#probably will elaborate later but. have this

[tennessoui]

3 or 60 for the Stacy's mom AU pretty please?

thank you for sending this in <3

[from this list of prompts] / [Stacy's Mom AU]

3. Do they wear the other’s clothes? (sweatshirt, bandana, necklace, etc.)

honestly as much as they'd both probably enjoy wearing each other's clothing, their styles and color choices are just so different that it's too noticeable and both of them are committed to flying under the radar with their relationship. the most they could get away with is probably anakin dumping his cloaks on obi-wan's shoulders at the slightest shiver from a slightly chilly day. obi-wan now owns like. 12 of anakin's cloaks. he has no intention of giving any of them back.

i imagine obi-wan attempts to give anakin a poorly carved jappor snippet after he reads about the cultural traditions on tatooine. it's really really ugly and it sort of looks like someone's hacked it to pieces and then set it on fire, but master skywalker takes to wearing it religiously.

also i think master skywalker's fascination with obi-wan's hair grows deeper now that he gets to play with it whenever he wants and lace his fingers through it, etc etc, and he takes a lot of calming joy out of playing with it at night if he's awake and obi-wan's asleep, which turns into braiding different sorts of hairstyles into his hair. obi-wan takes to wearing them around the Temple when he's awake - they're much fancier than the padawan braid and much, much more elaborate (because anakin can never do anything half-assed)

60. Who pulls the other closer when they’re sleeping?

lmao ok i think obi-wan's preferred sleeping position is with anakin draped on top of him which anakin is happy to accommodate. but anakin also runs hot, and obi-wan hates being hot in his sleep so anakin often wakes up to obi-wan-shaped fists and feet shoving him away (only to get cold a few hours later and pull him back closer as if he's not a jedi master but obi-wan's personal weighted blanket)

anakin doesn't really mind but he definitely fantasizes about retiring from the Order, convincing obi-wan to follow him, and moving them to some arctic snowy planet where obi-wan is always a little cold and never ever shoves anakin away during the night

snippet (pertaining to question 3)

At first, Obi-Wan is inclined to believe that Quinlan is doing this on purpose, out of some practical joke or in an attempt to tease him and prod at him as if they're still padawans. As if Quin doesn't have a padawan of his own now.

Obi-Wan blinks down at the young girl's upturned face. "Uh," he says, glancing up at Quinlan and resolutely not turning to stare at Anakin, who he can feel shaking with silent laughter beside him.

"Please," Orka adds, placing her hands behind her back. Not for the first time, Obi-Wan wonders how in the Force such a sweet child became Quinlan Vos' padawan.

"Uh, well," Obi-Wan says. "The thing is..." he stares hard at Vos, but the other man just looks expectant and slightly confused, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the tall duracrete pillar of the fountain behind him. "I think actually Master Skywalker would be thrilled to help you with your hair, Orka."

Quin raises an eyebrow. "Seems unlikely," he mutters, just low enough for Obi-Wan and Anakin to hear. Obi-Wan flushes even as Orka stomps her foot.

"But I want you to braid my hair, Knight Kenobi!" she says. "You have the best hair in the entire Order, all the padawans think so! Please braid mine to look like yours!"

Obi-Wan winces. Behind him, he can feel Anakin's hair traversing up his back to tug teasingly at the end of one of his longer braids. It's incredibly unhelpful. So is the fact that his lover is sitting there and laughing about this whole thing instead of trying to find some way to be helpful.

"The thing is, Orka," Obi-Wan says, clearing his throat. "I don't. Ah. Know how to braid your hair."

Quinlan and Orka both tilt their heads to the side in perfect mirror of each other. It would be cute if Obi-Wan did not feel so incredibly close to humiliation.

"What, you can't figure out how to braid someone else's hair?" Quinlan asks with his eyebrows firmly knitted together. "I'd think it'd be easier than doing your own. Less need to be...you know. Flexible. To get it done. And I mean, I know you're flexible, but..."

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, even as he feels Anakin's chin come to rest on the top of his shoulder. Oh of course, he's no help at all when faced with a youngling's innocent request for assistance, but the moment Quinlan Vos even slightly alludes to his and Obi-Wan's shared sexual history, and Anakin has to say something.

"I braid his hair for him, little one," Anakin tells Orka, reaching out and tucking a longer braided piece of hair behind Obi-Wan's ear. "What Knight Kenobi is too proud to say is that he doesn't actually know how to braid at all."

Orka's eyes widen and she turns to look in between the three of them as if this is an incredible, total betrayal.

Quinlan's own eyes also widen, but he looks more like Life Day has come early. "Oh," he says. "Oh."

"Shut up," Obi-Wan snaps in forewarning. "Whatever you're going to say---"

"But it's always all pretty by breakfast!" Orka protests, eyebrows knitting together. "Do you braid his hair for him every morning? Even before you eat?"

Anakin's Force signature is far too smug. He's enjoying this far too much. Obi-Wan is far too in love with him anyway. It's terrible for his health and his pride.

"Sometimes adults like to have sleepovers just as the younglings do," Obi-Wan says delicately. "Just as the younglings do," he repeats loudly when both Anakin and Vos snort. "And yes, sometimes Master Skywalker enjoys braiding my hair. During those sleepovers."

Mostly, Anakin enjoys braiding his hair either in the aftermath of sex or sometime during the night when Obi-Wan is asleep and malleable and Anakin is kept awake by some nightmare or another. Mostly Anakin enjoys braiding his hair because it's the only sort of claim he can lay on him--not while they're both still Jedi.

And mostly, Anakin. enjoys braiding his hair because he spent years seeing Obi-Wan walk around the Temple with another master's braid hanging down his shoulder, and he'd hated the sight of it.

"Oh," Orka says. She considers this new information before she turns with narrowed eyes to Anakin. "So you can braid my hair."

It sounds like a threat. This time, it's Obi-Wan who has to cover his snort with a cough.

[max1461]

I try not to feel personally aggrieved by abstract philosophical positions, but I have often in the past felt personally aggrieved by hedonic utilitarianism, and I think the reason is basically: on a sober evaluation, I think that my own life is almost certain to be a hedonic net-negative, for purely dispositional reasons. I am anxious and anhedonic as a matter of course, and in any case I am only weakly motivated by the desire for pleasure. There's some distinct sense in which "feeling good doesn't even feel that good" to me; conversely though, "feeling bad doesn't feel that bad", I often find myself weirdly indifferent to pain qua pain, and it's only when pain impedes me practically (for instance, by being distracting) that I start to feel significantly dissatisfied with it. But I am not unmotivated in general, there are in fact various feelings and convictions, which I don't feel like elaborating because they're personal, that provide me with great vigor in the active pursuit of a fair variety of different endeavors.

And so, essentially, I feel like the hedonic utilitarian is (unintentionally, indirectly) trying to convince me to kill myself. If they are correct in their assertion of what self-interest looks like, then it is in my self-interest to cease to exist! But in fact I don't feel this way at all, per above I feel quite engaged with life and desirous to continue it, not merely in a negative fear-of-death way but in a positive lust-for-living way. I feel in light of what I know about myself that it's likely to come out as a hedonic net-negative, but I don't really care, and in fact it has been a very long time since this made me feel particularly pessimistic at all.

I was probably a teenager when it first occurred to me "holy shit, anxiety is basically my default emotion; in the absence of some other momentary feeling I basically just feel anxious". And at the time this sort of scared me, but sometime later I sort of decided... that that was fine? I don't actually mind being anxious that much. I'm kind of fine with being anxious all the time, as long as I'm not anxious in a way that's acutely self-destructive [as my anxiety was in those teenage years, and was again in the pandemic]. There is a part of me that still minds feeling bad, and in some moments it rears its head, but by and large I mind only the causes and the effects of feeling bad and not the feeling itself, which I am almost neutral to.

[novasillies]

wip (not) wednesday

in honour of hitting 100k words (WHAT THE FUCK) of this fic I am gonna drop a wee little snippet I suppoossseeeeeeAAAAAAAAAGAGHG

This is from the beginning (ish) of the 6th and final chapter of Third Time's The Charm season 1: 'Promises, Fools'. i only have a handful of scenes left in this chapter and then I'm DONE!!! (she says as if it's not already like 20k words long (FREE MEEEE))

“I need you,” were the first words he whispered into the soft rustling of sheets as Derek began to stir behind him. A real answer to the question he’d asked earlier. Derek probably didn’t hear. Or maybe he was too close to asleep to answer properly. Or to understand. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. He could almost hear the bullshit answer Derek would give him back if he gave one at all. ‘I’m right here,’ he’d say. ‘You already have me.’ “I don’t wanna be Him,” were the next words he said, an eternity of silence later. Derek’s hand stopped where it had been tracing back and forth right beside the concave scar tissue left over from that night at the mall. It was the only one of his scars that made him nauseous to touch. It had hurt, when the grimoire was out of his skin. It ached and burned if he strained too much. It itched. But then he’d touch it and that phantom sensation of touching his own internal organs made his stomach lurch. That and couldn’t sleep on his front or back anymore.  “Who?”  “Him,” Stiles answered, “Me. The Other Me.” After a moment, Derek answered into his skin, “I know.” Stiles took in a shaky breath, “I don’t want to. I don’t… I…” His brows met in the middle. Derek’s fingertips started to move again, more conscious in their comfort. “I don’t understand you.” He could feel the way Derek’s brows moved, just as his did, against the back of his neck, “What do you mean?” “I burned your house down,” Stiles answered mildly.  Derek’s breath caught against him, “You didn’t–” “I did,” Stiles said, “I burned it down with you and Peter inside. And you carried me to the hospital.” He turned around, unflinching with the unwanted power of his spark muting any pain from his scars once again, to stare straight into Derek’s eyes. Into the horribly familiar way his jaw tightened and his green eyes sharpened. He waited for Derek to adjust his arms around his waist before he went on, “And when I left to try and go back in time, you even went to Scott to help find me.” He blinked slowly at the just as slow downturn of Derek’s brows, “I don’t understand how you could react like that.” Those green eyes darted down for just a fraction of a second before they rose again, “It’s complicated.” “Well,” Stiles said, “I didn’t think it would be simple.” Derek’s left eye twitched, and he licked his lips, “It’s not–” He huffed a little, shifting where he lay, “It felt like it was my fault you lost control like that.” Stiles said nothing.  “The Other Stiles didn’t…” Derek’s eyes shifted away slightly, “He didn’t have to say much to convince me to keep you busy at the formal. I…” He frowned, “I guess I felt like I was…”  Stiles got sick of waiting for him to finish that sentence awfully fast, “You know He’s not gonna be better than what we saw of Him just because you love me, right?” Derek met his gaze, steadfast, “You know he’s not another you, right?” Stiles’ stomach turned.  “I said last night you don’t have a choice,” Derek nodded, “and I meant it. I love you, Stiles. And that means I love you even when you think you’re at your worst.” “You shouldn’t,” Stiles spat with narrowed eyes, “My worst is deadly, Derek. My worst is getting possessed and stringing together elaborate plots to kill and terrorise as many as possible. It’s wrecking my car. It’s shattering mirrors and vomiting and snapping necks and burning down houses.” The words flowed out of him like molten lava, “Blind faith is the killer of devotion, you remember that?”

Oh boy, oh boy. what a joyful conversation. yikes!! anyway. i am having a whale of a time writing this (how in the world is that actually a saying. are whales well known for their recreational fun???) and cannot wait for the like two people that r gonna read it wowowww

ofc no-pressure tag to the og gangster @patolemus (and anyone else who so wishes to share. please do!! love love love)

read the prequel (or the original fic i guess?), Twice And For All, here <3

[the-witchhunter]

Main reason Danny doesn’t have to do anything about John’s soul situation

John met God in the form of a dog named Tom who cleared it up, Satan can’t take his soul

Yes this is real, yes this is Canon

[cashmere-caveman]

one thing i am really noticing on this rewatch is how long it takes for silver to start looking like silver. seeing him in (especially in the early part of) s1 always feels so jarring to me idk why but with everyone else already having their Look down (character driven style pivots of flint and eleanor nonwithstanding) he still feels very Unformed.

idk if thats just me on my nth rewatch projecting my foregone conclusions and opinions abt him as a character on him but i do think even w the change he undergoes being a very gradual one (unlike the previously mentioned pivot of eleanor from Pirate Boss to Ladywife or flints buzzcut of grief and political radicalisation), there is a definitive period where he is not yet locked in, so to speak.

i think what gets me as 'not silver yet' is him being clean shaven and that he wears light colours but genuinely. thats a chameleon still deciding which colour to turn while it watches the room and once hes decided with whom to side he commits not only to a 'personality' but also to a wardrobe style which in his case is first unassuming dark clothes and growing his hair and beard and then slowly bit by bit hes adding details like necklaces and rings and starts wearing his hair differently etc until he ends in his Coat Era once he starts to assume real power as he begins the transformation from 'john silver' into 'long john silver'

[hiphopcherrrypop]

they were both working for chris or whatevs so AU where they actually interact + they become bestie-ish

[puppetmaster13u]

I have a great idea for cryptid batfam but like, liminals and halfas sort of thing, and I need y'all to remind me to actually talk about it and perhaps draw it.

[thedeafprophet]

Character Summary: The Malignant Assassin

Aurora 'Rory' Winn

Pronouns: She/they

Ambition: Bag A Legend

Profession: Licentiate

Main Skills: Dangerous, Shadowy, Monstrous Anatomy

Main Quirks: Ruthless, Heartless, Forceful

They say…

Whispers in the night speak of an assassin who will find you no matter where you hide. If she meets your eyes be mindful - you may already be doomed.

Further Write Up Under The Cut

(Warnings for some period typical sexism/expectations, murder, and some spoilers for Bag A Legend ambition)

Backstory

Though she'd be hardpressed to remember the location of such, Aurora was born on February 2nd, 1874. Aurora's birth parents cared deeply for their daughter, but care does not automatically equal abilitiy. Like many children of the time, her parents were unable to afford to take care of her, and at the age of 4, 1878, Aurora was surrendered to an orphange. Her parents always intended to come back for her once they had the means too, but that was not to be.

Aurora was 6 years old when Arthur Winn, a weapon's manufacturer stationed in Birmingham, and his wife Lenora came to the orphanage. The two had been unable to have biological children of their own, and, with Lenora's great desire to be a mother, the path lead them here, and to Aurora.

Aurora's relationship to her parents was... strenuous, to say the least. A couple on shakey terms, trying to follow closely on societies terms, with no prior knowledge on raising a child couldnt have led to anything else. Lenora was overbearing, Arthur often distant and aloof, and Aurora was caught in between, complicated, and confused. Aurora was brought up in a way to fit the demands of a proper lady, yet no matter how she tried to fit herself within the mold, one cannot meld themself into a shape they do not belong in.

Sometime in her teens, Aurora first was introduced to fencing - her mother was against the prospect, but somehow her father was encouraging, and thus the tutorage began. Aurora took to fencing immediatly, an outlet for the budding rage and anger that was beginning to boil inside her, practicing form and poise as she pracitced with her blade. She attended any competition she was allowed in, though even still, there was limits due to her very nature of birth.

Perhaps it was this budding rage and violence brewing within that led to a chance encounter on the surface, or perhaps it was simply concidence. (surface veils fic by R)

Regardless, there was incidents, places of sharp blades being where they shouldnt have. Of course. no word of this would ever trace back to Aurora, her parents would ensure that.

Things came to a head within her family at last when Aurora was in her 20s - many years of refusing suitors and marriage could only be put off for so long, and her mother was at her wits end. Aurora's cousin would be the one set to inheiret from her father, and without ensuring a proper match for Aurora, Lenora could do nothing to ensure the future of her daughter. She won't be around to cover for Aurora forever, and auroras getting older now too-

Aurora tried, she truly did. But she just couldnt bring herself to go through with it. Before she could be wed to anyone, Aurora fled without word to her family, disapearing off into the night, following a call of wherever her feet would take her.

Aurora came to the neath in 1899, at 25 years old.

Game Timeline

Rory's introduction to the neath was... interesting. On her own for the first time, truly without limits or guidance... well, she didnt quite know what she was doing. It wasn't long before she found an outlet for her rage, from fighting and duels to hunting and killing.

From being a hired enforcer to becoming a murderer, it was only a matter of time before Rory truly became a bringer of death. The licentiate's path, a killer for hire, spoke to her in a specific way. Once blood began to spill, she couldn't see it stopping, a red path at her heels marking her very nature.

Her aim to hunt the vake came between all that - or did it inspire it? Either way, that path had been set. A true testement to her abilities that would be, to kill what no one else had managed

The first loss had dealt a brutal hit to her ego, but fueled her only more with spite.

It was during this that Rory met April, a companion and true help in her aim to kill the vake. It was more then that though, that made Rory so fascinated by April - someone so smart, so interesting, so passionate, so moved... Rory didnt know what to do with these feelings. She didnt even know what they were. But they were strong nonetheless, and only led Rory to a greater want to be near April, to let her tend to her wounds.

To have someone she promised she would return to. That she wouldnt be another one lost in the mission of the hunt.

As the hunting progressed, Rory lost more and more of herself into that rage, into that calling, the urge to kill and maim and destory only fueled by the blood she had ingested. Her nails were claws, her teeth sharp points, sense honed to keen levels, always on the prowl.

Even when the vake lay dead at her feet, all pieces hunted, stalked, severed; Even then, the urge called to Rory.

But with nothing left to hunt, no further worthy adversary, what more was there to do?

Lost adrift within the bounds of urge, Rory only worked further into assassinations, that perhaps if she spilled enough blood, that would be enough. It never was.She remianed lost in the call of the hunt and the violence, no further adversaries left her to chase, alone in her monstrous nature, forgetting anything else she could have ever been.

If one becomes a monster in order to kill the monster, how much of the person remains? When does the line between the self and the call severe, where does on start and the other begin?

Perhaps, in time, something of the human could be saved.

[heartbeatbookclub]

Sayori tends to catch feelings for people very easily, but very rarely acts on them. She doesn't think she's good enough for anyone, and believes she'd only burden them in any potential relationship. She doesn't want to hurt anyone, or ruin a good friendship. I don't think she would really think about her sexuality very often or strictly define it, because she "has a lot of love for everybody!", so she'd probably just ambiguously identify as queer and let her actions speak for themselves.

Yuri initially tries to avoid the conversation entirely. It's not that she's ashamed per se, more like she's had bad experiences with people in the past, and finds the entire concept of romance to be very embarrassing to talk about openly. She's accepted her sexuality as just another thing that makes her "weird", and mostly keeps it to herself because she doesn't really want any of her relationship with the others to change. She doesn't want any of them to "get the wrong idea and think she's creepy" or anything.

Natsuki keeps it on the down low, but makes it clear that she doesn't really like boys. Maybe she likes specific ones. Fictional ones, mostly. I don't have a strong opinion one way or the other as to whether or not she's strictly lesbian or something else, but if she is attracted to men, she's the type to do the whole "Aren't you attracted to men too?" "*gag* ...yeah." bit. I think she's unlikely to personally pursue someone romantically, in large part because she's afraid that she'll hurt them.

Basically, they're all some kind of gay, they just don't really talk about it, for variable reasons.

That is, until Monika walks in one day and starts a conversation on the topic, the end of which being the reveal that "I'm...starting to think I'm not quite straight! Ahaha..."

[icewindandboringhorror]

sneepy cozy time....

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

I think a lot of Knives and Vash’s characters both can be explained by them having been the equivalent of gifted kids who were “mature for their age” and able to mentally grasp difficult concepts, but then also being hyper-empathetic and highly emotionally sensitive, while also having incredibly limited lived experience.

[summertimemusician]

Linktober (Shadow) 2023

Spirit

Welp turns out my exam season throughly steam rolled through my general Linktober plans, so you get this VERY late thing for now folks who find this, at least until I decide whether to continue this until I finish it even though it's no longer Linktober or if I'll make whatever other stories come later their own thing after exam season is over (mostly because the original for this one is my preferred draft, and that I feel the one for the Link/Dark Link prompt would be kind of wasted if it just sat there collecting dust cause I worked hard on the tension and horror there lord darn it, along with a few others mainly involving Fae Hyrule, Twilight, Time, First, among other Links like Legend, Sky, Warriors, just all of the boys, I wanted to give them all proper spotlight and still want to do that in any way I can). Welp. *Downs coffee like a shot* Also really need to find out how to make a Masterlist on mobile, figure out how AO3 works and answer asks.

Anyway, not really any warnings this time besides Reader Not Being Okay (par the course really) and angst.

As always can be read as either romantic or platonic, Reader is gender neutral on purpose, technically is meant to be read as either Hero's Shade Time x Reader or First x Reader mainly, but you can interpret it as any Link really lol

Good reading!

This corner of Faron Woods was quiet this time of year.

The woods were solemn in this Hyrule, the sliver of moonlight barely enough of a guide through the mist, it was silent but for the soft padding of animals through the underbrush and the howl of a wolf in the distance (not Wolfie's, not musical enough). The stars were your only company as you were separated from the group, the air was cold agaisnt your skin as you attempted to find your way.

Being alone in the forests of Hyrule never spelled anything good for anyone, but as you felt the brush of a hand tenderly twined in yours, the ghost of leather and the faint clinking of steel, and a faint glow of pale gold and ivory cutting through the veil of the night, mindful of roots you may trip onto and never flickering too far out of sight you couldn't feel safer, even  if instead something like melancholy threatened to lock your throat with the chains of silence, you felt as warm as the soft twilight glow and as frigid as ice, frostburned with the bitter cold of your own warring emotions.

You can't help but chuckle a bit whille holding a old scabbard close to your heart, it's a wry sound, "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

There is no answer, of course there isn't, but you don't mind, you know he'll listen, thorns wrap around your heart and crawl up your throat, the smell of lilies and steel coats and sticks in your throat like honey, or maybe blood, "... I didn't think you'd show up, you know? I always considered the possibility but..." You trail off, you feel something brush your side, you can only see him in the corner of your eyes or with a passing glance, there but not, existing but gone, so you keep your eyes on the road and in the flicker of light, so you carefully don't look to your side, you don't think you could contain the shaking in your heart otherwise, to stare at inevitability and prophecy, "... I know, I know you're fine. At least for now, I apologize for all the trouble I gave you."

'It's alright. It could never be a hardship aiding you.', the voice echoes in your ears, and you swallow thickly, breath hitching, the warmth of the sun in the fields of Hyrule, the wind caressing your hair, the song of the animals in Faron Woods, someone holding you carefully, fondly. The warmth of your hand in his. Not really here, but not gone either, more feeling than true echo.

You chuckle, and try to pretend it's not a bit breathless, something like a wounded keen, "... You're too kind. Too, too kind, thank you."

Spirits in Hyrule never spell anything good, in this wild land of light and shadow in a gestalt of divinity. There are some exceptions though, even if it hurts to witness then. So you follow him through the dark, certain that as you've guided his way once, he'll lead you now to where you need to go.

----------------------------------------------------------

... The clearing he leads you to is open, but by no means truly quiet among the trees, there is no peace to be found for the armored skeleton here. You choke on sorrow, on unfinished business, on the cruelty of being brought to ruin and being denied peace, and you stumble towards the familiar figure, almost in a trance as your vision blurs, roots and thorny vines wrap over rusted armor and a thorn cape, the skeleton's void sockets piercing through your soul, illuminated by the solemn gaze of the wretched moon and it's uncaring maids of honor in the stars.

You fall to your knees near the decaying skeleton, biting back against the wounded sound that attempts to leave your throat with enough strenght to bleed, you lay the scabbard by his side with a bouquet of lilies and shiver at the gentle, phantom touch, so soft, so loving it almost leads you to ruin all over again.

'... It's foolish to grieve for someone who isn't gone yet.' the thought comes to you, yet you can't help it. You still hurt for him, you still hold onto the fury at the heavens themselves for denying them quietus. For denying them rest over and over and over again. To watch this cycle and be helpless to stop it all due to the will of uncaring gods.

Alive. Dead. Alive. Dead. Denied full rest over and over again, to watch the chance at rest to the kindest of souls found in this world you found yourself in.

You barely register the touch to your cheek, ephemeral as it is, as you can't help but shed tears, can't help but grieve. Because if you don't, who will?

You know by now that some wounds can never heal, some rifts can never be mended. Even with the guarantee of cyclic, eternal rebirth, some things never return to how they were. And reminding yourself of this inevitability to them will never not hurt, even if you know it's futile to blame anyone but the one god who started this, and maybe the goddess who stood complacent to it. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that it'll one day come to this, that the frost of death and the sharpness of pain will leave a mark the sands of time can't scar over.

You reach a trembling hand towards the one in your cheek, try to find catharsis in the remains of decayed, dead yet ever eternal, ever growing love. And you breathe.

'We'll meet again. So do not mourn for me, please.'

You don't think you could deny him if you tried. Not when you know he's trying to soothe you, to thaw your sorrow. To allow your heart's healing to fallow.

"We will, I know. I'm sorry for making you worry." You chuckle, leaning into the cold, trying to brand the memory of the shadowed, but not gone love given to you so you can return it in kind. Just until you meet again, just until you can give all you can to his not yet decomposing self, grasping onto what remains of him, "I love you."

'I love you too. Until we meet again.'

The cold is gone, the echo of love leaves. And you breathe, and pretend you don't feel empty.

(When you see Link again, reuniting with the Chain on the next day's twilight. You hug him as tight as you can, and hope you he doesn't notice the tears in your eyes. And that you don't feel the lingering traces of a frigid embrace.

When no one is looking, you wave goodbye to the shade. And pray he dreams of warmer days until he finds quietus.)

[hideawaysis]

rip sarah twdg you would've loved warrior cats

[aurora-boreas-borealis]

Thinking of an angsty au based off not so simple where Flynn and Gemma are captured by Tenaya and Venjix whilst the others are fighting the attack bot

[absurdumsid]

btw if ur ever struggling to draw hands just remember the thumb is 90% of the time facing toward the character unless the palm is upward/facing away from them ok gnifht

[toast-in-a-cowboy-hat]

Love how every WBG character acts like they're vying for first place in a World's Biggest Hypocrite competition