#c writes stuff

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On one hand, there's definitely more of this to be written, and possibly even more of this scene.

On the other hand, posting now means it gets posted at all, and I also happen to think that the place where it ends is very, very funny.

In short: Dustin is a smart kid with a lot of good ideas. Unfortunately, he knows this about himself, which is also his greatest flaw. Set somewhere between Stranger Things S3 and S4.

---

Dustin shows up at Family Video on a Wednesday night. Steve never works Wednesday nights -- slow enough that Keith can spare him, late enough in the week that most girls are actually wiling to consider it a date night. He's seeing the second Nightmare on Elm Street movie, which Dustin is maybe a little annoyed about because it's only been out for a week and the Party needs Steve to get them into R-rated movies, he knows that. But Steve just said something about horror movies being essential opportunities for girls to cuddle in close so you can protect them, and completely ignored Dustin's totally reasonable comments about how Steve is the one to freak out at jumpscares most of the time when he watches horror movies with them, and went anyway.

Which is so stupid, because there's literally nothing real to protect a girl from in a horror movie. Steve has literally protected Robin from actual Soviet torture, with his actual face. Dustin saw him through that concussion! Dustin knows perfectly well that Steve probably drew the Russians' attention on purpose the whole time he and Robin were in there!

And somehow, he and Robin still aren't dating. If that isn't enough, then Dustin really doesn't see how putting an arm around a girl to save her from Freddy Krueger is going to do any better.

So Dustin bikes his way to Family Video, in the dark because it's November in Indiana, and when he gets there he folds his arms on the counter and gives Robin his brightest, most patient smile. She takes one look at him and rolls her eyes.

"He's not here right now," she informs him. "So if you want to badger him into renting you an R-rated movie, you're going to have to come back tomorrow, I'm not your babysitter and I'm not doing it."

Dustin just keeps grinning at her. Broadly.

"You know, Robin, we never talk," he says. Robin groans.

"Oh god, what now?" she asks. "And get off the counter, Keith's in the back and if he sees you he'll throw a fit."

"Keith is taking a nap back there and we both know it," Dustin scoffs. As if he doesn't know Keith's habits. "He only ever comes out of the back when Steve's working because he likes to make Steve do menial tasks while Keith hits on the hot girls that he thinks come in here because Steve's working."

"Fine, whatever, it's creepy that you know that," Robin sighs. "What do you want?"

"So I've been talking to Steve," Dustin says. "You know, our friend Steve. Pretty face, good hair, excellent reviews on the kissing front."

"Ew," says Robin. "Ew, no, you're twelve, don't talk about Steve kissing. Don't talk about Steve kissing at all!"

"Excuse me, one, I'm fourteen years old, I am in high school, where I just saw you earlier today, so it's not like you're that much older than me," Dustin says. "Two, if we don't talk about kissing Steve, how are we going to get you two over this weird little speedbump you're having where you're somehow not dating yet?"

Robin groans again. It's louder this time, and she also tips her head back to the sky while she does it. Dustin waits patiently.

"I'm not going to date Steve," she says. "Please stop bugging him about this, it's not going to happen. I don't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to talk about it, can you please just let this goooooo." She groans the last word, drawing it out like Mike when his mom tries to make him clean his room.

"Not until I see you two happy," Dustin says firmly, unmoved thanks to many years of being friends with Mike. "Steve is one of my best friends, and not only are you his other best friend, we've been through the heat of battle together, which means you're my friend too. I want both of you to be happy, and clearly there's nothing you like more than spending time together--"

"Yeah, because we're friends, Dustin, that's what friends do," she says, but Dustin has proof.

"Friends don't have to get jobs working at the same retail store even after their old one burned down," he begins.

"We're good coworkers and otherwise he'd have to break in a whole new set of coworkers who haven't had to deal with Dustin Henderson already for months," she says.

"You work well together, you compliment each other, you already get along with his other friends..."

"Not sure if 'getting along' is the right phrase right now," Robin mutters. Dustin ignores her.

"He's always giving you rides places, he's literally left a date to give you rides on multiple occasions --"

"Like he doesn't do the same for you!"

"Robin," Dustin says pityingly. "Leaving a date? When it's not the end of the world?" It's so obvious how much Steve likes her. Dustin's never seen him act like this with anybody since Nancy. Not that it's exactly the same as Steve used to act with Nancy, but clearly that's just because he's had time to grow and mature, and Robin's better than Nancy for him anyway. She keeps him from stressing out too much. "Driving you to school every morning even though he couldn't even get there on time most days when he was a student himself?"

"I don't have a license!"

"You really don't have to worry about it," Dustin says. "I happen to know for a fact that Steve would date you in an instant if you said yes."

Well. A strongly-supported scientific theory, anyway, which is basically the same thing. Anyway, it should be enough to get Robin spilling whatever self-doubt she's bottling up -- she's too nerdy, Steve only dates slutty cheerleader girls, whatever -- so Dustin can explain to her all the ways she's wrong, and they'll finally be taken care of.

"And I happen to know for a fact that he wouldn't, so how about you take the word of the person he's actually not dating and drop it?" Robin demands. She sounds on the verge of actually upset with him.

"But why?" Dustin demands right back. Which is really the crux of it, isn't it? Dustin has been asking the world why at every turn for fourteen solid years, and he has never let it back down without a fight.

"Steve likes you! You're at least as pretty as all those other girls, and it can't just be that you don't think you're cool enough for him, because lest we forget, the last time he was actually in love instead of just being kind of easy for any girl to look his way twice was with Nancy Wheeler, who is by definition a nerd!" Dustin lays his most damning evidence out rapid-fire, taking down Robin's arguments even if she hasn't made them yet. "He's a hot guy! He's kind of a catch! You're a cool girl! You actually like him back! What is the problem here!"

"Not every guy likes every girl just because they're a girl!" Robin fires back at him. "Not every girl is attracted to every guy! And you know, the fact that you think that is insulting and reductive, when some guys and girls don't even like girls or guys at all, and what would Suzie think, Dustin? What would Suzie think if she heard that you think every guy should date every girl he's friends with just because he's friends with her?"

"First of all, Suzie thinks you and Steve are destined to live happily ever after once he saves you in another bold act of heroism," Dustin informs her. Obviously. "Second of all, what do you mean, some guys don't like girls and girls don't like guys?"

And then Robin gets a look on her face. Dustin might have let it go, if Robin hadn't gotten that look on her face.

It's a split second of sheer panic. Robin ducks away from him, turns back to the Family Video checkout computer like she's trying to be casual, but her hands are anxious, picking up a stack of videos just to put them down, and she's not looking at him, and Dustin saw it. Dustin saw.

"It's just a thing, that happens sometimes, right?" Robin asks. "You can't just assume you know what somebody wants, that just because two people are both attractive they're going to want each other. You don't want to date Max, right?"

"Actually, yeah, I had a crush on Max when we first met, and I reconciled myself to her choice of Lucas in favor of slightly strained friendship until I discovered the love of my life in Suzie," Dustin informed her. "Much like Steve reconciled himself to Nancy's choice of Jonathan, until he met you and suddenly started spending all of his time with you. And anyway that's not what you said, you said that some guys don't like girls at all, which sounds like you're talking about gay people, which doesn't even..." Except that Dustin's thoughts are starting to catch up with his words, and he's trailing off, because. Because holy shit.

Steve dates so many girls. So many! He's constantly hitting on them and striking out, almost like he's just going through the motions, like he's not even trying except for appearances' sake. Even when he goes on actual dates they never last more than once or twice. And he's been doing it like that since high school, exactly like that. He's blown off dates to give Robin rides places. He's blown off dates to give Dustin rides places. He once blew off a date to sit in Mike Wheeler's basement and doze off on the couch while the Party spent three hours building D&D characters for their first-ever Hellfire Club campaign.

And Nancy? Nancy Wheeler, who Steve was totally in love with, except that according to Mike they started having problems basically as soon as the very first demogorgon fight was over and didn't stop for the next full year? Nancy who left him for Jonathan, who Steve is still friends with. Steve and Jonathan are better friends now than they were before he and Nancy broke up. Or at least they were before the Byers left for California, anyway, and that's basically the same thing, Jonathan was probably Steve's best friend actually his own age before he met Robin which was really sad, actually, but--

Steve getting super close with Robin after getting dosed with Russian drugs that were meant to make them tell the truth! Robin and Steve acting like they knew a secret that they couldn't tell anybody else or else!! Robin swearing up and down to the ends of the earth that she knows Steve doesn't want to date her for a mysterious reason she can't and won't explain!!!

"What, no, who said anything about gay people?" Robin is babbling, collecting more and more videos in her hands like a nervous D&D player who thinks hoarding dice is going to save them from a red dragon, but Dustin ignores her. "I just meant that attraction is complicated, and--"

"Holy shit," Dustin breathes. "Holy shit, is Steve Harrington gay?"

Robin drops the tapes.

[mzminola]

The Coalition

So very many Holds had turned from them, back then. Nabol and High Reaches might tithe, but only Fort, Ruatha, and their smallholders remained truly loyal. As well as the Healer and Harper Halls, of course. Neither of them would ever be unfaithful to the Weyr.

Lord Groghe blamed alchemy. F’lon’s father had blamed the other Weyrs for vanishing at the end of the last true Pass. Robinton thought blame wasn’t as important as deducing how to get them all back.

Before Thread returned

They had less than a decade now, if F’lon was right.

Next chapter of Dragon Alchemy, the Fullmetal Alchemist / Dragonriders of Pern fusion crossover is up on AO3!

[Prologue is on tumblr here]

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Ok so regarding the stranger things extended universe, i definitely want to know more about nancy and her storyline, like does this become her career ? investigating government conspiracies? And how does she feel about it? About not living a more peaceful life after everything?

After something like Hawkins, there are three ways to go if you want to keep sane, Nancy thinks. Or, well. As sane as any of them are, now.

Some of them went out into the world ready to grab life and joy with both hands and all their teeth, the memory of how close death came to devouring them enough to spur them on to devour life right back. (Eddie's playing Boston next week, wants to know if she'll go to his show; Max and El, last Nancy heard, are learning to surf.) Some of them went out into the world still full of combat reflexes they didn't mean to keep and tripped into a new fight, a slower quieter more mundane one. (She saw the photos Jonathan took last time he visited Steve and Robin in Chicago, the protests last month, the signs, the flags.) And some of them...well. Some of them left the lessons of Hawkins a little less behind than that.

They won in Hawkins, inasmuch as burned-out buildings and the town memorials and the deep scars cutting through a still-damaged downtown count as winning. That battle's fought and won and done. But Nancy hasn't forgotten who started it, and it wasn't Henry Creel.

(She'll argue with Dustin about it, over a mountain of fried shrimp and a pitcher of beer he's somehow old enough to legally buy, because Dustin's always cared more about the how than the why. He thinks the important lesson of Hawkins is that the laws of physics known by everybody across the global scientific community are wrong. They spend an hour and a half going back and forth about Oppenheimer and Eisenhower, Regan and Brezhnev and Martin Brenner, because one of the only differences between Vecna and a nuclear bomb is still the fact that nobody thinks Vecna could exist, but Dustin is wrong about why that's important.)

Science can do a thousand things nobody thinks it can do. Science can split an atom. Science can split dimensions. It doesn't matter why it's possible; it doesn't even really matter what's possible, beyond the fact that massive governments with thousands of soldiers and billions of dollars can always kill when they want to. Whether it's a bomb or a child experiment or a gas leak.

What matters, every time, is that people are dead. What matters is that the public needs to know.

Nancy makes her name in college breaking a story about illegal sewage dumping near a residential neighborhood before the Boston Globe even has it. She gets a professor fired for plagiarism. She almost gets expelled for libel when she tries to run a story about date rape on campus. (She almost gets caught slashing tires, after that one, but she learned from the best. Erica Sinclair taught her plenty about stealth, and Murray's been trying to drive in the idea of patience since the first time they met.)

It's not about monsters, it was never about monsters. There aren't any more monsters, Nancy thinks. (She keeps a licensed handgun in a shoebox in her apartment, because she ran out of ammo for the Makarov years ago, because monsters aren't the only things that like to threaten too-curious reporters in the middle of the night, and because you never know.) It's always been about the people the monsters destroy.

Nobody will ever believe the story of what destroyed Hawkins, probably. (Maybe someday they'll declassify. Nancy has a four-hundred-page memoir under lock and key in the safe where she doesn't store her gun, if the world ever gets there. Maybe she'll just pass it down to Mike's grandchildren.) But people know now that it was Hawkins National Lab. That some kind of government weapons research, right there on Indiana soil, broke a small town in half. That's something.

Nancy graduates college and interns anywhere she can get a foot in the door. The Globe. The Times. The Washington Post. The Post, finally, sticks. There's an editor there who loves to give new reporters just enough slack in their leashes to hang themselves with, so they can fill the back of the paper with issue-selling scandal and then have somebody to fire if the wrong person in power gets upset. Nancy does three months of research, jotting off puff pieces and human interest stories about charity work and bills with no opposition, quietly filling up file folders of photos and receipts and evidence that nobody can prove she didn't obtain legally. Her first headline runs on a Tuesday morning and gets a White House senior staffer fired by Thursday afternoon.

It could have gotten her clearing out her desk by the end of Friday, but Nancy was careful. Nancy was smart. It chafes from the inside out, like a blister on her soul, but she knows all about water it down. She could've implicated a dozen elected officials in this, and ten of them would have skated right by with no trouble, just plenty of cause to make Nancy trouble right back. (There are already people in Washington who know her name. Nancy knows there are files about her in the Pentagon.) So she's careful, she's delicate, and she implies nothing at all about anybody she can't demolish outright. She waters it down. It gets her a promotion.

.

Nancy doesn't drink icewater vodka, herself. She likes whiskey instead, in her coffee, in her tea. She talks on the phone with Murray Bauman at only the most irregular intervals, and he sneers at her in a way that Nancy's pretty sure translates, on Murray's tongue, to a colleague's respect. She tries not to lie. She's better at it, nowadays.

Nancy is hungry, has always been hungry. Has always been starving, one way or another, all the way back when she was twelve years old thirsting for adventure in the basement with her little brother, fifteen and ravenous for a challenge, an experience, the chance to grow up. She's choked on what she thought she wanted enough times that you'd think she'd learn by now. Mostly what it's done is toughen her teeth and teach her to chew.

She wants truth, and she can have it for herself, if she's good enough. If she doesn't try to force-feed it to the rest of the world too hard. She wants respect, she wants justice, she's selfish and selfless and hungry for all of it.

She wants to not be so afraid. She wants to not be so alone. She wants, sometimes, just once in a while, to be a little bit quiet and a little bit soft and rest.

It didn't work with Jonathan the same way it didn't work with Steve, or Liam, or Casey, or Diane. Nancy aches to be a little less alone, but she doesn't starve for it. Never once in her life has she been hungry for a person the way she's hungry for everything else. Never once in her life has she actually fallen in love back.

But Jonathan is at her front door again, because Jonathan is a yo-yo to all the people he's ever loved: backing off to give them time and space to grow, rocketing off into the world alone just for a little while, just as long as he can bear it, and then slinging himself back. Back to her again, this time.

Jonathan knows the score. Knows she loves him as much as she's ever loved anybody, other than Barb and Mike and her mother and Holly. And if it's not hunger -- if the closest Nancy has ever gotten to hunger for another person tends to happen in that oh-so-very, very discreet bar where Nancy can wear a perfectly-tailored suit and buy whiskey sours for girls in short skirts with no nightmares behind their eyes -- well, Nancy's never wanted most of them past the next morning anyway.

So sometimes Jonathan is on her couch and sometimes he's in her bed, and sometimes they fuck and sometimes all they do is sleep. When she needs a photojournalist, he's never once let her down. When she has nightmares, she wakes up just as terrified, but it's so much easier to pull herself together with someone to pull it together for. And Nancy Wheeler has never been in love, will never be in love, but she doesn't know what it could possibly have to offer that she could want more than that.

.

Does Nancy like her life? Wrong question. Stupid question. Better to ask if Nancy would have it any other way -- and well, yeah, she'd have a president who didn't sexually harass interns, a national defense budget that wasn't ten times the size of the department of education's, and a coffeemaker in the office that didn't get grounds in everything. She'd live in a world that didn't need her, find a new thing to be hungry about. Maybe she and Barb would both be on track for tenure by now.

In this world, she has half a dozen Pulitzer nominations and a Polk Award on her bookshelf. She has a locked filing cabinet full of other people's secrets and a locked safe full of her own. There's a file with her name on it somewhere in the Pentagon, although she hasn't managed to sneak in to read it yet. She's pretty sure the files on her desk about Pentagon staff are thicker.

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Kind of want to toss more snippets of things that probably won't become long extended fics up onto tumblr. So: Eddie/Chrissy, with deeply bisexual ADHD disaster child Eddie, because we deserve it. (Also background hints of Steve/Nancy, but rest assured Eddie is 100% projecting and highly incorrect about that dynamic.)

Chrissy lives, through sheer dumb luck -- a tape shoved into a player out of some vague idea in the back of Eddie's mind that he could be smooth, could maybe help a pretty girl who for some godforsaken reason seemed to like him have a good time -- and it's great, it's incredible, it's more luck than any of them should've ever dared hope for--

And Eddie is thrilled, obviously. Terrified out of his mind, pretty sure he should be running for the hills, but. Chrissy Cunningham is alive, and for some bizarre, unfathomable reason, she seems to like him.

It's just...jesus christ, what is he supposed to do with that?

It's not that Eddie doesn't like girls. Girls are pretty, and smell good, and have curves in places he's maybe imagined putting his hands a time or two (thousand), and have generally starred in at least thirty to forty percent of his favorite jerk-off fantasies for the past several years. But the general class of females of approximately his own age in Hawkins, Indiana have heretofore been somewhat disinclined to follow up on Eddie's occasional flirtations, and somehow he doesn't think the other skill set is going to be much help here.

It's just...look. Eddie knows, he knows goddamn well that for ninety-nine point nine percent of guys like him, whose eyes skate over the slope of a gentleman's broad shoulders as readily as the swell of a lady's hips, that the easy road would mean playing straight for sixty-some-odd years, marrying a nice girl who doesn't ask too many questions, and maybe getting the occasional blowjob in a truck stop bathroom from a pretty boy you pretend you don't want half as much as you actually do. Of course he knows that. He's given those blowjobs, a lot more often than he's ever had a nice girl like Chrissy Cunningham look at him twice. Because that's the thing, isn't it, once again the Munson luck striking right at the heart of things. Once again, Eddie isn't like every other guy in Hawkins or Indiana or, fuck, the whole damn world probably. Can't just do things the normal way. Has to do everything opposite, and look where that's gotten him lately.

Truck-stop bathrooms are easy. The grit of them, the feel of cold tile through thin denim, the taste of latex and the smell of musk and sweat and come, a thick-fingered hand in his hair and the press of tight muscle under his fingertips, the rush of knowing that even on his knees, he's the one with the power here -- it's good. It's so good, the back rooms of that bar in Indy where one flash of his fake ID gets him an all-access pass to all the sex a boy could want, no strings attached. Slipping into that space is almost as easy, as natural, as slipping into the DM's seat at Hellfire. He doesn't even have to change his look, just makes sure the bandana is tucked into the correct pocket and they come to him, ready to let Eddie take the reins and drag them into something just painful enough to be really satisfying when they make it through to the end.

That's the thing about being a freak. That's the thing, that's always the thing, the backwards mixed-up thing in Eddie's brain that had him reading Tolkien before he turned nine but can't get through one Charles Dickens novel without wanting to scrape himself out of his own skin. He can calculate probabilities and percentage tables for a D&D game in his sleep but can't sit still through a single math class. It took less than a week to get note-perfect on the entire Master of Puppets guitar solo and six years might not be enough to graduate high school.

So yeah, Eddie knows how to be a freak and a faggot, can take a grown man to pieces with his hands and his voice and his dick if he just clicks into that zone where he has all the power to shape the world the way he wants it. That doesn't mean he has any goddamn idea what to do when Chrissy Cunningham smiles at him like that and he trips over his own feet.

He should be looking at Harrington. Steve goddamn Harrington is striding around like that, absolutely shirtless, streaked in dirt and his own blood like some goddamn primal warrior come to life. That would be safe. Safer. Something. Pretty boy in just the right amount of pain, Eddie should be enjoying the eye candy, but he can't because: 1) they're literally in hell and monsters could come after them at any time, 2) Nancy Wheeler apparently has a bedroom full of actual guns and is still in love with her ex-boyfriend, so Eddie's pretty sure he'd better keep his eyes to himself if he wants to keep them at all, and 3) far more importantly than all of that, Chrissy is scared enough to be holding his hand and he's terrified that his palms might be sweating. She's so pretty. He wants her to actually like him so, so badly. This is an absolute nightmare.

"You doing okay?" he asks Chrissy quietly, letting her lean on his arm to help her over some rough terrain when they have to take a detour around a knot of vines. She clutches at his sleeve and smiles timidly, putting on a brave face that makes Eddie want to do something insane like find a suit of shining armor just so he can bow to her in it.

"We're going to be fine," she says. "We just have to get to Nancy's house and it'll all be okay. Right?"

"Gonna let Wheeler make you a a total badass with a gun?" Eddie asks, and then mentally kicks himself. Who flirts with a girl by calling her a total badass? How do smooth guys flirt with girls if they stick around past the initial five minutes of inviting them to come see your band, which literally no girl has ever actually said yes to before? Eddie isn't even sure he has a band any more, if Chrissy's ex-boyfriend has anything to say about it, which means he's kind of out of ideas.

Eddie has one blinding, insane moment of wondering what would Jason Carver do here? before he almost chokes on his own tongue. Fuck. He really can't do this.

"Maybe," Chrissy says, a little shy, and slides her hand down his arm to slip her palm into his again. "Do you think I could?"

There's a smudge of dirt on her perfect nose. Eddie wants to lick it off. Oh god he's a freak. You can't lick cheerleaders. Fuck, Eddie doesn't even know how to go down on a girl. Fuck, why did he think about that. It doesn't matter! He's never going to get the chance! Chrissy is never going to want him to touch her like that anyway!

"I think if the last few days have proven anything, it's that literally anything is possible," Eddie says, and then realizes he just implied that Chrissy being a badass is even more unlikely than alternate dimensions, which is probably even worse than calling her one in the first place, and holy shit, how is it even possible to be this awful at this? Why is she still standing here with him? "I mean, I could even stop being a coward who apparently runs away from absolutely everything, which I've discovered I am now, that's how weird things are, so yeah, compared to that, Chrissy, I think you could absolutely be a badass if you wanted to be."

"I don't think you're a coward," Chrissy says, and she's stepping closer, why is she stepping closer, tucking their arms together. "I mean, I couldn't even run away. He would've gotten me right there, if you hadn't..."

"Luckily I think Harrington and Wheeler are big enough heroes for all of us." Eddie catches sight of them up ahead, Wheeler on point like a hunting hound leading the way, Harrington keeping watch on all sides with that flashlight ready to spring into action at any minute. It should probably be Harrington back here with Chrissy, if he and Wheeler weren't so obviously the perfect battle couple together. Hell, even Buckley, who's up front with Nancy right now and who Eddie knows he clocked checking out Chrissy's legs earlier. She's awkward, yeah, but on her it'd be endearing, and maybe Chrissy deserves better than cowardly asshole boys for a while anyway.

She definitely deserves better than Eddie. She tugs him out of the way of a vine half a second before he trips over it in the dark, like a klutz and a dumbass, and Eddie curses himself for a failure.

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Yes! It's here! The next chapter of the platonically-married Steve and Robin fic has been committed and posted.

This one went like pulling teeth in a few places, but I'm really proud of how it turned out. Go check it out!

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i am also clamouring for more SPOUSES but for options, i also want fake boyfriend fun

We got fake boyfriends! (Well. Eventually there will be fake boyfriends here. For now, Steve is having a rough one and Chrissy is There To Help.)

“Uh, hey, Uncle Richard,” he starts. Whatever he's about to ask for, he's smart not to go to her mother, Chrissy thinks, and then wants to kick herself for disloyalty.  “I’m going to see my friend Robin today, I promised her, so can I get my keys?  Promise I won’t go out partying with it.” Dad folds his paper to the side and frowns over his eggs and toast.  “Steven, I’m pretty sure Laura said you’re not supposed to be behind the wheel for another week.” “I mean, yeah, the doctors said maybe, but I’m good to drive,” Steve says.  “My eye’s cleared up, my head doesn’t hurt, and I’m just going over to the other side of town to see her.  We were coworkers at Starcourt, you know, so she’s pretty worried about me.” It’s the kind of charm that Chrissy knows he’s used to talk half a dozen of the older girls on the cheerleading squad into dates, but she can already tell it’s not working.  Dad looks sympathetic, but not in a changing-his-mind way. “She should come over here,” he suggests.  “She’s more than welcome.  Unless she’s injured too?” “No, she’s fine, but she doesn’t have a car,” says Steve.  “Which I do, so I promised, so—” “Well you shouldn’t have done that,” Dad scolds, when anybody can see that Aunt Deb and Uncle Stuart have probably never cared about that before in Steve's life. Chrissy can’t stand it if this turns into an argument, not after five whole days without one in this house. “I can drive,” she blurts out, almost before she realizes she’s going to.

It's a whole WIP week this week! ✨apply peer pressure, receive WIP snippet✨

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

We've done it, it's here, the Steve-and-Robin-get-(Platonically)-married story has migrated to AO3 where it has a second chapter. And a final chapter count. And like, a plan.

Go! Enjoy! Tell all your friends! Share with me this hope that my writing mojo has returned for long enough to get more than one fic out this time!

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Prompt: Critical Role (fandom), Vex'ahlia/Saundor (pairing), Fork-in-the-Road AU (fanfic trope). Have fun (encouragement).

:P

Seriously though, this one was a fun stretch! A slightly different fork than the obvious one.

“Westruun’s to the left, yeah?” Vax said.  Vex had an orphaned bear cub clinging to her back, a half-healed stab wound, a half-starved brother.  They went right.

Syngorn is like Vex, too cowardly for the world, fleeing at the first sign of danger.  She can’t stay put after thinking it, so she slips out into the Feywild woods.  Vex isn’t good for much, but after decades in this city, at least she can sneak.

She’s not sure what turns brought her to this part of the Feywild.  The tree drips darkness.

“You’ve come alone?” the archfey asks.  “Sweet, broken Vex’ahlia.”