#two towns fic

[hideyseek]

2, 7, 9, and 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12!

MWAH CRAB ILY THANKS IM ABOUT TO BE SO. FUCKING LONGWINDED. *reads the questions* I'M ABOUT TO REPLY IN SINGLE SENTENCES FOR POSSIBLY THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE.

from asks for writers to procrastinate working on your wips

2. Decriscribe [sic] your wip/one of your wips in the format of “_ + =__”

hmmm i was hoping i could come up with a funny one but none of my current wips are particularly lighthearted. let's say that the arthurcobb fic could be described as: being on the run + being painfully in love with your best friend whose wife just died = having sex with him in various motels while both of you pretend it's something it's not :3

7. Post Any sentence from your wip

There’s a figure standing in the middle of the bridge, railing falling away from him on either side, silhouetted by a nearby park lamp. (from draft 2 of mini heist!au)

ok it got long after this. putting a readmore.

9. What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

OH. OHOHOHO. jk back to being longwinded! sooooo many!!! two towns is probably the longest-running one, the premise of this is "haiji's dad dies before the ekiden, and right after the ekiden, haiji goes home." i want to write sooo badly about grief in a family that does not know how to talk about anything important, and also about that discordant feeling of living at home as a young adult, and also about the repercussions of a husband's sudden death in a marriage that has been faltering for years, and also about the feeling of working toward something for years with this belief in the certainty of a fixed set of potential outcomes and then to, right at the end, have it all pulled out from under you. but really this is a fic about "what if haiji spent his whole life defining himself against his dad's idea of him and then unexpectedly his dad stopped being around to have an idea of him?" augh fuck i wanna write it so bad right now but it will be HARD WORK and i do not want to do hard work! and honestly it's fine to wait, if narrative!fic taking literally like 4 years has taught me anything, it's that i might as well just wait until i become more skilled and it'll be a more painless process overall.

12. ️Not a question, just a second kudos to send.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 when i saw this ask come in i was like ???? what the fuck is 12. but i know it now!!! WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH LOVING AND APPRECIATING YOU!

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Sky Pirates

Some of you may have noticed that I love to re-imagine concepts and adapt them into different settings. So, today, I present you with yet another dpxdc fantasy AU, and this time, it's Pirates.

Only just 'pirates' seemed not exciting enough, so I have Sky Pirates.

Amity Port, a place on the outskirts of Gotham - a floating continent under the rule of Waynes. A town on the edge of the world, with only the Vast Skies beyond its piers. Flying ships moored in the docks, sails of all the colors you can imagine, taverns, inns, and shops run by all the people you know: Old Kinght Fright, Jinnee Desiree, and Lady Lunch, to name some.

Royal Guard Valerie Gray, who left Amity nearly a decade ago, is now back, and she brought guests with her. Two Princes of Gotham, straight from Bristol: Tim and Jason. Only they are not here for a simple visit.

A Sky Curse over both of them, with feathers piercing their skin from inside, causes them to seek the help of a skies witch since none of the mages, witches, or warlocks all throughout Gotham could help them. But sailing the Vast Skies with no clear destination is a task for no battleship.

They need something else.

A crew of pirates who never back down from adventure when offered a fair price. A ship that had sailed far beyond any trade would go. A captain that their Royal Guard can trust, even if begrudgingly.

And, maybe, a new friend that also has feathers under his sleeves.

Is this an advertising post for my new fic? Yes, yes, it is. 'Free as the Wind' by corkinavoid, here is a link, enjoy.

What I did was I took the concept of 'Danny has Wings' and the idea of space pirates from 'Treasure Planet', mixed it with some 'Pirates of the Caribbean' aesthetic, threw in some magic, added a generous amount of fantastic skyscape worlds and a dash of adventures that end in love, and winged it.

Also, have some art I shamelessly found on Pinterest to set the mood:

P.S. The fic has soundtrack links included

[voidcat]

characters: you/imaushi wakasa, sano shinichiro...

a/n: angst lol. strangers to friends. themes of fwb but nothing explicit. switch of perspective. mcd obviously,,

as i said in this post the loose explanatio/beginning of an idea i had that i liked ALOT but couldnt write due to various reasons (esp lck of time) (open post for a lil further stuff for reader x wakasa ig,,,)

attending the same classes as shinichiro sano... you've heard of him alright but that's about it. a nice face to look at perhaps but a little odd. not someone you'd interact with occasionally, nor someone you'd remember in particular-

until you're paired with him for an assignment. it'll help build bonds between the lot of you! the teacher announces and everyone groans in unision

you shoot your new partner to be a look from where you stand and turn back to your notebook. the ring bells but by the time you can get up adn gather your stuff, sano is nowhere to be seen

it takes you hours to find him. and at possibily one of the worst times too.

you heard of the rumors about fights and deliquents but you didn't expect yourself to run into one. youre careful, you live a peaceful life, you avoid trouble, always keep a clean name and all-

the people around all battered and beaten up, covered in bruises, cuts and maybe blood, looking hungry, unsatisfied, maddened– and you're in the center of it all.

footsteps approach you, strong, stern, taking their time and all- you hold it in you to not turn for a look. wait for them to show their face at your feet, dont give them the satisfaction nor even the slightest sign of weakness.

a man with blond hair and a pretty face, long lashes and all, stands before you, looking almost a little amused. "what's a pretty little thing doin' here all by themselv-" "where's sano" you cut him midsentence.

the man looks baffled, a little offensed even. soon joined by a second figure a lot taller than him, they both look at you with hostility and a hint of curiosity.

who cares, you scoff internally, whatever intimidation they're going for, you won't fall for it.

the other man raises a brow at the way you've mentioned sano. shit, you do hope this was not the wrong place, or whatever fight went down there, they must've won... right?

"and who is asking?" the blond speaks up again, sounding a little annoyed now. "you know, we don't allow passes to every pretty thi-" "eeeew" you drag the word and scretch like a gum, making sure to put on a face. "none of your business actually." you add on, placing your hand against a hip.

"why, you-" before he can follow up with whatever's on his tongue, a jolly greeting from behind interrupts him, cutting through the air. you can notice how the idle folks around suddenly tense up, and for the two man before you, shoulders dropped, bodies relaxing...

soon sano emerges, with his hair put up and stylized, nothing like the man in your class, a deliquent out of a shitty teen's magazine you'd say so.

exhanging greets with the two men and doing a special handshake for only them to know, he looks in the mood, just his face a little bruised up and some blood on his clothes.

so that's probably why he skips school some days, you muse.

he notices you a little later.

"oh!" mouth formed into an 'o' shape, you can see his surprise written all over but he is quick to disperse all that." greeting you with your surname formally, he reaches out a hand, then brings it up upon noticing the splatters of blood and takes it back with a sheepish smile.

"what brings you there?" he asks, never losing a bit of his joy that contradicts the entire atmosphere.

"our assignment." you say curtly and receive another sound of surprise from him. he looks apolegitic at the very least, you think.

"well.. uh-" he scratches the back of his head, casting a glance around, you wait to see where the stammering will go.

"how would you wanna do it then?" he asks more for you than himself, to ease you probably, you can only assume.

another joins their little group, keeping silent and watching what's going on. you relly, really should get going, you decide after giving a quick look around. "we can go over the details at an appropirate time later."

"alright then!" he says, never missing a beat from his energy. it's unbelievable, you think. "should we... ah-" he pauses, "exchange numbers to keep in touch then?" he asks, and he means well, you can tell just from the way he looks and talks, but the rest? you're not exactly dying to say out loud your contact information. especially not with that blond anywhere within a 20 meter radius.

"here." you say, reaching out your hand to reveal your phone. "i'm not announcing my number for a bunch of weirdo, self proclaimed deliquents to hear."

your words take him by shock but he breaks into a snort right after. the two men exchange a glance and a thug at their lips as well. the blond however does not look once pleased with your words.

or you at all.

you begin to come and go to their place often, the assignment builds up slow but steady and the guys seem reasonable enough after actually sitting down and hearing each other out. shin looks happy with the development too, says you have brought a change but you'd disagree. he is the light and sun and the beating heart of this place and wherever he goes, they follow, absolute devotion and belief in him, as a person, for his mind and for his heart.

you can see why, you can feel it too. once you begin to spend your time with shinichiro sano, all the rumors and speculations you've heard up until then are gone. assignment be damned, you can tell when a friendship begins to bloom and with shin- it happens at such a pace, you find yourself a little afraid.

the assignment ends, presentation and all, with flying colors you pass and decide to celebrate it out, with the rest joining as well.

a karaoke bar is all fun and games until night rolls out. it has gotten late but shin offers to walk you home; keizo and takeumi dragging a very drunk and messed up wakasa. everyone bids one another goodbye- save for wakasa... and you almost believe youhave seen a hint of sadness in their eyes as they bump their fists against yours. if you didn't know any better, you'd ever go as far as to say they'll miss you around.

a day passes, another and another... much to their relief and encouragement, you stick around.

not within the vicinity on the days big fights go around but definitely dropping by to hang out, fool around and whatnot. it's now your laughter mixed with shin's that fills the air, and everyone seems joyful and happy most of the time- save for imaushi wakasa.

for reasons unbeknowst to you, he remains hostile, rude, and on and up about sending your way stupid lines like he did the first time. most of the time you ignore him, which annoys him further– the scene alone brings a smile to your lips, the smirk of a vixen, you even overhear him once, yelling to keizo about you are, sounding very much frustrated.

despite this is how the things begin and roll out, neither of you expect to grow close- closer than you'd have imagined.

yes, you and shin might be the sunshines, but you and wakasa? the two of you become inseperable. you even hear some people mumble how they fear the two of you looking down at them, gazes that burn holes through their skulls, see into their souls... the two of you could make a power couple- if you were one at all.

there is the heat, there is the tension. you comb through his hair with a gentle touch that has wakasa melting in your hold, yet the second someone dares to imply anything more, you shoot them a glance so heavy, it'd crash their lungs.

wakasa hopes, in the end, that perhaps there is an end to it that is happy, that is hopeful. he knows there is no making up for the way he treated you but you were not the kindest toward him either, so it makes you equals, no?

so he sings sappy songs at karaoke whilst tipsy, so any accusation he can brush off as the effect of the booze, but hopes you caught how he looked at you. so he touches you as soft as you do him, trying to mimic your kindness, an attempt at how love, in the physical, in action should be.

he doesn't know any better, why should he? why should anyone to begin with?

it scares him how natural it is for shin and you. some days he finds himself envying the two of you even, would things be any different were you to attend the same school as the two of you? oh what wouldn't he do to be graced with your smiles and giggles all day every day, having you look at him as you rest your cheek against your palm–

he aches for something a tad normal sometimes, at the very least with you. would the two of you ever cross paths were it not for shin? the thought scares him and he feels like an asshole for envying his friend like this, desperate for anything that would come from your hands.

but at the end of the day, it is himself you seek out. his arms that you allow around your person, his lips on you, devoring you, it's wakasa that consumes you wholly and the thought brings a wave of comfort at the very least.

then the entire world collapses down in the span of 24 hours.

shinichiro dies.

almost 24 hours have passed since his death and wakasa still cannot find it in him to return to reality yet.

then like an angel amidst the chaos, you reemerge from the fog, from smoke. it doesn't take a genius to figure out something is wrong.

"waka," you call out to him, sound laced with something he cannot quite pinpoint. shutting his eyes completely, he sits in the same spot for a moment, all the doubts, every single negative, twisted and fucked up thng he has been holding at bay til now so close to breaking out.

you speak, but he does not hear the words.

not pass the 'i am leaving'

[cubbyhole-for-flea-bee]

Apologies

[petite-phthora]

Oh, he’s stupid.

[DP x DC fic]

[Love at first... murder? - part 4]

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Part 1

Ao3

---

“THAT CLOWN I PUNCHED WAS THE JOKER?!”

The frenzied question stuns Jason for a moment.

Oh. He realizes. He’s stupid.

...

Fuck, he wants to kiss him so bad.

Slightly incredulous, he manages to get out a question of his own in response.

“Just how many insane clowns do you think we have wandering around Gotham?”

“I don’t know, man! I’ve only been here for less than a week. And it’s Gotham, there’s a new rogue like every other week!”

Jason considers his point for a moment before conceding.

“… You know what? That’s fair.”

Danny slumps in his chair with a groan, his cheeks slightly dusted pink due to embarrassment. He puts his forehead on the table. Slightly worried, Jason speaks up.

“Are you alright?”

“Just peachy. Not even a week in a new city and I already managed to dispose of one of the city’s most infamous rogues, and I wasn’t even aware of it. Ugh, my sister’s gonna kill me. Fully this time.”

Right. Jason’s not gonna touch upon that last statement with a ten-foot pole.

Instead, he suggests “Well, you could try to keep it from her but, knowing how siblings can be, she’ll probably find out anyway. Better rip off the metaphorical band-aid and tell her yourself first so she’ll be less mad about you keeping it from her.”

Danny seems to think it over for a moment before nodding.

“Yeah, if I tell her beforehand she might be merciful enough to make it painless.”

Jason lets out a snort. He then considers something before speaking up.

“I could… show you around sometime if you’d like? Explain some standard protocols, show you which places to avoid, which places to visit… So something like this doesn’t happen again…?”

“I’d… like that” Danny days, looking up at him with a small smile.

“So…” Jason decides to switch topics “Tell me some more about yourself, you’re studying aerospace engineering, right?”

Danny decides it’s better not to ask how Red Hood found out all this information about him. If he were in any danger from the other, he probably wouldn’t have gotten flowers or been taken out to dinner anyway.

“Oh, yeah! When I was little I actually wanted to be an astronaut, but due to health reasons, that’s unfortunately not possible anymore. So instead, I decided to combine my mechanical engineering knowledge with my love for space. This way, I might still be able to land a job at NASA.”

Jason ponders over the possibility of sneaking Danny onto the watchtower.

They get interrupted by a waiter approaching their table, nervously asking if they’d like to order dessert.

“Oh, I’ll have some cannoli please!” Danny says.

Ah, a man after his own heart.

---

When they get to the observatory, Jason already notices Danny’s excitement growing the closer they get.

He managed to rent the place out for tonight, not having been in the mood for a tour or something. Besides, if he really wanted to know more about the stars, he’s pretty sure his date Danny’s got that covered for him.

“Over there you can see Ursa Major and Ursa Minor! They’re also known as The Big and Little Dipper, and are some of the easiest constellations to spot, mainly due to their pan shape. Though, the Big Dipper isn't the entire constellation, but actually only a part of Ursa Major, just the tail.”

Danny had started to tell him about the different constellations they should be able to see at this time of the year, using the telescope to navigate towards them and then letting Jason take a look while he tells him all about what they’re looking at.

“Oh! And there’s Hydra! While some parts of the constellation are visible for about half of the year, around this time of year the full constellation should be visible! It is both the largest and longest constellation.”

Danny seems to be practically glowing.

Wait, scratch that. Danny is glowing.

Jason takes a good look at Danny while he’s rambling. Not only does he seem to be emitting a soft glow, but his hair is also slowly starting to float as if he’s underwater. It looks like his meta powers are probably acting up.

Moreover, his freckles, which were very faint before, are now glowing a bright and familiar Lazarus green, which Jason finds mildly concerning. But also… kinda cute…

He tenses a little, keeping a wary eye on Danny, before slowly relaxing as he notices Danny is still excitedly going on about the Hydra constellation.

“Did you know Hydra is also often referred to as The Water Snake? The naming is based on the myth where a crow served Apollo a cup of water with a hydra snake in it. Apollo then caught the crow and was so enraged that he threw the cup and the snake into the sky.”

Yeah, no matter the connection Danny might have to the Lazarus Pits. There’s no need to worry about this fucking nerd, Jason notes with a small hint of fondness.

At the end of their little observatory tour, the glow around Danny starts to dim and his hair stops floating. The glowing of his freckles has also started to disappear, though he is still beaming.

Well, he’d call that a successful first date.

---

After their date, Jason brings Danny back to his apartment on his motorcycle. Once they’ve arrived and Danny is about to leave, Jason blurts something out.

“Oh wait! Before you go…”

Danny looks at him questioningly.

“Can I have your number?” he quickly asks, glad that his helmet is obscuring his reddened face.

He watches the way Danny lights up, his cheeks dusted light pink.

“Ah, uh. Sure!” the space nerd stammers.

Jason takes out a pen that he totally hadn’t taken with him just for this occasion and hands it over. Danny takes the pen and pauses, looking Jason in his Red Hood outfit over, before taking a gentle hold of Jason’s hand.

He glances up at Jason with a questioning glance, asking if he’s okay with this. Jason gives him a nod, that he really hopes doesn’t come over as too eager, in return.

Either way, it seems to be enough for Danny, who then proceeds to move down Jason’s glove a bit and write down his number on Jason’s hand.

Once he’s done, he puts the glove back in place and hands the pen back. Danny’s face is red and he’s grinning. Cute… Jason stays silent, not trusting his voice, and nods in thanks.

“So, I’ll uh see you… next time?” He asks, hope lacing his voice.

Again, Jason just nods in response.

“Great! Cool cool cool. Uh, yeah, uh Toodaloo Kangaroo?” He ends his statement with an awkward grin and finger guns, stumbling when he tries to walk backward.

Fuck me.

He watches as Danny rubs the back of his neck sheepishly before waving him goodbye and turning around, making his way into the apartment complex.

Jason keeps his eyes on Danny as he watches him disappear into the building before tugging off his glove and lowering his gaze to the phone number scrawled on his hand.

He swallows as he realizes that oh, he’s in deep.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 115

Part 1 Part 114

Will could tell they were coming well before his bedroom door opened, both their presences shining like a beacon, brighter and brighter the closer they came.

It’s still a surprise to see their faces. Eddie looks excited enough to be verging on manic, the same way he does when there’s a particularly juicy twist in a campaign he’s been planning out. In contrast, Steve looks almost grave. Not worried, but something serious in the slant of his mouth as Eddie tugs him inside and shuts the door.

“What’s going on?” Will asks, looking between the pair for clues, and finding none.

“Nothing serious,” Steve replies. He commandeers Will’s desk chair while Eddie flops into the bed beside Will, wriggling around until he’s stollen all the covers and wrapped them around himself like a human burrito.

“We’ve just got something to tell ya,” Eddie continues, beaming up at Will.

Neither of them continues, so Will looks back and forth between them. Eddie’s eyes are downright twinkling, while Steve stares at the side of Eddie’s head, glaring.

“Fine,” Steve grumbles, finally turning to meet Will’s eyes. “Eddie and I are dating.”

Will nods, maintaining eye contact as he waits for Steve to keep talking. He doesn’t. “That’s it?”

Eddie squawks,  slithering up in bed, still so swaddled in blankets that he looks formless. “What do you mean, that’s it?” he demands, elbowing Will in the ribs, but it’s through all the blankets so Will barely feels it.

“Weren’t you guys already dating?”

Eddie’s mouth is hanging open, formless consonants leaking out of him. Steve steeples his fingers and leans forward, elbows on knees.

“It’s just, Eddie said—”

Eddie wriggles his arm free just in time to slap it over Will’s mouth with an awkward laugh. “Shut, up, Baby Byers,” he hisses, a faux smile on his face.

Steve leans back in the chair, lets his hands land loosely on the armrests. He’s smirking like there’s a canary in his mouth, and for the first time, Will can almost see the cool guy everyone acts like Steve is.

Not the real kind of cool that Steve actually is, but the kind who’d throw parties, and sit on a high school throne he hadn’t even built himself.

“What did you say, Eddie?” he asks, still smirking, and oh, is this flirting?

Will contorts his body until he’s free of Eddie’s silencing hand. “He said he was in love with you,” Will says.

Eddie sags into himself with a groan, burying his face into the blanket he’s still wrapped in. He looks like a pill bug, the only flesh visible a little bit of one of his ankles. Will pokes it and Eddie jerks, raising his head just enough to pout at Will.

“Is that so,” Steve says, but it’s not phrased like a question. Will answers it anyway.

“He said you looked like an angel in the Upside-Down, when we saw all those lights at my house for the first time?” Will feels his own face blushing as he remembers the way the lights had shone down on Steve, painted him in gold like it was his birthright.

Steve’s not smirking anymore, he’s gone all weird and gooey in the face. It only gets worse when Eddie makes a whining noise.

“Is that where the nickname came from?” he mutters quietly enough that it barely carries to Will’s ears. When Steve starts speaking again, it’s at his normal volume. “Wait, where was I for this?”

Eddie sits up at that, uncocooning himself enough to free his arms but keeping it over his head like an extremely unfashionable cloak.

“Uh…” he starts, shifting forward to stare into Steve’s eyes. “You were possessed?”

Steve grimaces, and all Kingly posturing falls away as he slumps back into the chair, crossing his arms in a way that looks more like a hug. Eddie must think so, too, because he latches onto Steve’s pantleg with grabby fingers and pulls until Steve settles onto Will’s bed with them.

“Were there any witnesses to this little declaration?” Steve asks, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Just Mom and Uncle Wayne,” Will replies.

Steve nods, slow as he meets Will’s gaze. “…and your Mom was.”

“She doesn’t care,” Will cuts in. Steve lets out a relieved breath that Will feels in his bones. He’d felt that worry when she’d let out a shocked gasp at Eddie’s declaration, had felt it wither away when he’d seen her hopeful face. “She just wanted you back.”

“We all did,” Eddie cuts in, throwing his stolen blanket over Steve’s shoulders, Will nestled between them both. “And we thought maybe trying to reach you in there would work?”

Steve laughs, but it’s all wet and choked up in itself. “And you said you were in love with me?” Steve asks. He reaches around Will to smooth down Eddie’s mussed bangs, the one cheek Will can see from his angle turning a light pink. “That’s so embarrassing for you.”

Eddie grumbles but leans into Steve’s touch all the time. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?” he asks. “We could feel you in there. You must’ve heard us.”

Will cranes himself away to look at Steve’s face, compromising the integrity of their ramshackle blanket fort enough that he tears it off Eddie and Steve entirely.

Steve doesn’t seem to have even noticed. His eyes are distant, glazed over like he’s looking at something else entirely.

Will never wants to see that distance on Steve Harrington’s face ever again, not after black smoke and a Steve that isn’t, so he tugs on their connection, and he comes back alive.

“I think I heard some of it?” he says, holding the palm of his hand to his ear like he’s listening to the ocean. He goes distant again, but Will’s pretty sure he’s just trying to remember, so he resists the temptation to pull him free. “What did everyone else say?”

Eddie reaches out and links his pinkie with Steve’s. “Oh, the same sappy shit we’ve all said to your face,” Eddie replies, but he’s smiling. “Baby Byers acted like it was his job to save you, and fawned over you like you’re some goddamn action hero.”

“Hey!” Will cries, but Steve’s laughing, so he doesn’t mind, especially not when Steve tugs on him this time, beaming at him like he’s a revelation.

“Uncle Wayne, the cantankerous old man that he is, said you were like a son to him.”

“Mom just asked you to come home,” Will cuts in. Steve’s eyes are shining.

“And I declared my undying love to you in front of all and sundry,” Eddie finishes, rearranging their linked pinkies so he can tangle the rest of their fingers together as well.

“You’re all so embarrassing,” Steve says, but he reaches out and bully’s Will into his arms. Eddie, never one to turn down a hug, worms his way into the situation immediately and applies enough pressure to make both their ribs creak.

They stay like that for a long time, until Mom calls, “boys, breakfast!” from somewhere in the house.

Eddie’s the first to let go with a contented sigh, scrabbling up off Will’s. He’s skipped halfway out the door before either of them has even stood up.  

“Has Mama Byers learned to cook since the last time we were here?” Eddie asks, leaning back in to grin cheekily at Will. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood for eggs that are somehow rubbery and watery at the same time.”

Part 116

[imakatperson22]

Fanfic ideas for “Chris is out of town”:

Eddie says he’s out of town and we just cut to…

Chris working deep undercover

Chris running his own crime syndicate (Idk why I’m thinking underground casino ring?)

Chris is hosting some fancy charity gala, wining and dining philanthropists (for a CP research fund??)

Chris is on an epic quest to save the world (a la lord of the rings)

Chris is secretly a superhero (His powers? Mind reading or telekinesis)

Chris is on a business trip in Hong Kong trying to close a major deal between transnational corporations

Chris is chasing after a girl rom com style

Chris is actually a trained assassin for hire and he’s out of town working on a job

Chris is backpacking through Europe to “find himself”

Chris is taking a cross country road trip with friends and chaos ensues

Chris is living a double life with another family who were scammed into adopting him

Chris is running for office (LA mayor?)

Chris is already in office as a state delegate and is in Sacramento while the legislature is in session

Chris is in witness protection about to testify against someone at trial

Chris isn’t actually out of town, he’s been under our noses the whole time

I have so many ideas!

[metalhoops]

Steve never liked the cities. 

They were always too crowded, too noisy. He liked Hawkins. He liked a quiet life in the suburbs. It was part of the reason he’d never gone to college, that and having to worry about his adopted band of misfit kids and the hell dimension that opened every year. Yet, somehow he found himself on a weekend trip to Chicago.

It was all Eddie’s fault. He had to pick some things up from a music store in town for the band, he’d mention strings or amps. Steve only half understood. It was an excuse for Eddie to take his van to Chicago. Steve had been surprised to find himself invited.

“You never leave town since Vecna went dark, dude. How are you going to travel around with six kids and a Winnebago if you never leave Hawkins?” Eddie asked, somehow managing to convince Steve to join him. 

They took turns driving Eddie’s van.  Eddie’s choice of music was questionable, but his version of road trip games was even more worrisome. They’d been travelling behind an old truck for the better part of an hour when Eddie kicked his feet on the dash and questioned,

“What do you think would be the worst way to die right now? Because I’ve spent the past half hour watching that guy’s toolbox rattle around and I’m convinced a nail gun to the head would be a killer way to go.” 

Steve should’ve known better, but he’d give anything for a distraction from the long stretch of road. 

“Probably getting set on fire at a pump while you insist you need a smoke the second we pulled over at the last gas station,” Steve noted, switching on his indicator and passing the vehicle, using all the horsepower the poor-beat up van had. 

“And here I was thinking I had a twisted imagination,” Eddie spoke, before listing off a series  of more gruesome scenarios. 

By the time the two reached their motel, Steve felt strangely lighter. Whether it was the distance from Hawkins and the trouble it had caused him or because he and Eddie had spent an hour listing out worst-case scenarios until they felt comical and absurd instead of real and imminent threats, he didn’t know. Being trapped in a town with a rip in the fabric of space and time had a way of making you always feel on your guard. That night the two slept quickly and soundlessly. 

It was when they walked through town Steve remembered why he hated cities. He was left shuffling through unfamiliar streets, elbow to elbow with strangers, trying desperately to keep up with Eddie as the man weaved and ebbed with the crowd as Steve used to slice through water. Eddie was one with the city. Steve was apart from it.

Without thinking, Steve reached out, grabbing onto the hem of Eddie’s jacket, letting himself be guided. Eddie showed him where to step, how to move. He kept his head down and followed Eddie’s lead to the music store. Much to his surprise, when they were all done, and once more ready to head back into the fray of the foot traffic, Eddie offered the crook of his elbow for Steve to hold onto. 

“Hey, it’s easier than you almost tugging a hole in a perfectly good jacket. You don’t have a good track record, Harrington,” Eddie teased. He had a point. 

He hadn’t meant to make a habit of it. Yet the small action of latching onto Eddie to keep him at arm’s length followed the two back to Hawkins. 

The thing about hanging out with Eddie was that the man was surprisingly hard to keep up with. He was always rushing places at the drop of a hat, jerked one way or the other by whatever flight of fancy caught his attention. 

He’d be beside Steve at the Family Video store one minute, then darting to the horror section driven there by some tangential conversation, which then of course, would lead him to remember some old sci-fi film and send him running to the sci-fi section, only to find it lacking. That would lead him to Robin and their extensive movie catalogue on the computer, all the while, he’d still be talking to Steve. He found it easier to keep up with Eddie if he had a hold of him. 

He’d find his fingers tucked into the crook of Eddie’s elbow, hooked in the chain of his jeans or clinging to the cuff or hem of his shirt and trailing in the wake of him. 

Contrary to popular belief, Steve wasn’t an idiot. Not when it came to social situations. He knew being extra touchy with Eddie was something he could only do in certain situations. He was hyper-aware of it when he’d made the mistake of hooking his thumb into the back pocket of Eddie’s jeans in the arcade. The two had driven the kids there and were wasting time bouncing between watching the kids and playing pinball. 

A group of teenagers had been gawking at the two already, likely trying to work out what twist of fate had landed the former king of Hawkins High and current school Freak together. With the action, the mumbled whispers turned into slack jaws and less favourable words muttered just loud enough for Steve to hear. 

Steve wasn’t an idiot. He knew what it looked like. He would be lying if he said he didn’t want it to be like that, not that he’d voiced any of it. Not yet. He needed to do it in a town where people didn’t know his name, so people wouldn’t talk if he was reading Eddie all wrong. He didn’t think he was, he was good with reading people. 

In a crowd, holding onto Eddie was okay.  On their increasingly frequent trips to the city, Indianapolis, Chicago, and Fort Wayne. When no one else could see, that was okay. In small-town Hawkins, in broad daylight, it wasn’t. 

Steve suddenly understood the appeal of the city.  

[redwayfarers]

house of grief and sunlight

fandom: wayfarer ship: cassander/aisanne characters: cassander inteus, aisanne bjornsdottir rating: gen words: 1625 note: this is my entry for @idrellegames' three year anniversary event! prompt i'd chosen is paramour - expected of me, i know - but i've hardly written about cass' bisexuality and i felt like it needed to be written about! excuse the ya-sounding title lmao i could not resist also, aisanne is a gw2 oc that i've ported to wayfarer. she lives over on @i-mybrunettelady most of the time :) divider credit

I am tired of grief.  I don’t know if it ever goes away, but for fuck’s sake, I’m so tired of it. It’s summer, though, and a part of me feels like the sun will chase it away, if only for a day or two. Our house needs the sun right now. Grief hangs over it like a veil, and we don’t speak of it, but maybe the rays that come through our window each morning help. 

Or so I hope. Hope’s a stupid thing by and large, because every time I hope something happens it decidedly doesn’t, as if the gods above or whoever sits and watches this farce of an existence keeps laughing at me and says, “Add more!” But I can’t help but wish, in my heart of hearts, that sometimes, maybe one day in this lifespan that’s entirely too long for one guy, I don’t feel like a tossed out, crapped on kitten on the streets. 

It’s summer. That feels important to repeat to self. I am feeling a little less grief. The room around me is loud and messy and sounds jump from one place to another like rabbits, in a cacophony ruled over by the harmonious noise of music. Sanne’s the one behind the harp, golden under the candlelight, and if she was a different woman, she’d be singing in a Meissandic temple. 

She cares little for the traditional rites, though. She cares little for the chants I’d attended once or twice when I was a kid. She looked at me all confused when I told her how courtly, Vestran services happen, and said, in a strange tone, “I don’t understand how people like that.” I don’t understand either, and thank fuck I’m not a Vestran aristocrat anymore. 

Her place is telling stories of heroes and events long gone, to be a musical wayfarer. She’s doing that tonight. I was drunk when we first met here and she had to hold my hair while I was throwing up, apparently. Can’t say I remember that attractive trait about myself. I’m not drunk right now, however, sitting near the small wooden stage, taking small sips of my cider. The drink is irrelevant; she captures my attention more than any alcohol could. 

She’s radiant and shiny, half covered in shadows, which makes her golden crest stand out. The bright sheen of her golden hair disappears and reappears after the movements of her head. I can’t see her freckles clearly from here, but I can see the ink on her neck, the roundness of her full lips, an occasional yellow in the blues of her eyes when the candlelight reflects off them. I’m not blind to beauty, but there’s beauty in a way a finely made building is beautiful, and a way a person is beautiful. 

You don’t wanna fuck buildings, do you? And if you do, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?

Others are looking at her too. That doesn’t matter, because it’s my bed who she comes to tonight. Or is it me coming to hers? Not fucking important. 

These feelings are new. For most of my life, interest like this fell to men. Part of me wonders if I’m just that desperate for any kind of tenderness in my life that my head would start making up attraction; but the way this feels can’t be anything but a solid fucking reality. Women were always beautiful the way buildings were, but now they’re flesh and bone and soul and personality and there’s something so weirdly appealing about that that it catches me off guard. 

Not all women are your mother, you dumb fuck. 

I know, but women have never been.. This. I think about Sanne when she’s away. I watch her practice for the performances, mesmerized. There’s peace and blood rushing to my face when we’re laughing in bed, or making lunch, or eating, or just existing in the same space. My insides get all twisted up, like I’m a kid again crushing on older Wayfarers. It’s like Senna again, and I simply forgot how it feels like to be crushing on someone this bad. 

Nothing will ever happen between us, however. It would be so crappy to prey on a widow’s feelings. She rarely speaks of her dead husband, but he’s not even that cold as far as dead people go; maybe a little more than us Wayfarers, but not by much. Our living together is a result of loneliness, desperation, not a desire to find a partner again. But I was dumb enough to pretend I didn't see it. 

She’s cooking, some days after her performance. Sun is shining through the window, leaving her figure in semi-shadows and catching on the ends of her shiny, metallic hair. She’s not as glamorous as she was at the show; right here is a Sanne that’s more down to earth, more solid, dressed comfortably, not worried about how she’s perceived. I’m folding clothes nearby and doing a half-assed job of it, too. It’s hard to concentrate some days over the deafening noise of all this fucking attraction confusion business. 

Every so often she turns back to look at me with a strange smile on her face. “That’s what I wore to Kiaran’s funeral,” she says suddenly. I jerk and drop my gaze to the dress in my hands. Sunlight washes away its dark color in places. There are little holes in it that I want to sew shut, but I don’t have her consent to. She’s weirdly sentimental about it. 

My Spire didn’t have a funeral, and us survivors only have ashes as funerary garb. 

“What’s this stain again?” I ask, raising the dress and jerking my head in the direction of the big, grayish blob on the skirt. “I keep forgetting!” 

She sighs and throws a full, peeled onion at me. It hits me right in the forehead and the poor plant, already under threat, pricks my eyes. “You’re horrible,” I say in mock offense. “You don’t want your dress to stink, do you?” 

“I’m not burying anyone anytime soon,” she says lowly, in a tone that implies I’m hitting a boundary. I wince and put the dress down, careful of the location of the onion. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I approach, gently placing the vegetable on the table. She gives me a hard look. “I shouldn’t have joked about the dress. It means a lot to you and I tend to joke around, right, about the things that I’m sensitive about so people don’t attack me for it first? Offense is the best defense kinda thing? And I forget that sometimes - a lot of the time - people don’t function the way my fucked up head does?”

Shut up, Cassander. You’re making it worse.

Something tightens my throat, like hands choking me from the inside out. I grip the table and swallow thickly. My stomach twists up, and the smell and feel of onion fills the kitchen and I can only focus on the dents in the dark wood beneath my fingers and the uneven pattern freckles of my hand. 

“Cassander,” Sanne says. Her tone is too much for me to analyze right now, try as I might. “Cass.” 

“What?” 

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” 

“Picking at your scar. Stop it.” 

I lower my hand from my face and grip the edges of my tunic. The edges of my braid - I need to take care of those ugly fucking ends one of these days - tickles my hand. You’re scaring people. Enjoy your lifetime of solitude, whether you’re actually into women or not. Who would want someone as shaky and deranged as you are? 

Vestra should’ve killed you, if you were so determined to go back. 

“I’m sorry,” I murmur to my feet. 

“I’m not angry. If you pushed, I would’ve been, greatly so. But you didn’t. Stop shaking like a leaf.” There’s something in her tone that feels like cold water to the face. I breathe out and blink away a small selection of tears. Saltiest one always drops first! I’m imagining a little tear race now, little tear spectators cheering the racers on, tear savants testing the levels of salt in each one. The thought makes me giggle and I bury my head in my hands as I laugh. 

“I’m not angry with you,” she repeats, gentler than before. Her voice is still as steely, though. “Go finish the laundry while I make lunch.”

Without a word, I retreat to my location at the corner of the room, where still wet clothes wait to be sorted and hung to dry. I put the dress to the side and continue sorting through the clothes; sometimes, I look at her, her back turned to me, and the shaking of my hands grows for a split second. 

I try my best not to cry. Better save that energy for the worst of the shitshow that I know is yet to come.

I’ve forgotten that this is a house of grief and no sunlight can fix it. And I’ve walked over her grief in the same way I would walk over my own, but where I’m used to it, she isn’t. And even when we go to the same bed that night, seemingly forgetting what happened, and even when the sun rises the morning after, this is still a place where two grieving people decided to seek comfort because being broken together is somehow better than being broken alone. 

No summer nor new kinds of sex can fix the holes in your heart. 

I am tired of grief.  I don’t know if it ever goes away, but for fuck’s everloving and everlasting sake, I’m so tired of it.

[frownyalfred]

random girl at a party: *describing how some guys harassed her on the street last night*

Jason, listening casually secretly seething: oh wow that’s wild

also Jason: you, uh, remember what they look like?

[steelycunt]

i would DIE for a snippet xx

hii okay i had a little search to try and find some snippetable bits from chapter one n. tucked them under the cut mwah : ^ )

i.

ii.

[batcavescolony]

You know what, I hate myself so I'm gonna watch Supernatural! As a Tumblr user I have knowledge of our hell sites favourite show but I haven't watched past s1 ish? all the supernatural girlies are watching 911 it's only right for me to pay them back ❤

[emchant3d]

Jamie thinks of late afternoons in his and his mother’s flat, dancing to the old records from the charity shop down the road. Jean Knight and Diana Ross and The Pointer Sisters crooning from the staticky player on the shelf, the curtains open, sticky summer air coming in through the window as he twirled his mum across their shoebox of a living room.

He always felt so light, then. Free. Loved. Laughing and joking with her, watching her smile bloom huge and beautiful across her face, her worries wiped away for the three minutes it took him to move her through the steps of the dances she’d patiently taught him.

“They get it, Jamie,” she’d told him when he’d asked why she loved the classics so much, pointing at the record player. “They understand love. That feeling, that need - the things you’ll do for it. The things it’s worth. They get it, angel. You understand?” 

“No,” he’d said honestly, and she’d laughed, shook her head.

“You will someday, my baby,” she’d said, and she’d pressed a kiss to his forehead and slipped away to flip the record.

Now, though, he understands. Stretched out on his stomach in Roy’s ridiculous bed, propping his head up on a hand, watching the old man get changed into pajamas so they can go to sleep at a decent hour - he gets it.

He must be smiling like an idiot because Roy’s thick brows furrow when he looks over at him.

“What?” he asks, and Jamie just shakes his head, rolls onto his back, and holds his hand out for Roy.

“I love you,” he says simply, and Roy’s face softens.

“I love you,” he replies, and he slips into bed, fingers interlacing with Jamie’s as he comes over him and kisses him, slow and sweet.

[shellhawk]

Random Destiel Season 16 ideas…

Dean and Jack get Cas out of the Empty.

Dean, emotionally constipated, says not a word about the confession and avoids the entire topic for as long as he can.

After a hunt with Dean, Cas and Dean end up at the Bunker. Dean starts to head for his room and tries to leave Cas at his. Cas decides he’s not having it. Not for one more second. And since now he’s very pop culture savvy, he decides to pull out the stops and become the most dramatic man he can think of in that moment: Ronny Cammareri, from Moostruck. And being Cas of the eidetic memory, he doesn’t change an inflection or a word of the impassioned speech:

“Loretta, I love you. Not like they told you love is, and I didn't know this either, but love don't make things nice - it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and *die*. The storybooks are *bullshit*. Now I want you to come upstairs with me and *get* in my bed!”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Loretta?” He asks with a smirk.

Cas is embarrassed. “It was the best I could come up with.” He looks at the floor before tilting his head and lifting his eyes to take in Dean’s beloved face. “It was clearly ineffective, since you’re not in my bed.” He frowns. “I was sure it would work. It did for Ronny.” He starts to turn towards his room.

Dean closes the space between them before Cas can even get his hand on the doorknob. He grasps Cas by the shoulder and turns him, unresisting, to meet Cas’ ridiculously blue eyes with his own.

He takes a deep breath and says what he should have before the Empty tore them apart.

“‘course I love you, too Cas. It’s only been you for years. Didn’t you notice?”

Cas stands, stunned. It’s the longest ten seconds of Dean’s life. Lives. Whatever.

Cas smiles, shy and warm, and his tears well up and start to flow as he cups Dean’s face, reverent, and lays the gentlest of butterfly kisses on his lips. Dean is just as soft as he returns the kiss and wipes the tears away.

Cas bends and sweeps Dean off his feet into a bridal-style carry, uses a touch of his grace to whoosh them to the other side of his door. We can hear Dean’s deep chuckle, his boots hitting the floor, and the sound of clothing being hurriedly removed and dropped.

From under the door, a bright light.

Dean, also pop culture savvy, can be heard to say, “Wings? Far out!”

[i-mybrunettelady]

my future will listen to me

Summary: Alysannyra meets her patron goddess, Lyssa, at long last. Content warnings: None Spoilers: HoT & LWS3 Note: My piece for the @gw2-zine! Go check out the world of my lovely collaborators, and go follow the zine blog! Happy zine release day!

I 

Everyone’s dressed the same, in the same white robe. It’s designed so that it’ll never be worn outside of the ceremony and outside of this one moment in a child’s life, which makes the fine silver embroidery on it that much more meaningful. Alysannyra cannot fathom how it was made - they’d just taken her measurements one day and three weeks later, this gown appeared on their door. She doesn’t even try. Instead, she wears it with as much pride as she can, not knowing where her blessings lie yet. She wears her hair down like everyone else and she tries to not hate how it blends her in with a whole generation of eight-year olds in the watchful eyes of the high society of Divinity’s Reach. 

There are two children before her. She can feel the stares of the proud parents in the shadows of the grand church. She can’t turn, not now, because the question she needs to answer can’t be found in their expectant and somber silence. Murals cast a green light on the pale hair of a boy next to her, but he doesn’t seem unsure. Nervous, maybe, but not unsure. 

Anyone would be nervous in the presence of gods. Their statues cast large shadows in their absence. And the children are to kneel before the one whose gifts they have and go into their church’s fold. It’s no small task, but if Alysannyra knows anything, it’s that she can’t cower under the burden of it. So she stands with her back straight, in a white robe that tickles her ankles from the early morning breeze, and she doesn’t turn to her family. 

Instead, she looks between Lyssa and Balthazar, trying to chase where the feeling in her heart is leading her. So far, the pull’s stronger with Lyssa, but Nyra doesn’t have magic. She isn’t worried. She’s only eight; nobody has magic yet. But some have a better idea of what it might be than others. A child walks over to kneel before Melandru. A priest accepts the handle they’d been carrying and places it by Her feet. Green magic swirls around them and it’s done. 

A clicking sound of hundreds of little heels echoes against the stone floor as they all make one step forward. 

A choice has to be made, and soon. Alysannyra carries her head high, taller than most other kids already, and stares at Lyssa’s graceful form in the center of the Six. Pinks and purples of the vitrage behind her twin forms cast an inviting light that seems to twist and bend in strange shapes, as if to spite the harmony that doesn’t seem perturbed by them. Balthazar’s helmet feels comfortable; Alysannyra, too, will one day wear a helmet, as a member of the Seraph. Its weight feels irrelevant, necessary, part of the regalia as much as the white robe is. She can almost feel the pressure of the hot metal in her bare hands and she feels the war call to her. 

The blonde-haired boy steps forward and steadily walks towards Grenth. He offers the candle, if a little clumsily, and kneels as an unsettling magic twirls around him. Alysannyra watches when his eyes widen just slightly, feeling the magic on his skin, and that is done, too. He is now a member of the Church of Grenth, potential necromancer in the making. He moves away with that knowledge, and now it’s Alysannyra’s turn. 

She doesn’t move quite yet. The limited time she had to choose wasn’t enough, but she can’t ruin this. Her family’s reputation, at least for a season, is at stake, and that little feeling in her chest that burns every time someone calls her Lady Ainsaph, too. She takes a deep breath, looks once more, stares into the eyes of the statues, and turns right. She is a daughter of Ascalon, a daughter of war, and Balthazar would be fitting. 

She lifts one foot off the ground when something in her gut screams no. She holds her head high as she suddenly turns left and walks down to where Lyssa is, candle in hand. Clamor of the people is silenced by the determined clicking of her heels, but she feels at peace. 

Come, daughter, the statue seems to say. Part of her knows this will make people talk, but in a strange way, she looks forward to it. She looks forward to the chaos a slight movement of feet will cause, and lifts her head even higher. 

And when she finally kneels and feels the magic seep into her skin, Alysannyra knows she’s made the right choice. Let them talk, let them gawk. 

At least she’s not just a simple Lady Ainsaph anymore, even if the rebellion is as small as this. 

II

Lyssa’s Reliquary is a fucking maze. Shelves of stone that house both man and monster shaped horrors would be enough to disorient most people, and such feeling is only made worse by the little portals that pop up like zits in the most random fucking places. Nyra hates them the most, even though she’s trying to stay level headed in the face of illusions that remind her of all the bad things she’s done and all the blood on her hands. 

But portals don’t disorient her. The chaos of the reliquary only bothered her for mere seconds before she found the rhythm in this place and she’s been riding it ever since. Renira tries to keep up, visibly struggling. Nyra traverses the sacred space like she was born to do it, and maybe she was. Maybe at birth, Lyssa watched from wherever She is now and pointed Her clawed hand (because in Nyra’s mind, Lyssa’s hands have always been clawed) in her direction so she could pass through Her reliquary once she grew up. 

It’s a comforting thought, in a way. It’s the only comfort she has when she slices through a tortured, gruesome vision of Apatia, dead by Nyra’s own hand. It’s the sole thing keeping her sane when she falls through yet another portal to escape the grasp of an illusory Mordrem Trahearne. 

“Where to now? How do we get down?” Renira shouts, wiping sweat off her brow. She swallows when she looks down at the ground below, but it’s the only sign of distress she offers. Nyra’s getting just slightly better at reading her. Or maybe she just lets Nyra see. Her eyes, golden like a cat’s in the stifling, dark chaos around them, don’t betray anything but a grim determination. 

“I think I know the way down,” Nyra says. “It won’t end with us falling to our deaths, hopefully. I’m getting quite a feel for this place.” 

“Of course you are,” Renira replies. “You’re about as chaotic as this reliquary is.” She gives a small smile. “It suits you, after all.” 

“Ever the charmer, Sulver,” Nyra shakes her head. In another life, they might have developed a romance following their brief hookup in Ebonhawke years ago, and the thought of exploring this place with a lover sounds romantic until she remembers she killed her actual lover in Maguuma. Now, it's a flaring ache that makes her look away in shame. 

“You’re alright, Nyra,” Renira says, strangely gentle. She places a gloved hand on Nyra’s shoulder and though she can’t feel the comfort, she feels undeserving of such sentiment. She’s never really emoted well, but she supposes a lifetime of spying on people makes it easy to identify emotions, regardless of expression or lack thereof. 

Nyra shakes her hand off. “Let’s go,” she says. Renira simply nods. 

But before they can make a single step, a big voice booms in the wind. “That is, in fact, the correct way, Alysannyra Ainsaf! It’s taken you a lot less time than I’d anticipated, too.” 

Nyra’s heart sinks to her feet. She doesn’t need to see to know who it is - the goddess Herself, as much in the flesh as they come these days, and She sounds more than a little smug about it all. 

It takes her a moment to find her voice. “Hail, Lyssa,” she says loudly. A part of her hates how uncertain she sounds, but to make up for it, she turns to the direction of Lyssa's voice. She can’t see Her, of course; mortals can’t see gods. Nyra remembers the story of Malchor. She likes her ability to see, thank you very much. She remembers how anguished his ghost was, howling Dwayna’s name like an injured beast.

And maybe she’s like that, too, alive yet forced to walk with guilt and grief eating away at her spirit and her bones. Because she tried to jump into the sea below not that long ago. In Lyssa’s temple, her mind cruelly supplies and Nyra shivers beneath her armor.  

Can she even bear to look Lyssa in the eye now? 

“Formal,” Lyssa says. “There is no need, daughter. I think you’re right at home. Would you be so formal with your parents?” 

Nyra sits down. Renira watches, unsure of what to do, and she signals her to do the same. “If I’m at home, goddess,” Nyra says, “then I’m sure you won’t mind if I bring a guest?” 

“Your mesmer friend? She can stay. Her magic is in my domain, though her blessings are, funnily enough, not. What is your name, mesmer?” 

“Renira, goddess,” she says cautiously. 

“Illusory,” Lyssa replies. “Just like it should be.” 

Renira stiffens and digs her nails in her gloves, but her face remains calm. “Yes, goddess.” 

Nyra wants to ask what that is all about, but knows she needs to tread cautiously, too. Her head’s too exhausted and heavy for two mind games at once. Besides, she needs Renira as an ally here and she’s not stupid enough to risk it by asking questions like this. 

“Lyssa, I have a question,” Nyra says. She swears she can see the wind around them move to face her and tilt a little to the side in curiosity. “You invited me here in a dream. You spoke to me when you sensed that we were backed into a corner in our search, so it stands to reason that you know what we’re after. If I may, what information do you have on Balthazar’s whereabouts?” 

Lyssa’s laughter echoes like a thousand drums, and Nyra digs her clawed gauntlets into her thighs to not cover her ears. She can feel Renira looking at her, maybe bewildered, maybe with that ever present calm, but she doesn’t want to turn away now. A part of her knows she should be more humble, now that she has blood on her hands that will never go away as long as she’s alive, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t answer that little voice in her head that slaps the notion away like a gnat. 

“Oh, you’re brave!” Lyssa says as laughter dies on Her windy lips. “Humanity hasn’t produced a person this fearless in a long, long while.” 

“That’s what happens when you have nothing to lose,” Nyra says. Her throat becomes tight and her eyes prickle with tears. “I tried to jump from Your temple not that long ago. I think I’ve earned the right to ask questions directly.” 

“I know you did,” Her voice becomes quieter. Of course She knows. “Your mind is still in chaos. It will be until your death. You placed any peace for yourself at the altar of glory long ago.” The wind blows forward, and a ghostly hand cups Nyra’s cheek. It’s cold and unsettling and it makes her skin crawl. She breathes out and closes her eyes tightly. Her heart feels like it wants to beat out of her chest. “Was it worth it?” 

Nyra’s quiet for a while. Tears slide down her skin, burning, yet the ghostly fingers wipe them away. She feels the heaviness of her armor, the tickling of her hair that was once a flag behind her and that now barely reaches her shoulders. Her shoulder aches from the fighting, her heart aches from the evil she’s done, all in the name of her own glory and this fucking world that she’s judged to be worthy of Trahearne’s life. She feels claws softly digging into the sweaty skin of her cheek, as sharp as the ones on her hands. 

Nyra tears light with them and makes it her own. If Lyssa draws blood, that too would belong to Nyra. 

Nyra opens her eyes. “Yes.” 

Lyssa runs a hand through her hair. “I’d hunt you down if you answered any differently,” She simply says. “I sent you that dream because I knew you would be able to stand up to Balthazar. You, daughter, and nobody else. You will either kill him or die trying.” She then lets go and Nyra catches her breath fully again, like a pressure has been lifted.

“I only need to track him down, then,” Nyra says, with a renewed fire in her chest. “So, tell me what you know, goddess.” 

III

She does find Balthazar in the end. These days, the memory of him doesn’t burn so painfully as it did at first. The scars he left on her arms and her legs and on the skin of her stomach and lower back remain hidden under clothes, but Nyra knows they’re there. 

She’s used to them, somehow. They’re her shrine to her heresy, after all. In her home chapel, his place is empty because she carries the reminder of him on her skin. And if she, in her grief-induced craze, had her way, she’d bring down every single statue of him in Tyria by hand. 

Let her be the only shrine he’ll ever have left, on a wartorn path to erase everything else. Sometimes, she remembers Lyssa asking her if it’s worth it. If she thought she knew pain then, when she stood before her goddess, she should’ve considered her answer a little more. 

But Nyra knows pain now. She knows the pain of grief, of loss, of a broken faith, and her answer remains the same. Gods have left Tyria, but this answer is the closest thing she has to a divine oath. 

It’s always worth it.

[getvalentined]

Nothing quite like writing a multichapter fic for the better part of a year, finishing off around 80k words, 72k of which detail events talking place over the course of a single 24-hour period, then moving on to a new multichapter fic where I can just timeskip a whole month to suit the narrative.

I don't normally write slow-paced slice-of-life outside RP, so this feels indulgent in a way I can't really put into words.