#favorite line written

[lajulie24]

For the fic writer asks!

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

and/or

✨️ Out of the comments you’ve received on your fics, what are two or three of your favorites?

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

Wow, so difficult to choose — but here’s one of my favorites, from Tramps Like Us:

This is what I was born to do. What he was born to do. They were no longer running away, they were running to. To Luke and Chewie, to the Falcon, to the Rebellion, to each other. To freedom, to life. Baby, we’ll never go back.

✨ Out of the comments you’ve received on your fics, what are two or three of your favorites?

Again, very difficult to choose, but here are some that stand out:

- One reader said that my dialogue was distinctive enough for each character that they could tell who was speaking without needing to look at the “he said” directions, that they could hear my Leia, Han, Luke, Wedge, and others by the way they spoke.

- I’ve had readers say that they could hear Carrie’s voice in my Leia, and I feel like that is a high compliment.

- On one of my smut pieces, someone commented not only that it was some of the best HanLeia smut they’d read (which, damn! There is some good smut out there, too) but also said “I never thought I could have emotions about a hand or blowjob…but I did and it was great.” I always get nervous about writing smut so that one was really appreciated (although I will be honest that I did not have “gave someone feelings about a blowjob” on my fic writer bingo card).

Thank you so much for the ask!

Fanfic writer emoji asks!

[numbuh424]

I just love it when death note adaptations get meta. When they point out that this story has already been told before. Deep down, L and Light know they're bound to their roles, that they've done this all before, and that this story can only and will only ever go one way for them.

[kazbiter]

lovedddd <333 loved reading "get in line thou big slut" soooo much first of all I laughed out loud but secondly it doesn't matter how u change the narration u truly can recognize the voice of gideon nav anywhere she literally never disappoints

[strwbrryfire]

papaya rules : a landoscar poem

[This isn’t regret or guilt. This is betrayal in its sharpest form. You don’t get to wish you weren’t tossing him into the fire they burn.]

[atchamcrepin]

A still frame from the animatic I'm working on. The japanese text is just a lyric from the song～ 😺

[totalshockwaves]

Dear Diary, my stupid sexy mortal looney tunes'd their way out of another trap today! the roller coaster cart somehow managed to jump back onto the track after that useless camera threw it off the first time! I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW THAT'S EVEN POSSIBLE!?

ps. I saw a really cute picture of an axlotl today with a little hat on; it looked something like this

I really loved supernatural bf bullying simulator 2k23

[transuncletaylor]

I think we're sleeping on the idea of Sokka getting to be a stage mom during the summers when they take Izumi to Ember Island where she auditions for the Ember Island Players' summer show

[syl-stormblessed]

low-star goodreads reviews of Harrow the Ninth are so funny. some people genuinely only read the book once and it shows

[hollandorks]

haven

battinson! bruce wayne x f! reader

chapter six

Summary: After the sudden deaths of your mother and grandmother, you’re forced to return home to Gotham…and to the man who broke your heart three years ago. Back in Bruce Wayne’s inescapable orbit, you vow to get to the bottom of your former best friend’s new cold personality. But Bruce’s secrets aren’t what you’re expecting. a

a/n: Slowing down a little in this chapter and giving a fun bit of insight into their relationship! With angst, of course. This fic is so much fun to write, I'm glad to see that others are enjoying it too! Also not to beg but I'm begging you to comment, reblog with comments/ comments in the tags, or message/ send an ask if you like this fic. I literally live off of feedback and have been getting mostly likes and maybe 5-6 people commenting. Anyways, enjoy!

Series Masterlist

word count: 2.7k

She might be able to expose a mob conspiracy and the Batman’s identity in one fell swoop. 

It was all she could think of as Gordon drove her home.

Y/n was fourteen years old when she realized that she wanted to kiss Bruce Wayne. She had only recently realized that she wanted to kiss anyone at all, and for some reason, her mind kept going back to Bruce. 

She still remembered the exact moment. 

It was in that moment, too, that she realized she loved Bruce as a bit more than her best friend. 

They were doing homework in the study under Alfred’s watchful eye. It had only been a few years since the death of his parents and Bruce was slowly but surely shifting into the anger stage of grief. He’d gone from shy and scared and emotional to angry and sullen and withdrawn. 

As they worked, Bruce nudged her knee with his and nodded to where Alfred had dozed off. They shared a secret smile and immediately quit working–they’d start again once Alfred woke. They hadn’t needed to say a word to communicate. Almost ten years of being friends had given them a silent language. 

And as the buttery golden afternoon light poured through the window and lit Bruce’s face, she felt it. 

Bruce was just going through puberty, his voice cracking and deepening, his body growing to that gangly, awkward height of teenage boys. She knew he was becoming a man. The thought always made a little swoop go through her stomach.

As he smiled that secret smile, she studied him. His lips looked chapped but, at fourteen, she’d never seen anything more alluring. 

She realized that he never smiled at anyone, even Alfred. Especially Alfred. And not her sweet, patient grandmother either, who easily coaxed smiles from y/n even when she was in the worst of teenage moods. 

Bruce only smiled for her. 

It was that realization that made her heart want to lay a claim to him. Quietly yet suddenly, her love for Bruce shifted into something more. And she wanted to kiss the smile from his lips like the bold women in the romantic comedies she liked. 

But it wasn’t until she was sixteen that she had her first kiss with a boy. And he hadn’t been Bruce Wayne. 

Two weeks after that, she had her first kiss with a girl to see if she liked that better. 

But the girl hadn’t been Bruce Wayne either. 

And every kiss after that, boy or girl or otherwise, was not Bruce Wayne, and it never measured up. She’d never kissed him, ever, in their entire lives together, but her heart knew that it would never want anything or anyone else. 

Kissing Bruce wasn’t what y/n dreamt that night, though, after she got home from her secret meeting with a cop and a vigilante. 

No, it was the last time she had slept in Bruce’s bed. 

As children, they had been almost like security blankets to each other. She had been only five years old when her mother had abandoned her for good and she had come to live at Wayne Tower with her grandmother. Her first nightmare woke her to a tiny face with bright blue eyes surrounded by wild, dark hair. 

“I have scary dreams too,” he’d whispered and then scooched up on her bed. They played with the dinosaur toys he’d brought with him until they fell asleep, side by side. It was as easy as that. She and Bruce became inseparable. Often they would sneak into each others’ rooms and play with various toys until falling asleep. 

And after the murder of the Waynes…most nights they spent together, two children seeking safety and comfort with each other in the way only children knew how. For three years, Bruce couldn’t sleep without her. 

But, as they grew older, Alfred and Dory forbade it, saying it wasn’t proper. They’d each, separately, gotten the birds and the bees talk. 

They were eighteen, a week from graduation, the last time it happened. By that age, y/n had harbored her secret crush for four years. She struggled to maintain that fine line between remaining his best friend and acting normal, and soaking up all of the attention he would give her like a plant left in the dark for too long searching for sunlight. 

That was back in his street racing days, where he invented new ways to make cars go faster then took to the streets to test them out. Alfred had caught him sneaking out that night and Bruce was angry. Too angry. She listened to them argue until she heard Bruce’s bedroom door slam and then slam again. 

So she’d ordered one of every kind of pizza (with his card of course, nice and new for his eighteenth birthday) and dug out all of the soda and snacks both salty and sweet she could find. They were going to have a movie night, and all of Bruce’s favorites would be featured. She had found over the years that Bruce could be cheered by unhealthy snacks and quiet company. Her other option was to create a distraction so he could actually sneak out, but she was selfish and wanted to spend time with him before college changed their lives. 

It took him a while to settle down and stop pacing and cursing, but finally, finally, he got sucked into the movie. Within an hour, he had given in and relaxed. 

It was one of those moments, frequent throughout her life, where he smiled just for her, and she fell a little bit more in love. 

The dream she was having at that moment wasn’t exactly right with the details. In the way of dreams, everything was slightly off, the proportions wrong, the specifics muddled. The food was blurry, incorporeal, the TV too close to the ceiling. The bed took up most of the room when in reality the room itself was huge.

But the feeling? The feeling was the same. 

She was in Bruce’s arms. He was a clinger when he slept, like she was a teddy bear that soothed him. In a way, she was, simply because of the habit formed in childhood. 

In the dream, she was safe once more in the haven of his arms. His breath tickled the hairs on the back of her neck and he was so, so warm. In life, she had rolled away because being too close to him had been almost painful in how right it felt. 

In the dream, she curled closer. 

She had missed their easy closeness. Even after they stopped sharing a bed, they had hugged or spoken in nudges or touches like the best friends they were. It was another of those things like his smiles that he reserved only for her. 

All that had stopped three years ago. 

Now, safe in the dream, y/n burrowed into Bruce’s comforting warmth. 

She felt whole. 

The grief, the pain, all of it was gone as his arms tightened around her. 

When she woke, her cheeks were wet. 

She and Bruce would never share that closeness again. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, she could see that that final night was the beginning of the end. College had further separated them, though the years after had made them close again. 

So close that she had felt confident in spilling her biggest secret. 

Only to have her heart broken. 

She was struck with the sudden need to see Bruce, to tell him she was sorry, to tell him she missed him, to tell him she forgave him for those awful words spoken between them. She wanted to be friends again. Even if it hurt. Even if he never loved her like she loved him. 

I don’t love you, and I never will. 

But he had loved her as a friend, once, and maybe still did. Maybe things weren’t ruined–maybe, with enough time, enough effort, they could be patched. 

Any alternative was better than her current reality. She couldn’t live next to him like strangers, ignoring their shared past. She couldn’t stop loving him, even if she only ever got to do so as a friend. 

She shoved her blankets away and rose unsteadily to her feet. She was still half-asleep, her brain sluggish, her eyes heavy. 

She couldn’t stop crying. 

She wanted, for a moment, to not feel so alone. 

She wandered to Bruce’s room first, but it was dark and empty. She couldn’t bring herself to enter completely the site of her heartbreak, so she searched the study next, where he could sometimes be found curled up with a book or tuning his guitar. Then she looked in the kitchen and all of the guest rooms. 

His parents’ room was still padlocked, as it had been for two decades, and she knew he wasn’t in there. 

Nothing in the library or gym, either, or the room with a desk he had named his office but never used. 

Nothing but dust and ghosts in the entire place. 

She just needed to see him. Just needed to tell him that she forgave him. Just needed him to tell her they could be friends again. Just needed him to tell her that he didn’t hate her. 

There was only one place left to search. 

She hadn’t been in Bruce’s private elevator in a long time. His elevator was for his use only, more private than even the private residential elevator. There were three destinations–the residence, a private exit to the parking garage, and the basement. 

In their late teens and early twenties, when Bruce was into modifying cars and racing them illegally, he had converted the abandoned Wayne Terminus station into a garage of sorts. Last she had seen it–maybe eight or ten years before–he had three cars all in varying stages of disarray. 

She pressed the button to take her down into the very depths of Wayne Tower. 

Nothing happened. 

She pressed it again. And again. 

She frowned. 

As far as she knew, this was the only way into that garage except for a secret tunnel that had been part of the old subway line. It opened miles away, though, and she had never been out that way. She wouldn’t even know where to start looking if she decided to try to find the end of it. 

She thumped a closed fist beside the panel and cursed colorfully. 

Could nothing go her way? It was thing after thing after thing the past few days and it all caught up with her when that stupid elevator button didn’t work. 

She didn’t fight the tears. 

It was all too much. Too much pain, too much loss, too much fear, too much everything. It had been the worst fucking week of her life and even the potential of her article wasn’t enough to temper it. She had survived, but at what cost? To have no one, nothing? To be murdered at some future date? To have a fucking mob hit out on her? 

The worst part was that she didn’t want to die, even though it would have been so much easier. 

Y/n sobbed and slid to the cold metal floor of the elevator. 

“Fuck,” she mumbled as she tapped the floor with her knuckles. She remembered the pain of the night Bruce broke her heart, as if it had been carved out, how she’d had to wrap her arms around her middle so as not to fall apart. That pain was back, but worse this time, because her grandmother wasn’t there to put her back together. 

She just wanted–she didn’t know what she wanted. She wanted things the way they used to be, before that night three years ago. She wanted her grandmother alive and her whole life ahead of her and Bruce to still be her friend. 

But she knew it was naive. Everything had changed and there was no way out except through. 

Yet how could she get through this? She drew up her knees and tucked her head down. How could she get through this without her best friend? Without her grandmother? Her life was at risk and she had nothing but the flimsiest bit of protection that Wayne Tower provided. She had no one to talk to, no one to make her feel better. 

The only thing she could do was investigate things herself. She could only get herself out of this mess. She only had herself to rely on now. 

The thought hurt. She cried on the floor of that small, dingy elevator for a long time. She cried for the girl she used to be. She cried for her grandmother. For her mother. For the loss of Bruce as a friend. For the fear that haunted her now. 

Her eyes fluttered open later as she felt herself moving through the air. 

It must have been a dream, because she was in Bruce Wayne’s arms. He glanced down at her with tired blue eyes. His dark hair was lank with sweat and plastered to his forehead, halfway in his eyes. Her eyes slid closed before she could focus on the darkness around the blue. 

It was a nice dream, especially after the overwhelming grief that had crippled her in the elevator. Her subconscious needed the comfort. 

She nuzzled her head into Bruce’s warm neck and hummed. He smelled like sweat and motor oil and Bruce. His heart thumped steadily in her ear where she rested her head. 

“I miss you,” she murmured, content in the fact that it wasn’t real. She could tell dream Bruce anything she wanted. 

But he was so warm, and she was so tired. 

She drifted off again.  

–

When y/n woke again, she was in her own bed. 

She stretched languidly. She could immediately tell she’d slept deep and well for once. 

Then she sat bolt upright. 

She had fallen asleep in the elevator, not her bed. 

Hadn’t she? 

She frowned. Maybe getting up and searching for Bruce had been the dream. The entire night had edges fuzzy with grief and exhaustion. Maybe she had searched for Bruce and fallen asleep in the elevator, only to walk back to bed half asleep. 

The only thing she knew for sure was that Bruce Wayne hadn’t carried her to bed. There was no way that had been real. Because only someone who still cared for her would carry her back to bed, tuck her in gently. And Bruce didn’t care for her anymore. 

Her heart ached all over again. 

She missed him. 

To keep her mind off of it, she decided to go ahead and get together an update and outline for her new editor Jansen. She didn’t have much, but she included the new knowledge of one suspect’s supposed suicide. After a quick search, she saw that the news hadn’t been released to the press yet. Score one for Gordon as an informant. 

The word informant rang a bell in her mind and she quickly searched her personal email for a response from Officer Martinez. 

Dear y/n, 

Thank you for reaching out. I’m real sorry you haven’t been doing well. I can promise that Lieutenant Gordon is the best there is for this case and he’ll do everything he can to catch the guy. 

One suspect committed suicide rather than tell us anything about the one who got away. But another one seemed scared by that and told us that the Gallo family had sent them. Maybe you’ve heard of them–New York mobsters. 

If you feel scared at all or see anything suspicious, here’s my cell number. I’ll also include Lieutenant Gordon’s in case you can’t reach me. 

We’ll keep you safe.

Best, 

Officer Martinez

It was a professional but sweet response. 

And it scared her.

Confirmed ties to the Gallo family didn’t bode well for her. For Gotham, either. That meant they were reaching into the city, trying to fill the holes that Falcone left behind. 

She cursed quietly and added that to her list of clues. 

She rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t even had coffee yet. 

First, she needed caffeine. 

Then she needed to make a plan to figure out what the hell was going on. 

If only it were that simple. She had no contacts or sources in Gotham–at least none that would be able to tell her about the Gallo family. 

All she had was an eager cop, a detective, and the detective’s vigilante best friend. 

She hoped it would be enough.

Next Chapter

taglist:

@ktficworld @grunge-n-roses5 @anon-cat-posts @projectdreamwalker @warsaur @lachillona02 @crazyunsexycool @doetic @alexiris @that-girl-named-alex @harry-bowie-mercury @vaniasagitaa @widows-writings @missing-loki @exactlyelegantwizard

[theplottdump]

Hinoki: Orange sweetheart, you stream online for a living, correct? Poppy: 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶- Hinoki: Oh darling I'm not a shut in, Octavia and I go to the same spin class remember? Your mother is always bragging about what a success you've become! Orange: She does?

Hinoki: Must be tiring work. Tell me- how many times do you ejaculate, 𝟱? 𝟭𝟬? 𝟭𝟮 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗱𝗮𝘆?

Poppy: 𝙈 𝙊 𝙈 . Orange: /𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨/

Hinoki: What? Did I say something wrong? Poppy: Mother, Orange doesn't do porn.

Hinoki: No? What a waste. Such a body. Tell me darling, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 your sperm count like? Must be terribly high for someone so young. Lots of real potential in there. Poppy: 𝙈𝙊𝙈. Hinoki: Like little celebrity stars twinkling in your testicles.

Poppy: Mother, I am asking you nicely to 𝗟𝗔𝗬 𝗢𝗙𝗙.

Hinoki: I'm just asking some simple questions baby. Really, there's no reason for such hostile brunch behavior. Besides, Orange is a grown boy, I'm sure he can handle himself just fine- don't you think Poppy?

[nerdy-hyperfixations]

When I was like 8 I heard about the creation of the comic sans font, and it inspired me to make a font called "robot font" that looks almost exactly like Bill's handwriting in the BoB

This isn't important at all. I'm not claiming that I'm Bill or anything

I am, however, claiming that ALEX HIRSCH STOLE MY FONT. I WILL BE TAKING LEGAL ACTION.

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

Stede is a cryptid hunter on a team setting out to find the kraken. Ed is literally a kraken. Can I make it any more obvious?

My Ocean Deep is now complete! This a 65k, E-rated fic with some suspense, some angst, and lots and lots of love. If you're into actual Kraken!Ed, sweet protective Stede, monsterfucking, monsterloving, the crew as a family, or you just want to see what it would be like if Ned Low was just a really fucked up marine biologist, give this one a shot!

[fictionadventurer]

First Letter from Julia I. Sand to Chester A. Arthur

[1881 Aug 27]

To the Hon Chester A. Arthur.

The hours of Garfield's life are numbered--before this meets your eye, you may be President. The people are bowed in grief; but--do you realize it?--not so much because he is dying, as because you are his successor. What President ever entered office under circumstances so sad! The day he was shot, the thought rose in a thousand minds that you might be the instigator of the foul act. Is not that a humiliation which cuts deeper than any bullet can pierce? Your best friends said: "Arthur must resign--he cannot accept office, with such a suspicion resting upon him." And now your kindest opponents say: "Arthur will try to do right"--adding gloomily--"He won't succeed, though--making a man President cannot change him."

But making a man President can change him! At a time like this, if anything can, that can. Great emergencies awaken generous traits which have lain dormant half a life. If there is a spark of true nobility in you, now is the occasion to let it shine. Faith in your better nature forces me to write to you--but not to beg you to resign. Do what is more difficult and more brave. Reform! It is not the proof of highest goodness never to have done wrong--but it is a proof of it, sometime in one's career, to pause and ponder, to recognize the evil, to turn resolutely against it and devote the remainder of ones life to that only which is pure and exalted. Such revolutions of the soul are not common. No step towards them is easy. In the humdrum drift of daily life, they are impossible. But once in a while there comes a crisis which renders miracles feasible. The great tidal wave of sorrow which has rolled over the country, has swept you loose from your old moorings and set you on a mountain-top, alone. As President of the United States--made such by no election, but by a national calamity--you have no old associations, no personal friends, no political ties, you have only your duty to the people at large. You are free--free to be as able and as honorable as any man who ever filled the presidential chair.

Your past--you know best what it has been. You have lived for worldly things. Fairly or unfairly, you have won them. You are rich, powerful--tomorrow, perhaps, you will be President. And what is it all worth? Are you peaceful--are you happy? What if a few days hence the hand of the next unsatisfied ruffian should lay you low, and you should drag through months of weary suffering, in the White House, knowing that all over the land not a prayer was uttered in your behalf, not a tear shed, that the great American people was glad to be rid of you--would not worldly honors seem rather empty then?

Make such things impossible. Rise to the emergency. Disappoint our fears. Force the nation to have faith in you. Show from the first that you have none but the purest aims. It may be difficult at once to inspire confidence, but persevere. In time--when you have given reason for it--the country will love and trust you. If any man says, "With Arthur for President, Civil Service Reform is doomed," prove that Arthur can be its firmest champion. Do not thrust on the people politicians who have forfeited their respect--no matter how near they may be to you as personal friends. Do not remove any man from office unnecessarily. Appoint those only of marked ability and of sterling character. Such may not be abundant, but you will find them, if you seek them. You are far too clever to be easily deceived. In all your policy, have none but the highest motives. With the lamp of patriotism in your hand, your feet will not be likely to stumble.

Do you care for applause? Of course, you have had it, after a fashion. Perhaps from the dregs of the populace, inspired by the lowest of politicians. Possibly it pleased you at the time--it may have served some purpose that you solved then. But in the depths of your soul, do you not despise it? Would not one heart-felt "God bless you!" from the honest and true among your countrymen, be worth ten thousand times more? You can win such blessing, if you will.

Your name now is on the annals of history. You cannot slink back into obscurity, if you would. A hundred years hence, school boys will recite your name in the list of Presidents and tell of your administration. And what shall posterity say? It is for you to choose whether your record shall be written in black or in gold. For the sake of your country, for your own sake and for the sakes of all who have ever loved you, let it be pure and bright.

As one of the people over whom you are to be President, I make you this appeal. Perhaps you have received many similar. If not, still believe that this expresses the thoughts in many hearts, today--and do not give those who have had faith in you, cause for regret.

Yours Respectfully,

Julia I. Sand.

46 E. 74th st. New York.

Aug 27th 1881.

[skyward-floored]

Pup

I was looking through my fics since ao3 is back up, and realized I never put this one on tumblr?? A crime. But here it is now. Bapy Twi and protective Hero’s Shade Time for your reading pleasure :)

Ao3 link

————————————————————

There’s a child crying.

A sharp golden ear pricks as the sound of it flits past, soft cries interspersed with hiccups that are desperately trying to be muffled. It’s a fair distance away, the wind carrying the sound of it through the forest, and the ear’s owner glances around and twitches his other ear as the sound continues.

There shouldn’t be anyone in this part of the woods.

A frown tugs his mouth, as much as it can in the form he’s currently in. He’d felt he’d be needed soon in the land of the living, the cure for his spirit’s restlessness drawing nearer by the day, so he’d drawn closer to the kingdom he’d once been the hero of, settling into the form of a divine beast as he’d padded through the woods, waiting and watching.

And then the crying had begun.

He raises his head, his ears flicking, and listens intently, following the quiet sounds towards their origin. Brambles tug his golden fur, but he pulls his way past the thickets, certain that if his hearing wasn’t so sensitive, he likely wouldn’t have heard the child at all.

He hasn’t been walking for long when the crying abruptly goes quiet, cutting off with a fearful whimper. He freezes, sharply pricking his ears before lowering his nose to the ground instead.

He filters out the smells of the forest, ignoring the fresh plants and musky scents of other beasts, searching instead for that of a child. It takes a moment, but a soft, young scent finally wafts into his nostrils, hints of pine and soft hay spiked with fear throughout it... but there’s something else making up the scent of the child that makes him start.

A faint musk of horses, and milk too.

A scent he knows intimately.

He quickly finds the direction where the scent of the child is coming most strongly from, and takes off at an even faster pace than before. The crying had concerned him, but the absence of it worries him even further, and the realization of who this child must be has him trotting rapidly between the trees.

All of a sudden a cry rings out, sharp with fear, and he bolts, paws pounding against dirt and moss alike.

He nearly trips on the roots that stick up from the ground, and mud tries to slip him up, but he ignores them all and runs even quicker, grateful for his long, powerful legs. His fur stands on end as he suddenly enters a clearing, and the reek of monsters hits his nose, but the beasts aren’t what he focuses on.

He only has eyes for the small child huddled on the opposite side of the clearing from him.

The boy can’t be older than two, dirty brownish-blonde hair brushing his face, blue-grey eyes widened with fear. Tears shine in his eyes, and he’s trembling where he’s cornered solidly against a large tree. The sight of him is almost entirely blocked off by monsters, all with weapons drawn and malicious grins twisting their already grotesque faces even further.

But what most sets his hackles rising and a growl rumbling through his chest, is the sight of the tip of a blood-red blade pointed at the child’s neck, held by a foe the golden wolf knows well.

A Shadow.

He growls, and the shifting darkness turns, glancing towards him with a startled look in his eye. But the emotion is quickly smothered, replaced instead with an amused smirk.

“Now this is a pleasant surprise,” he remarks nonchalantly, as if he’d suddenly dropped by for tea rather than found him about to murder a young child in the middle of the woods. “You’re looking quite a bit older than last I saw you. But I suppose regret does weigh a man down, doesn’t it?”

He lets out a deeper growl in response, and the Shadow chuckles.

The darkness making him up abruptly shifts, settling into something less formless. A broad form with a pelt draped across the shoulders slips into view, a normally kind face twisted into a smirk. Tattoos glowing a faint red as bangs brush across his forehead, and the golden wolf almost takes a step back at the familiar face now looking at him.

But he checks himself, standing his ground with a snarl.

“Perhaps it was forward of me, but I went ahead and introduced myself to your descendant,” the shadow says, smiling down at the young boy he’s still pointing his sword at. The child shrinks away, and he laughs again. “I must admit, I don’t see much of a resemblance.”

He suddenly dips down and snatches the boy up by his tunic’s collar, eliciting a startled cry from the child.

“Take a good look at what you become, Link,” he says in a low voice, ignoring the boy’s struggling. “Because this will soon be a future that doesn’t exist.”

He draws his blade up again, pressing it to the child’s throat.

Link whimpers and the golden wolf grows dangerously, but he’s unable to do anything without risking his descendant’s life. There are simply too many weapons pointed his way, things that could go wrong, and the wolf darts his eye around for an opening.

“It’ll be quite fascinating to see what happens to this time period without you to save it,” the Shadow says mildly, teasing the blade closer. “Eternal Twilight sounds rather intriguing to me. I wonder what will become of Hyrule?”

He glances back at the wolf, who feels desperation start to sink into his chest.

“What do you think, Hero of Time?” the Shadow hums, and the golden wolf feels his heart clench when the red blade draws a single bead of blood from the boy’s throat. “A snap of the neck, or a sword through the chest? I’ll let you decide.”

He lets out a fearsome snarl, blood roaring in his ears.

The Hero of Twilight cannot die now, he is too important a player in future events, too important to the fate of Hyrule. He plays an integral role in history, and killing him now would damage the flow of time irreparably, both in the Twilight invasion and later in their quest to take down the Shadow.

Not to mention the fact that this is his descendant, the only living remains of his family, of his wife, of his children—

Twilight cannot die now.

The Shadow waits for him to make a move with a smug grin, certainly expecting him to try something. The wolf recognizes the look in his eyes though, and knows that if he so much as takes a step in the wrong direction his descendant will be dead before he can even think about attacking.

He glares at the Shadow as a terrified tear escapes down Link’s cheek, feet burning with the desire to get the child out of his clutches and somewhere safe. But the darkness only smiles at him, a satisfied look in his eye as his descendant continues to struggle.

It’s the look of someone who believes he’s won.

And the thing is, he likely would have too, if not for the fact that the hand of the child in his grasp suddenly begins to glow.

Blindingly.

The boy’s hand flashes, and the shadow shouts in surprise and drops him. It’s the only opening the golden wolf needs to leap forward at the nearest monster, tearing it’s throat out without any provocation. The beast lets out barely a gurgle as it falls, and the wolf leaps at another, tearing through the group that stands in his way. It doesn’t take him long to fight his way to the middle, and he leaps forward, standing protectively over his descendant.

Their Shadow hisses in anger, and the golden wolf matches it with a growl of his own, the two taking stock of each other.

He can hear Link’s heart thudding nearly out of his tiny chest behind him, and glances back at him just once, taking in the tear-stained cheeks and trickle of blood on his neck. Then he turns his attention back on his old foe, who should be long gone in this era of history.

“Obviously I should have gone after you first,” the Shadow snarls, eyes blazing. “I’ll kill you both, Hero of Time, and I’ll make you watch as I rip your descendant to pieces in front of you.”

Instead of replying, the golden wolf launches himself at the Shadow’s throat.

The movement is startling enough that his teeth connect, though not as solidly as he would’ve liked. He bites as deep into the thick, dark magic that makes up his foe as he can, ignoring the familiar visage the Shadow is still wearing, and the darkness shrieks.

He lurches backwards from him, black blood spraying down his front as he swings his sword, and the golden wolf goes to attack again despite the stinging cut now marring his cheek.

He fights with a ferocity he usually doesn’t give into, claws gouging and teeth snapping as he protects the child behind him. The Shadow is no match for one as skilled as he, even with his tricks and skills of his own, and soon the golden wolf is standing above him, shadowy form barely held together.

Black blood seeps into the forest floor, and while the golden wolf sports a few injuries himself, none are overtly dangerous. Blood trickles down his snout as he steps onto the Shadow’s chest, and he levels the darkness with a terrifying glare.

“LEAVE,” he roars, and with one last look of pure hatred, the shadows disperse, sliding back to whence they came.

The golden wolf lets out an exhausted huff, and sits down for just a moment.

He takes stock of himself, and makes sure the clearing is completely void of any more dangers before turning around to look at Link. He pads slowly over to the boy still shaking against the tree, aware that the sight of him will likely be frightening due to the fight he just witnessed. There’s blood in his fur and he’s still panting for breath, but Link merely stares at him, a few tears still rolling down his cheeks.

His blue-grey eyes, so familiar to the wolf, flit across his face, fear still bright in them. But they also shine with an odd curiosity, and wonder along with the terror.

He supposes that makes sense. Twilight always had loved dogs.

The golden wolf stops a few paces from the child, sitting down and allowing him to make the first move. After a long moment, the boy inches a little closer, and reaches out a trembling hand towards him. It alights on his muzzle, and he allows the child to run a few shaking fingers gently down his snout, which seems to convince him he’s not a threat.

The boy then launches himself at the wolf, snuggling tightly into his fur as he begins to cry again.

The golden wolf lets out a soft whine, meant to be comforting, and Link sniffles loudly as he presses his head against his neck. He seems content to stay buried in his fur a while, and the golden wolf breathes in slowly, allowing himself to once again taste the familiarity that lies in his boy’s scent.

The child doesn’t have the exact same scent as home, or even the same as when they traveled together. But it’s there, and as he gently nuzzles the tears from his cheek, that old familiarity both soothes and pains him.

“This is all natural strength!”

“I’ll uh, heh, look into getting him a proper rod...”

“Any chores that need to be taken care of? I’m familiar with farm work.”

“Oh, this means our little ones will have families of their own, and them after— oh I’m getting ahead of myself!”

“Win this fight! Show us that courage can fight in every battle!”

The child lets out a wet hiccup, and the golden wolf curls himself around him, trying to exude as much comfort as possible. The boy crying into his fur shouldn’t have to worry about monsters yet, about Shadows that attempt to destroy and kill, or the hero he’s going to someday become.

He‘s too young to have to worry about his future.

He sits curled around the boy for as long as it takes him to calm down, hiccupy sobs gradually slowing. The sniffles continue, but at some point they’re accompanied by the growling of his stomach.

The wolf pricks his ears at that, and pokes Link with his nose, making him startle a bit and raise his head. The boy wipes some tears from his eyes and looks at him with a confused expression, and the golden wolf gently pushes him towards his back, hoping the young boy will get the hint.

Link takes a minute to realize what he means, but once he does he easily clambers onto his back, still sniffling a little. The wolf feels his hands clutch at the thicker fur by his neck, and he carefully stands up, beginning to trot off through the woods again.

He knows exactly where he needs to take the boy.

The trip to his destination isn’t too far, but between making sure his charge doesn’t fall off his back, and avoiding the occasional monster that dwells in the woods, it takes longer than he’d prefer. By the time he reaches the spirit’s spring, the sun is nearly set and Link is fast asleep on his back, nestled into his fur with little breathy snores escaping him.

The sun is low in the sky, but a few orangey rays of light still shine through the trees, making the water almost glow as the wolf settles down next to it.

As he quietly waits for the boy to stir, a fairy flits by, pausing upon seeing him. She greets him with a chime, which he acknowledges with a nod, and she zips over, jingling worriedly at the injuries he and the child have sustained. He shakes his head at her to tell her not to worry about it, but she spins a few tight circles around them both anyway, and the handful of stinging wounds the golden wolf had been ignoring fade quickly away.

He gives the fairy an grateful look, and she chimes warmly as she continues on her way, disappearing into the fading light.

He watches her go, then gently slides the boy off into a soft patch of grass, pausing when he lets out a murmur in his sleep. But his descendant settles down again, and inwardly he sighs in relief. He settles in next to him to wait, and carefully licks off some of the blood that still stains his neck, going back and forth between cleaning out his fur, and trying to tidy Link up a bit too.

He doesn’t bother keeping an ear out for danger. This spring is a safe place, secure from darkness, and if he’s right about the village that lies only a few hills away, this is where Link is meant to be.

Footsteps suddenly approach from nearby, and the wolf pricks his ears as he listens to them. He gives Link’s cheek one last soft nuzzle, the boy beginning to stir, then slips away to watch from a distance, hidden in the bushes.

Right as he settles in, a young man walks into the spring, blonde hair held back with a bandana. His focus is on the open gate, fiddling with the mechanism that probably locks it once the doors are together, but then Link’s stomach lets out a loud growl.

The man startles and turns, and meets the wide eyes of Link, who is staring at him with an equally surprised look on his face. The man blinks at the sight, and releases the pommel of his sword he’d reflexively grabbed.

“A Hylian?” he murmurs to himself, obviously confused at the sight in front of him.

The man’s eyes take in the dirt coating the child seated in the grass, old tear tracks on his cheeks and dried blood speckling his front. He doesn’t outwardly react, but the wolf sees the confusion in his eyes change to outright concern, and the man gets down to a knee, giving Link a gentle look.

“Where did you come from little one?” the man asks softly, and the wolf watches as Link shrinks down and doesn’t answer, lip quivering.

The man hums, and carefully inches closer, reaching a hand out.

“It’s all right,” he reassures gently, and Link looks up at him, appearing less afraid. “I’m not going to hurt you. Are you hungry? I can get you some food, my wife is making dinner right now.”

Link hesitates, and glances back once at where the golden wolf is hidden with a worried look. He seems to consider, then finally steps closer, reaching out and taking the man’s hand. The man’s face brightens into a smile, and Link relaxes, letting himself be pulled a little closer.

The golden wolf watches in satisfaction as the man, whom he knows is named Rusl, brushes some of the dirt off Link’s face, giving him a reassuring smile.

He doesn’t know the exact tale of how Rusl ends up an adoptive father to Link; Twilight had never gone into much detail when it had come up, and he’d said before even he didn’t remember all the specifics. But he couldn’t have picked a better man to take care of his descendant if he’d tried, and despite him being unable to see it, he gives Rusl a respectful nod.

Rusl then picks up Link, gently and carefully, and settles him into his arms. Link freezes at first, but then sinks into the man’s hold, head resting tiredly on his shoulder.

“Come on little one, you’re safe now,” he says gently, and Link sniffles once, an arm wrapping tightly around Rusl’s neck. “Let’s get you inside, and get some food in you. Then we can try and figure out where you’re from.”

Rusl then stands and looks around the spring one more time, calculating gaze lingering on a paw print sunk into the sand. But it’s getting darker by the second, and nothing else appears out of place, so Rusl leaves the spring, Link tucked securely into his arms.

Time watches them go, single eye glowing silently in the twilight.

[shinene]

Some more Sillies that belong to @venomous-qwille . Drawn on lunch break as always

misuta 💖✨💖✨💖✨💖✨💖✨ thats all i can say ig XD he's perfect

SUNSPOT THE MOST RELATABLE i am also the wrangler of my household of miscreants

[im-just-a-br0adway-baby]

*alternative lines for episode 1*

Charlie: Wait, what!? Alastor, this is seriously the best you could do? That was super weird!

Vaggie: Well, you said you wanted a realistic commercial for the hotel because the others were, and I quote, "Fake bullshit that aims to make their crappy hotels look elevated, when in fact, it's nothing more than shitty shit dumb bullshit that I hate. Fuck, I hate it so fucking much; god fucking dammit."

Charlie: And while I stand by that entire statement, I still feel like our very first promo should be funny and awesome. Don't you agree?