder.

Gasp. 

Each heartbeat pounds, yet his chest stutters. His eyes dart around, yet time seems to slow. He keeps talking, keeps sneering, keeps professing his victory, yet the words are lost, drowned by the ringing in his ears. 

He fights to swallow, mouth parched as he stares at the limp body, as his stomach roils at the evil, smug grin, as he watches the last flicker of hope die as he merely stands by, useless, horrified, and mute. Until suddenly, one word breaks through the haze.

No.

It’s barely a thought before the choked whisper escapes him, drowning immediately in the sea of cruel cackles that echo off the stone walls. But he hardly has time to draw in another breath before he’s screaming.

Hands claw at him as he lunges forward, as his throat’s torn to shreds, as the bastard laughs. But still he fights as his soul shatters. And as his howls ricochet, slowly, a light blooms before him. 

It tugs at the corners of his vision, wrestles with the darkness, and somehow, battles it into submission. But still, terror claims him. So still, he wails, even as sobs begin to choke him.

“Draco, Draco shh.. Shh, it’s only a dream,” a voice murmurs as the grip of harsh talons slowly shifts, slowly morphs into gentle hands. “It’s okay, gorgeous, I promise.”

But it’s not. Nothing’s okay. He’s dead—Harry Potter is dead—and though he can no longer scream through the tears, whimpers, unstoppable and barely coherent babble forth.

“I’m right here, gorgeous,” the voice croons as fingers tenderly caress his cheeks, wipe them dry. “It was just a dream. Open your eyes, Draco, look at me, I’m here, I promise.”

‘It’s a lie,’ his mind whispers, forcing his eyes to remain shut, even as the warmth of the hand sends soft ripples of reassurance through him. But as quiet hums and murmurations continue, urging him gently, he can’t help but squint through the tears. 

Like a mirage—a gorgeous, heart-quickening, breath-taking mirage—dark skin, emerald eyes, and a disastrous mop of untamable hair appear before him. As Draco drinks him in, checking for his scar, the mole just before his right ear, the dimple in his chin, he—Harry Potter—breathes a soft ‘hey’. And immediately, Draco’s breath stutters again. 

Desperately, Draco lunges, scrabbling for purchase on Harry’s shoulders, his chest, his hair as his mouth seeks Harry’s, demanding proof. And somehow, with a heavenly ‘umph’, glorious lips meet his.