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#post season three
raayllum · 3 months
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27 with Janaya?
27. "I'm going to carry you, okay?" Plus send me a number with a ship and i’ll write it (accepted ships are tdp canon ships + rarepairs (claudiez, sopreli, corvus/terry, sorvus)
Six months into her stay at New Aurea, Amaya breaks her wrist.
The attempt to take back Lux Aurea is far more costly for plenty of her and Janai's troops—no bodies to bury, the dead taken further into the dark army that had befallen their city—so Amaya cradles her wrist to her chest and orders a more formal retreat while Janai comforts her brother, who has never been more shaken.
It's only when Gren hugs her—too hard, too strong just in her current state—upon return back to camp that it becomes apparent to everyone else that something is wrong.
"Amaya!" Janai is by her side in a second, a cry of alarm seared on her lips. "What—oh."
"It's nothing," Amaya signs with her other hand, weak and clumsy. It's been a long time since she's had to practice signing one handed at all, and a lump forms in her throat.
She won't be able to fight like this. Won't be able to help with any further excursions into the city. Won't be able to spar with Janai or—
"Nonsense," Janai says, and then glances back at the surviving wounded behind her. She purses her lips, torn. She wants to help both of them, but... "I—"
"I'll rally Marcos and General Miyana," Gren chimes in, like he knows he'll probably have an even harder time getting Amaya to listen and rest; she pouts. "Get everyone settled while you take care of our general here."
Relief is evident on Janai's face. She squeezes his shoulder. "Thank you, Gren."
Janai is careful, trained in first aid as anyone on the frontlines would be, as she guides Amaya to one of the medical tents and after the medic has given the go ahead, begun to tend to and make a splint for the wrist. She leans in close enough that Amaya can smell the cinnamon on her breath as she ties the sling around her arm into a knot above her shoulder as well.
"There," she says, drawing back. "Much better."
It isn't. Even with advanced Sunfire healing, it takes four weeks for Amaya's wrist to heal. Four weeks of struggling to dress herself, four weeks of feeling vulnerable in just her tunic instead of her heavier armour, four weeks of watching her men spar and being regulated to the side lines, four weeks of straining her sling or splint because she forgets she can't sign with two hands, and—
It's one such morning of struggling with a thicker winter cloak, and its various buttons along the front, that makes bitter tears well up in her eyes.
She has always been able to do anything, all by herself. How could one little injury render her so inept, and weak, and—and—
The fluttering of her tent flap in her peripheral vision catches her attention, red brokered by a golden crown as Janai steps in. "Amaya?"
Amaya curses internally. To say she hasn't been avoiding Janai a little would be a lie. The queen is already so busy, and Amaya doesn't want to add more to her plate. They'd only been courting for a few weeks before the disastrous attempt to take back the city, and Amaya's broken wrist means that she hasn't been very fun the past month. No sparring, none of their newly discovered intimacy in the privacy of Janai's tent, no being able to help with the construction of the camp. Amaya hasn't even been able to help teach her how to sign that much, since it'd be pointless for Janai to learn a one-handed version just because...
Janai shouldn't have to see her be so weak. Amaya is stronger than this; or at least, she should be.
There is nowhere to hide, though, even as she wishes the white cloak would swallow her up and make her disappear.
Janai's smile fades once she sees her—because of course it does—and she steps forward. "Amaya?"
"I, uh..." Amaya presses her lips together. Her eyes burn. This is so stupid. "I couldn't get the cloak on right."
She watches as Janai's concern and confusion gives way to something... fonder. Warmer? A soft, wide grin spreads over her lover's face. "That's alright. Would you like some help?"
Amaya's eyes narrow. "Do I really have much of a choice?"
Janai laughs a little, stepping forward. She tucks the arm and its sling carefully under the broader sweep of the cloak, shortening the other side so that her uninjured hand will be easily visible even as Janai does up the buttons, one by one and smiling.
"You don't have to avoid me, you know," Janai says, glancing up at her. "All generals have their injuries. I broke my arm sparring with Karim once, when we were young. I was so embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrassed—"
"Love." Janai touches her face, brushing a thumb over the scar on her cheek. "You don't always have to be so strong all the time. You're not alone."
"But I—I know that," Amaya signs, lamely. She averts her gaze before glancing back to lip read.
"Do you?" Janai presses. The silence speaks for itself and she sighs, leaning up to give her a brief kiss. "Do you remember the first time I wept in front of you, about my sister?"
Janai had sobbed into her shoulder, the sun setting behind them. I shouldn't—Khessa was cruel to you—
This isn't about her, Amaya had countered firmly. This is about you.
"I do." She tries not to think about how much that sounds like another kind of vow, of remembrance. They are only two months in. But, at their age, with what they've been through...
"And I listened to you. I trusted you meant what you said. So trust me now: it is natural to want to carry you're own weight. And you are. But also—let me carry you." Janai grasps her free hand, squeezing, so bright brown-eyed and caring that the lump in Amaya's throat dissipates. Something thuds dully in her heart, heavy and light in her chest. "I am going to carry you, okay? I want to. I know that we are stronger together, and I know somewhere deep down, you know that too—" A twinkle enters her eyes. "Or you wouldn't have the rule we can't be on the same team while sparring another pair."
Amaya puffs out a breathy laugh. Then she settles into, the steadiness of Janai's gaze, the calloused gentleness of her hands. She breaks away just long enough to sign, "Okay."
"Good." Janai smooths down the cloak and then steps back, taking her hand. "Now come with me to the camp meeting." She winks, heat seeping into her hand at will. "I'm sure I can keep you warm better than any old cloak, anyway."
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hedgiwithapen · 6 months
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Hell yeah, free prompts! Write something about…[spins wheel of very limited things I know about Stargirl] the people who may or may not have ended up swinging over a taxidermied raccoon!
set post season three but before the flash forwards at the end! Barb closed her office door, checking twice to be certain it clicked, and inching her wobbly coatrack to the side so that it would catch and block entry--for a moment, at least.  She sighed heavily, the stale air from the heating system almost a comfort, dry and warm. When had she gotten so paranoid? Right about when her dead boss had followed her in here, with blood on his hands and honey melting in his mouth. Metaphorically. He’d stood there, lying to her, while her-- what were they? Allies.  Teammates. Almosts. While her friends were dead.  
Maybe the office was cursed. It hadn’t been the first time he’d broken in with murder on his mind. The company, at least, had to be, so many good intentions paved directly over hell.  But no, Barb thought, automatically checking her blinds, her inbox of paperwork, scarlet approval inked on each proposal.  The intentions had never been good. Good was a cover. Good was a byproduct, coincidence. Nothing more. Barb caught herself before the spiral could tighten like a noose around her.  She  pushed her chair in, not bothering to sit.  Her desk was still the half-mess she’d left it, the last day she’d been in and hurried home halfway through after Pat had called her. She’d been desperate to get home, even though it was hardly safer there, away from all her coworkers’ chatter of miracles. Of them all, only James Chapel had seen through Jordan’s splintered mask. The rest couldn’t, or wouldn’t, or hadn’t. It kept them safe, Barb knew, but she still couldn’t help but hate them for it. Her favorite pen was still uncapped. Somehow, that was a comfort, proof that this place hadn’t been picked over in her absence, no one had anything away. No one had intervened.  She capped the pen, putting it into her purse. She’d see if it had run dry later. Turning almost broke her.  Gingerly Barb reached out, fingers touching the soft-stiff hair of the inelegantly, perfectly taxidermied raccoon. It perched on her file cabinet, exactly where Paula had set it down, glassy eyes throwing back the light. She’d cried already. With Pat, with Courtney, with Artemis.  Now, she cried for her. It hadn’t been fair, it hadn’t been right, it had been too soon, before enough could be shared or spoken.  There were so many things Barb wanted to say to Paula. “We got him,” she settled on. It was a start.  Carefully, she put the crossbow bolt she’d recovered from a junkyard puddle in front of the raccoon’s paws, the only offering she could make. “You and me. We got him.”
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claryfrayed · 2 years
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It’s August 1985, only a month after the events that occurred on the Fourth of July. Everyone has seemed to move past the tragedies that have befallen the small town. Except Will Byers, that is. It’s the second week of high school and the Party is beginning to split apart at seams. But he’s got bigger things to worry about. Like the strange tingling in the back of his neck and the horrific nightmares that have been plaguing his sleep. As well as a little girl with a missing friend, bound and determined to see her return home safely, no matter the cost. Will’s not sure how everything ties together. But he’s got a bad feeling that it has something to do with the ghosts that have been appearing, popping up with painfully familiar faces and stories.
The Upside Down is gone. Or so everyone keeps telling him. But Will knows the truth. You can burn all the vines and close all the gates. But you can’t flush out a virus once it’s already been spread. After all, how do you kill something that’s intertwined with the very root of Hawkins without affecting the real world?
i’m happy to announce my new and upcoming fic for the Byler Big Bang! i’ve been working on this since august and i’m super stoked to be sharing it with all of you now! it includes artwork from an amazing artist @sugarohtea, who is working on some awesome things right now! i will be posting a few snippets here in the next couple of weeks! so lookout for those!
A Ghost Never Leaves A Haunted House coming in November 2022 along with a bunch of other fics that everyone should check out!
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fabiiey · 1 year
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I Can't Go On Without You
Summary: Max calls up Mike at three am, without any questions asked, Mike goes to her.
Tags: Max Mayfield & Mike Wheeler, Minor Character Death
Its on Ao3 too
“Mike?”
“Max? It’s three in the morning?”
“I know – its… its my mom. Can you come to the hospital please?”
“I’ll be there.”
He doesn’t care to be silent, shoving his shoes on and grabbing a sweater. He doesn’t think of Holly still awake or the fact that his mom had for sure heard him slamming things around as he swipes his keys off the kitchen counter. His walkie is in one hand, the open channel silent as he starts up the car and peels out his driveway loudly, waking up the sleeping neighborhood.
He looked at the time, the numbers 3:12 flashing at him. He easily drives down the empty streets, definitely breaking a few speeding laws as he approaches Hawkins General. He sees Max sitting outside, smoke curling around her in wispy clouds. He gets out, barely remembering to lock his car as he jogs towards her. She looks horrible. Her face is splotchy, bright red against her pale skin and her freckles seemed almost non-existent. She drops the cigarette, putting it out under her shoe before stepping forward and crashing into Mike’s chest.
He instinctively wraps his arms around her, one hand around her waist and the other pressing her head to his neck. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, he doesn't know why she’s at the hospital at three in the morning, but he’s here, holding her tightly as if he could put back all her broken pieces back together. She smells of smoke and cheap rose perfume and her hair feels tangled, the strands being held up by a dingy hair tie. She’s still in her Ralph’s Records uniform: A black bowling shirt with the store name embroidered on the right side of the shirt and her blue ripped jeans.
She pulls away first, her breath still ragged and quick. Her face is still red, and her eyes are bloodshot as she leads him inside, walking past the nurses mulling around the nursing station. He catches their worried looks as Max tightens her grip on his hand, tugging him into the elevator. She stands across from him, arms crossed and her face dejected. Its different from that night in ’85, when they had been standing outside Billy’s hospital room waiting for the doctors to confirm if he was alive or not.
He wasn’t, the Mindflayer destroyed his chest cavity, taking his lungs, heart, and any organs that had gotten in the way.
That was the last time Mike had seen Neil Hargrove, tear marks streaking down his face and Max had muttered something about Neil only crying because he hoped it was him that ended his son, not some measly mall fire. Still, Mike only felt the surface level of empathy for the horrible man with a rotten son.
Almost three years later, Mike feels like he’s still stuck in that moment, the only difference was that the Party wasn’t here. The Byers were still in California, far away from Hawkins as they can get without leaving the country. Dustin wasn’t even in Hawkins either, he was in Utah, spending his winter break with Suzie and Lucas was in Chicago with his parents, looking at some of the schools that had scouted him for the various sports he played.
“My mom got hit.” Max finally says, “A drunk driver drove her into a tree. The driver died on the way to the hospital and my mom, they said she won’t make it.” He pulls her close, hands almost shaking as the elevator finally opens. She pulls away, her shoulders squaring, and she steps out into the flurry of doctors running the floor. She waits and Mike waits with her, waits for the inevitable news that Susan Mayfield died on a cold December night in 1987 because someone decided to drive drunk.
Mike goes in at six thirty to make a promise, hoping to ease Susan Mayfield’s mind.
For the first time in years, Mike prays to a god he’s not sure exist and prays for an easy passing.
Max goes in at six-forty-seven to say goodbye and at seven am on December 19th, 1987, Susan Mayfield succumbs to her injuries.
At seven am, on that snowing morning, Max Mayfield is the last of her family.
At seven am, on that cloudy, cold morning, Max Mayfield becomes an orphan at the age of seventeen.
They leave the hospital almost at midday, Max has to fill out paperwork and she wants to sleep forever once they’re done.
Mike takes them home, sits in the car for a complete thirty minutes with her, takeout slowly cooling at her feet before she sighs heavily and grabs the bags. She heads to his room, whispering a ‘good afternoon’ to Mrs. Wheeler before disappearing up the stairs. Mike realizes suddenly how exhausted he is as his mom meets him in the hall, a worried look on her face. Her hair is brown again, just how it had been before everything went to shit, before his best friend went missing and they were fighting interdimensional monsters every week for the next four years.
He seeks her comfort just like he did when they pulled Will’s fake body out of the water and when the Byers left Hawkins, taking two pieces of him with them.
( He doesn’t mention the day him and El broke up over the phone four months after she moved away and he cried into her lap at fifteen years old)
“Susan is dead.” He whispers, “Can she stay here?”
And Karen Wheeler is a mother, she raised three good, smart kids. She feed the three boys that never left Mike’s side. She let them have free reign of the basement and let them stay as long as their parents let them. With a gentle nod of her head and a kiss to the side of his head along with a whispered promise that she’s always welcomed, does she let him go.
Mike finds Max in one of his shirts. It’s the Hellfire one, he had gotten an extra, paying Eddie an additional twenty dollars he won in a bet with Nancy for it. It was big, hanging off one of her shoulders exposing her collarbone. She was eating her fries, eyes distant as Mike entered his room quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. She doesn’t look at him as he takes his own food and eats it in silence next to her.
When they’re done, Mike closes the curtains as Max gets comfortable on the bed, claiming the side by the wall. The room is engulfed in darkness as Mike crosses his room, blindly gathering their trash and going to throw it away. He comes back a few minutes later, a cup of water in hand. He places it on his bedstand as he slips under the covers with Max. She easily fits herself into his side, her cold hands (they’re always cold and it makes him want to hold her closer, to warm her hands up in between his own) fisting his shirt.
It’s easy, familiar in a way they can’t explain. They’re two parts of a song, completing each other in a way no one but maybe Steve and Robin can relate to. He slides an arm around her waist, pulling her close and tugging the blankets over them. Her chest rattles against his side and its easy to press his lips to the top of her head.
When they wake up, he’ll sit her in between his legs and wrangle her hair out of her knotted ponytail and make her hair pretty with simple plaits he begged Nancy to teach him.
When they wake up, he’ll hold her as she cries.
When they wake up, he’ll promise to never leave her, that wherever she goes, he’ll follow and she’ll give him a watery laugh and ask if he’s planning to replace Lucas, because after everything, the two are still together.
But for now, the two sleep, embraced in the warmth they share. Mike’s humming lulls her to sleep as his hand gently rubs circles over the shirt she had made fun of him for wearing.
For now, on this wretched winter day, Max sleeps knowing that when she wakes up, Mike Wheeler will be there, holding her together as her world continues to shift and change.
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bluegiragi · 3 months
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christmas miracle.
early access + nsfw on patreon
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This comic was shamelessly inspired by tender by prettyunhinged on ao3. go ahead and leave the original author a comment and kudos if you haven't already!!
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raycatzdraws · 3 months
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LU WIND BUT HE'S A ITTY BITTY HUMMINGBIRD
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Slingshot Proficiency!
+bonus doodle drafts
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abovobee · 6 months
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mabbbish · 3 months
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sky bound doodles + jays five stages of grief
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goldenkenku · 1 year
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I TRIED TO SAVE YOUR SOUL
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katieodoodle · 7 months
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I just remembered I had made this poster a bit ago of all the Scarland trolleys and never posted it! I know it's been a while since I've posted new art but I've got some fun stuff coming soon :)
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chambers003 · 2 months
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they are going to beat you (skizz skizzleman) to death
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raayllum · 9 months
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An elven bow. Callum picked it up. His stomach lurched. It was the weapon that killed his father. The weapon of someone Rayla had loved. Several feelings—too many feelings—collided at once. BANG! A sudden rush of magic and wind ripped through the room. Callum yelped. Dust rained onto the shelves, the floor… and Callum, too. He’d lost focus—and control of his whirly cleaning spell. Callum despaired. “Hang on, Angus, I’ll—” Before he could cast the rune again, he sneezed so hard it blew him backward a step, and he nearly sliced his nose off with the bowblade in his arms. He let the weapon clatter to the ground and kicked it beneath the table with his foot, where he couldn’t see it anymore.
—Callum in Inheritance, 2022
In his hands was a terrible letter, the ribbon its message: the king of Katolis was dead. King Harrow. His father. Something cold lurched inside him. He fought against it. He’d fought it before, that same hurt, years ago—when he’d found out what really happened that night in Katolis. Still, it haunted him. He couldn’t help but imagine the scene, all of it playing out like grim theater before him, as though he’d been there, as though he’d stood by and watched it happen. That Moonshadow elf upon the castle ramparts, skulking toward his father’s chambers. The blood upon those exquisite elven blades. The red-tailed arrow armed with a mission declared by Zubeia herself— Ezran dropped the arrow back to the floor. It clattered and lay still. He stilled the hurt inside him, too. It was not a new hurt; it was a familiar one, an old one. He’d bandaged that wound, stopped its bleeding, and let it heal already.
—Ezran in Deep Below
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theysangastheyslew · 5 months
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Today on I Accidentally Proposed Again XD
Tfw when you've been married for years and everyone knew but you
Bonus:
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Get him Hange XD
Idk if they’d actually get married but even if they didn’t they would still BE married regardless :) Also pls don’t come @ me for the Jeankasa I’m v neutral on them but I needed someone to be getting hitched 😣🤷‍♀️
Credit goes to this tweet here:
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Castiel confessed gay love and went to super hell. Aziraphale didn’t confess gay love and went to super heaven. Super homophobes stay winning.
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moonstrider9904 · 1 month
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The day after the season 3 premiere of the Bad Batch feels like
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Sound off!
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mizgnomer · 7 months
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The tiny, surreptitious, fraction of a half miracle
Good Omens Season 2
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