Comentários (6)

19 minutes ago

🥵I’ve been such a bad boy 🥵

OP23 minutes ago

@smut317 @azariel @heihund @poly7 @usagi77 @salazar01 @murcie @saltymajor778 @kidd163 @cereus7

peterco

23m atrás

🚇 Lyra's Underpass Diary, Entry 7-10

We last saw Lyra, a blue-haired emo girl, who never wears panties, before Christmas. It was so long ago that many of you weren't even born yet... here on BW 😆 I never finished her story though. Maybe now is the right time to do it, as my contribution to the "Alter Ego" Challenge 😏 (And I have no credits to generate anything new 🙈) @cef_ultra @octavian @warmicestudios @parda @cro_bo @terror2 @barry915 @bad77 @thoughtzi @candylover @gildenstein @reptorn @artfx85 @kendarfulgrim @doggomage @zerogroupe21 @goobygubby @ririfake @casca_kirei-onna @a_casual_prompter So... At the next interchange, Lyra rises with the crowd and slips out just before the doors close behind her. She changes lines. Onto an older branch of the subway, where the stations are smaller, the lights dimmer, and the trains rattle through tunnels that seem to belong to another age. Twenty minutes later, she emerges onto a quiet dark street. Night has settled over the city. Lyra walks three blocks beneath flickering streetlamps until she reaches an old apartment building squeezed between two newer towers. Its stone façade is stained by decades of rain, its entrance narrow and unremarkable. She pushes through the heavy door and crosses the deserted lobby, presses the highest button... The elevator groans upward. Four. Seven. Ten. Twelve. With every floor, something in her changes. The shy girl who spent the afternoon avoiding people's gazes seems to disappear somewhere between the floors. Ding. The elevator stops. Lyra steps into a narrow service corridor, climbs the final flight of stairs, and pushes open a steel door. Cold night air rushes toward her. The rooftop stretches beneath a black sky, surrounded by a glittering wilderness of windows, antennas and distant neon. Far below, traffic flows through the streets like rivers of red and white light. Lyra walks toward the little maintenance shed beside the elevator machinery. Hidden behind a loose panel is a narrow metal case. She opens it. Black fabric. Gloves. A mask. Cat ears... Lyra smiles. Only slightly. A sleek black superhero outfit hugs her silhouette, practical and almost entirely matte, broken only by subtle dark-blue details that catch the city lights. Her dark-blue ponytail spills freely behind her now, dancing in the wind. She walks to the edge of the roof. The girl who couldn't look a stranger in the eye stands twelve floors above the street and calmly looks down at the entire city. A siren wails somewhere in the distance. Her eyes narrow behind the mask. By daylight, she is Lyra — the quiet emo girl in the back of the room, hood up, headphones around her neck, hoping nobody will notice her. But night belongs to someone else. Someone bolder. Someone dangerous. Lyra places one boot on the parapet. The wind catches her ponytail. A tiny grin appears on her lips. “Okay,” she whispers. Then she pulls the mask firmly into place. “Let’s see who needs me tonight.”