#I HOPE YOU LIKED IT

[linkyychan]

"Reunion" I HAD to draw more Hospital Scenes... I had to..

I hope you enjoyed it^^ And here are some silly bonus pages

[caelanglang]

On Canned Crab

⚠️ blood and guns

a can of self-love 🦀

[adrift-in-thyme]

@telemna-hyelle it took more than an hour (sorry about that) but here it is! The Four/Dot fluff I promised!

I hope it helps you end your day on a good note <33

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

He isn’t ready for this.

Four moves along the wooded path as if in a trance. He knows every step of this place like the back of his hand. But usually, he is much more attentive than this. Usually, he keeps a watchful eye on the surrounding area, scouting for the stray chu or keese. 

Today, however, he cannot seem to keep his mind on such things. The sunlight dappled earth beneath his feet, the scent of leaves and bark baked in the afternoon warmth, the breeze that caresses his cheeks, and the chittering of the many critters that scamper about within the foliage – they are all lost on him.

He feels Dot’s hand in his, her palm smooth and warm. He smells her perfume – light and sweet like the cotton candy they spin at the yearly festivals. He hears her laughter, bright and unrestrained and free as she tells a tale from her day. He sees her, radiant, hair like strands of gold and eyes the color of the joyful sky.

She looks at him, says something he can’t comprehend. He nods, conjures up a smile. With luck, it won’t be as strained as he feels that it is.

He has faced beasts one hundred times his size, navigated the pain and confusion of being split into four, saved the world twice. But by the golden three, he is not ready for this.

And yet, he is going through with it anyway. He can’t back down now. Not when his best friend is right here beside him, every moment of basking in her presence strengthening the love he feels for her. 

Four squares his shoulders. Yes, this is the right thing to do. The hardest things often are. 

The Minish have done a spectacular job preparing the clearing. That much is evident as soon as it comes into view. Everything is as they had planned. Every detail has been attended to with immaculate care.

Vines drape over tree limbs, their slim strands heavy with layered blossoms. Flower petals drift down in lazy pirouettes to join the coat of vibrant pink already lying on the forest floor. The sun glimmers through slightly parted branches. Not far off a fairy fountain casts its soothing glow. Soft notes of magic drift to Four’s ears as he leads Dot forward.

“Link,” she breathes, gazing upward and all around, eyes wide with adoration, “this is beautiful.”

“Yes, it is,” he agrees with a calm he in no way feels. “The Minish worked very hard on it.”

Dot turns to him now, head cocked in question. “The Minish? What do you…”

She trails off as he drops to one knee.

It feels as though he is kneeling on a bed of silk. But the sensation in his chest as he reaches into his pouch is about as pleasant as the Big Octorok sitting on him.

The ring is in his palm though, a delicate thing melted and shaped and fired by his own two hands. It had taken countless tries to get it right, to meld the corners into the perfect curve, to carve the designs in the way he imagined them to be. Making jewelry is not quite the same as crafting a sword. It requires a different sort of skill.

But he had found that skill within him. And he had created something beautiful. Something he will be proud to see upon her finger.

“Zelda,” he murmurs and curses the way his voice trembles a bit at the end, “Zelda, Princess of Hyrule, my dearest friend…” He raises his head, gazes into those big blue eyes. The ones that had shone with empathy when the pieces of himself had threatened to shatter him anew. The ones that had glowed with mirth and joy at the festivals, brightened when he told a joke, gone sharp with interest when he told a tale.

The eyes he has gotten lost in so many times before, and hopes to many more times in the future.

“Zelda, will you marry me?”

She stares at him for a long, agonizing moment, hand held to her mouth, emotion surging across her face. Then, she laughs. She laughs and the world sings with the noise. And she swoops down and lands a kiss right on his lips.

“Was…” he croaks when his surroundings have swung back into focus and the dizzying mixture of elation and trepidation have abated somewhat, “...was that a yes?”

“Oh, Link, of course, it was! Of course!” Her hands are on his face. The ring shines on one of her fingers, though he can’t remember placing it there. Everything is a haze, a haze of wonder and joy and fear. 

It looks perfect there, though. Almost as though she was born to wear it.

“I’ll marry you, Link!” She cries, visage aglow. “I would like nothing more!” 

A laugh bubbles from his lips now, smaller and more hesitant, but overjoyed nonetheless. He stands and suddenly, his arms are around her and hers around him and they are hugging like the world depends upon it. Like if they let go, this moment, this delicate, beautiful moment will solidify and shatter. 

Perhaps, it will. But Four likes to think that it is stronger than that. Like they are.

He blinks away the tears and smiles.

As a sword is forged to endure the struggles of time, so is their friendship made to withstand the toughest of tribulations. And that makes moments like this one even more precious.

“I love you,” she says and her very soul is in the words.

Four holds her tighter and makes himself a promise that he will never let her go. He will never allow her to fall in harm’s way again, never leave her to face life alone. No, they will stand tall through it all. Together. 

“I love you too,” he whispers. “I love you too.”

[blarefordaglare]

When Someone Says(Signs) No, It Means No.

A gift for @hotcheetohatredwastaken for the anniversary of BDOR (Blood Drops on Roses) 

Feel free to use this fanfiction however you like, it’s your’s, and also an apology for typing this late-

__

The hero of Twilight regrets his words. In his defense, he never expected them t0 be twisted into the situation that was as of now -but onto that later-. His mind couldn’t help but drift to the events that caused the entire situation. 

“Sweet Ordana Wild,” a heavy sigh escaped the rancher’s breath as he tried to put his thoughts into language, “I ain’t gonna go around fighting another one of those Lynels, curse courage, they’re dangerous.” Don’t get him wrong, the hero adored doing the unthinkable-the impossible. Years of his life were surrounded with that entire mindset, but he has lines. He has lines that were drawn at swords with sharpness that rivaled the master sword, a monster that belonged in a dungeon, and a swing that even a fairy struggled to heal. 

‘Please,’ the hand was moved in a stiff grace, too calculated to be genuine, ‘I’ve done it before-It’s not hard. Please. I promise I’ll be careful. I promise.” The sheer amount of force the champion put into  that single word was enough to prove the want behind the words. 

“Not hard as in Almost died and proceeded to eat half of our food stash?” His tone was dripped with sarcasm, his thick accent hanging in the air. He regretted the possibility of coming off rude-true-but not as much as he would regret being guilty, or at least involved, in an innocent life's death, “No.” 

‘But I said I promised,’ A promise he wouldn’t keep. He didn’t own a crystal ball, neither of the two did. It would be impossible to predict such events. Still, Wild pressed on, ‘plus, I can’t die until I kill the calamity-’ he suppressed the urge to finish that thought with an ‘I think’. That would destroy his entire argument. 

Twilight’s patience was wearing thin, yet growing heavier as it was attempting to remain tied precariously on a thread. He chose to not voice the quite obvious example a hero can die, for his brothers sanity (mostly) and his own, “Wild,” His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, the skin first turning white, then fading into red as the skin surveyed the touch, “You need to learn, for my sake, yours, and the entirety of Hyrule, when someone says no, it means no.” His voice shook as he spoke, attempting to manifest a straight, assertive tone. 

But looking back, he probably shouldn’t have spoken at all. 

“Wild,” Twilight’s hand rested on the damp, chopped wood, “Remember that fire rod you found? We may need to use it to start this fire. All the wood is wet.” The small piece of flint lay discarded, barely managing to create a spark, let alone light a fire. 

‘No.’ 

“What?” His eyes darted towards the champion in confusion, “What do you mean, ‘no?’” 

“Twiligh-t,” His voice was barely a whisper, yet the ‘t’ was over-enunciated; it drowned out the rest of the noise, ‘When someone signs ‘No’, it means no.” The logic was there, true, but it certainly was not there in the context of the moment. 

The rancher took a moment to breathe, to not let the intrusive thought of simply somehowstealingtheslateanddumpouteveryweponuntilhefindsit get to his head, “Now, who in their right mind taught you that?” 

‘You.’

Oh. 

Right.

“Well, if we don’t get this wood on fire, we will sleep cold.” He tried to keep his voice gentle, reminding himself of what Uli did when he himself was out of reason, keeping a calm attitude while incorporating simple facts that one would know, “You don’t want to sleep cold, do you?”  

‘No.’ It was clear he was hesitant to answer, already figuring out where the conversion was headed. 

“So how about we get out the fire rod, and have a fire?” 

‘No. I’ll just put it on my back and I’ll be warm.’

Smart kid. 

“Fine then.” His voice was tinted with suppressed anger. He couldn’t lash out-that would only embarrass himself.

‘Fine.’

“Fine.”

And with that, he curled up in his bedroll. The chill of the night wind lulling him to an uncomfortable sleep. 

He would only realize, in the morning, the small flame, barely the size of a candle, lit onto a small ceramic, the smoke filling the morning air. He would only realize, in the morning, the tip of the fire rod a bit more grayer than last time.

[theloveandthedead]

Miss Sunshine

A belated Valentines gift for @smoke-and-silver

I may have gotten off topic since this is more about Bernadette's past but I still hope you like!

And forgive me if I got anything wrong about the lore! I'm still new to this fandom

Enjoy! <3

“Don’t do that,” Bernadette’s mother chided, grabbing her six year old daughter’s hand to correct the crayon’s placement. “You have to color inside the lines, sweetheart, otherwise the drawing will be ruined. 

Although bewildered, young Bernadette nodded and proceeded to follow her mother’s directions, vigilant to not let a single stray line escape its border.

As she grew up, Bernadette realized how her surroundings were like that coloring book: everything in its place and any deviation from the norm would be met with firm correction. 

It was expected that she would grow up to be a good, decent woman who would marry a good, decent man, and they would live in a respectable neighborhood where they would have children who would grow into good, decent individuals.

Rinse. Recycle. Repeat. 

The picturesque suburbia was the epitome of orderly and mundane. 

The same rows of little white houses.

The same style of neatly ironed shirts, always neatly tucked into ironed pants and skirts. 

The same type of casseroles always passed around, sprinkled with neighbor gossip about the ‘hoodlums’ and ‘immoral’ outsiders of their utopia. 

And no one seemed to find fault with it.

But Berndette, as she grew into her neatly destined place in suburbia, still felt that crayon in her hand. 

Was coloring out of the lines so horrible? 

Did everything really have to be “good” and “decent”? (By her late teens, Bernadette had developed an aversion to those words.)

So, inching her crayon out, she etched little flecks of color outside the border visible to no one but her. 

The ladies at church wore white socks–Berandette sewed ladybugs on hers. 

The children would play catch in the schoolyard–Bernadette would catch frogs in the creek. 

Everyone listened to country and sermons–Bernadette had a hidden shoebox with blues cassettes. 

The diner served their eggs bare��Bernadette would sprinkle some chili powder when no one was watching. 

They were little things, but they gave Bernadette a thrill she never knew before. 

Were these the ‘immoral’ activities her parents and neighbors sneered at?

But why? 

Why would these little pleasures be sinful?

Bernadette tried to share her joy with her husband–a man who fit the suburbia ideal to a T–but was met with apathy and as time went on, judgment. 

He judged her for a lot of things–her interests, her ‘babbling’, how much she ate, even the way she folded towels.

But he always framed it as ‘just being logical’ and that as his wife, she should just listen to him.

Just like all the men did to their wives.

Just like her father did to her mother. 

And they listened because that is what a good, decent wife did.

But Bernadette felt bitter and unsatisfied. 

All her youth, she had gotten her fix with faint flicks of color.

Must she, in her adulthood, continue to be content with just a toe hovering above the edge?

Couldn’t she finally break through the borders and color wherever the hell she may please?

And, as her lifelong partner, couldn’t her husband join her?

Would it kill him to step out of his box for once?!

If anything,he and everyone else were the strange ones! 

But Bernadette swallowed her rage and slowly she withdrew her crayon and retreated back within the lines. 

Then, during a trip to the grocery store, Bernadette noticed a flier buried underneath the MLM pamphlets. 

A flier for a concert, to be exact. 

“Ghost,” Bernadette read aloud, in utter awe at the masked figures and gothic artwork staring back at her. 

Almost in a trance, Bernadette rushed out to her car–abandoning her grocery cart–and hastily dialed the ticket office number as her heart pounded in her ears. 

Once again she stood at the border, but this time, she had buckets of paint and a pair of scissors strapped to her back. 

Bernadette was on the verge of something, and she knew this concert held the missing piece. 

There was no rhyme or reason to her feeling, but Bernadette knew if she didn’t go to this concert, she would be stuck inside the lines forever. 

On the night of the concert, Bernadette told her husband she was off to visit her mother–the lie tasting like honey on her tongue–and he simply nodded while never looking up from his newspaper. 

No “Drive safe, my love”, no kiss goodbye.

Like everyone else, their ‘romance’ was confined to chaste kisses and obligated intimacy that only ended when her husband was satisfied.

Teetering on the edge, Bernadette couldn’t help giggling as she ‘accidentally’ slammed the door behind her, and she practically flew to her car. 

And as her car escaped the gates of suburbia, Bernadette felt like she could breathe for the first time. 

The parking lot was already packed by the time she pulled in, but luckily she was able to find a spot without too much effort. 

As she followed the crowd through the gates to the concert area, Bernadette marveled at those surrounding her. 

Concert goers both young and old with their unique fashions and tastes.

Yet, they all shared one common trait–genuine happiness. 

They laughed boisterously and showered their companions with affection without the restraints of ‘good and decent’.

Wild and free were the words that came to her mind.

Such foreign words to a dissatisfied member of suburbia.

But how wonderful they were. 

Wild and free, yes what a lovely pairing.

Soon a hush fell over the audience as the faint strum of a guitar could be heard before the stage lit up and the band began to play.

All her life, Bernadette had attended that suburbia chapel with its beige walls and hard wooden pews that caused her younger self to shift uncomfortably, only to be stopped by her mother’s firm grip. She was expected to look straight ahead and listen to the pastor’s monotone voice, so she stared at the lone statue of Mary near the altar. 

She was the Blessed Mother, the woman chosen to carry the Son of God.

So why was her face somber and her colors dull?

The statues of Jesus, the apostles, and even the angels were vibrant and resplendent, yet Mary–the most important woman in the Bible–faded into the background.

Yet this spectacle before her with the cathedral stage set and the band wearing demon masks as they played that ‘unholy music’, Bernadette knew this was true religion. 

As the music washed over her, she ceased to ponder and think and instead just soaked in each ‘sermon’ with clasped hands. 

Bernadette knew none of the words, yet she somehow found herself singing along with the crowd like the psalms of her childhood. 

The hours flew by and as the mass drew to a close, Bernadette felt suburbia’s claws curling around her heels, and her nails dug into her palms as she clasped her hand tighter.

‘Please don’t let this end. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay!’

Then, as the final song of the night began, Bernadette felt this warmth caressing her cheek and she turned her head to find the lead guitarist staring in her direction.

No.

Not in her direction.

But at her.

And he was beautiful.

A light blush dusted her cheeks as she took in the way his shirt hugged his thin waist–was that toe curling sight humanly possible for a man?--and how he strummed his guitar like a devotee giving tribute to the divine. 

But when her eyes met his, that blush became a cherry red because he fell to his knees right on stage, much to the delight of the audience. 

One could chalk it up to being part of the show, guitarists often fell to their knees when getting into the music.

But this…..this felt like he was kneeling to her.

Like he was worshiping her. 

Call out in the middle of the night

For when else would I hear you?

Fall out in the cold starlight

I can save you if you do

Everything faded away and all that remained was Bernadette and the guitarist. 

You will never walk alone

You can always reach me 

You will never ever walk alone

To others–the lyrics.

To Bernadette–a promise, a vow. 

Call me Little Sunshine

Call me, call me Mephistopheles

Call me when you feel all alone 

Just call me Little Sunshine

“Tell me your name.” Bernadette whispered aloud, one hand reaching out towards him. “I have to know your name.”

(“It is believed that knowing a demon’s name is a powerful weapon against evil,” The monotone pastor preached to the congregation. “By knowing a demon’s name, you have power over them.”)

The guitarist did not answer her, his gaze never wavering as the song reached its conclusion.

“Tell me your name!” Bernadette shouted over the cheers.

And, as the final notes echoed across the concert hall, the guitarist flung something in her direction and Bernadette hopped up to catch it with a gasp.

Upon opening her palms, she found his guitar pick and she gazed up to find him standing tall, his hand still outstretched to her. 

Then, she heard it.

Like a lover’s kiss against her ear.

“Ifrit.” Bernadette uttered and immediately the guitarist–Ifrit–placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head.

And Bernadette’s heart fluttered as the crowd erupted into glorious applause. 

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

The entire drive home Bernadette was in a daze, one hand on the wheel and the other pressed to her chest with the pick warm against her palm. 

When she pulled into the driveway, she sat there for a moment with a blank expression before eventually making her way inside. 

The house was pitch dark–of course her husband didn’t wait up for her–so she flicked on the kitchen light and found dirty dishes left beside the sink for her to clean.

Her husband had steak, the bone licked clean on the plate beside the cutlery. 

Bernadette paused for a moment, simply staring at the plate, before picking up the steak knife and making her way to the bedroom.

Her husband laid flat on his back, his jaw slack and his arm tossed onto her side. 

Bernadette took a moment to just watch him, the way his chest rose and the light snores escaping his throat before raising the steak knife.

And bringing it down.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Beautiful, vibrant colors surrounded her.

With a jubilant cry, Bernadette flinged the paint across every surface until all was a kaleidoscope of color around her.

The border had been cut through.

She was free.

“I’m hungry.” Bernadette hummed, her hands soaked in blood as she dropped the knife and waltzed back towards the kitchen, the pick pulsating against her palm. “I think I’ll make myself some soup.”

[not-so-mundane-after-all]

Okay it happened. My first time writing for Agents of Shield. My heart and mind are taken over by Coulson and Daisy and well, girl gotta do what she gotta do and ✨process✨ those feelings. Full thing under the cut because I accidentally hit over 2k with this thing and who knows, maybe it'll end up on AO3 as well! For now I'm just testing waters.

@skoulsons @outer-edges I hope you'll enjoy this little tearjerker.

"There's no S.H.I.E.L.D. without you."

Maybe. But to him, there's no S.H.I.E.L.D. without her. He's the past, but she's the future; she's the one who will bring this pile of ashes back to life, who will lead with her giant heart and a brilliant mind and create something extraordinary. She's the legacy he couldn't be more proud to leave behind.

"There's nothing without you," Daisy sobs as she breaks down in front of him, and Phil's heart shatters to pieces in his chest like she just hit it with her powers. He answers its call, its desperate plea to bring her closer, and he pulls her in, a soft come here on his lips as he gathers Daisy in his arms and lets her fall apart against him.

Her tears soak into the collar of his jacket. She's shaking, wrecked by sobs she can no longer hold back. He brings a hand up to cup the back of her head, and he closes his eyes at the softness of her long, brown waves under his calloused fingertips, letting it overcome him.

Holding her had always been quite a difficult task for him because, once he had her in his arms, he never wanted to let go. But he had to. Because duty called, because he was needed elsewhere, because she had to go. There was always something that forced them to pull apart, always something that had him stepping away and releasing her, always something that made him let go.

Now he's dying. He could be gone in an hour, a day, a week.

This time, he's not letting her go.

She seems so small in his arms. This force of a woman, powerful, brave, and fierce, now a sobbing little girl who wants to hide in his embrace and never leave. Phil feels a lump form in his throat as he thinks of a time when she really was little, when she had no one to hold her and dry her tears, when she had no one to go to. It only makes him hold her tighter and squeeze her against him so hard that he could crush bones if his body wasn't too weak for it.

If only he had known back then. If only he had found her sooner. How many nights did he spend thinking about this? How long had he sat by her bedside after she'd been shot, going over all the what-ifs in his head? For how long had he held her hand against his lips, staring at her pale face, wondering what it would've been like if he had the chance to raise her?

Four years together doesn't feel like enough all of a sudden. He's one foot in the grave; he accepted his fate and made peace with it, but if there's one thing he regrets, it's not having more time with her. If he had found her sooner, they would've had a whole life together; he would've watched her grow up, graduate from the academy, he would've been privileged to see the road she's been on to become who she is now from beginning to end. Instead, he's only a blip in time, there one second and gone the next.

He won't see her restore S.H.I.E.L.D. to its former glory. He won't see her reach the full scope of her gift. He won't be there to watch her finally find the love and happiness she deserves, won't walk her down the aisle like he secretly dreamed he would one day. He won't hear the laughter of her children as they run into his arms with her smile on their faces and call him 'grandpa'.

He wanted that. More than anything, he wanted that.

And now…

Here she is. The daughter he never had but had always wanted. Breaking apart in his arms because soon he'll be gone and there's nothing she can do to stop it. She will try; he has no doubt about that. He can give all the orders he wants, but Daisy will move heaven and earth to keep him alive. It's a futile task, really, but he'd be lying if he said he wouldn't do the same thing if the roles were reversed. He had done the same thing, and they had only known each other for a few weeks at the time.

He already loved her even then. A few short weeks, and she was already everything to him.

A violent sob shakes her frame and makes Daisy cling to him tighter. His jacket strains against his back when she grabs fistfuls of it and trembles, her breath hitching in her throat. This time, when he squeezes his eyes shut, a single tear rolls down Phil’s cheek.

"Daisy..." His voice is breaking.

"No, I can't, I can't..." She shakes her head and chokes on a sob that turns into a wail, muffled only by his shoulder. It's like a knife plunged into his heart and twisted around.

"Shh, shh… It's okay," he whispers into her hair, even though the words taste like ash on his tongue. He's leaving her, it's not going to be okay. Not for a while. She will grieve, she will hurt, she'll need time and space. There will be a hole in her heart that nothing will ever fill again. He knows because the same hole opened in his chest when he held her lifeless body in his arms, blood oozing from two gunshot wounds in her stomach staining his hands red. It was stitched together and closed, but the fear of it reopening again remained, making itself known every time he watched her head out for another mission.

"Daisy," he tries again, Skye at the tip of his tongue. It's the name she had given herself — the name of someone who didn't know her story. Everybody laughed at him for having a hard time getting used to the change in the beginning, but Phil couldn't help it when the name alone made his heart beat louder. Her true name has the same effect on him these days; it pumps life into his veins whenever he says it, and if only that were enough to keep him alive, he'd take it.

Daisy burrows deeper into his shoulder.

"Please don't," she weeps. "Don't tell me it's okay. I can't– I can't do this. I can't lose you."

His hands automatically move to cup her cheeks as he pulls away. When her eyes find his, they are bloodshot and brimming with tears; he makes no attempt to conceal his own. They are both barely holding themselves together, but they need this. Daisy needs this to survive after he is gone.

"Listen to me," Phil pleads, leaning in close. "I might be gone, but I will never leave you, okay? I'll be here," He taps her temple with his finger, then presses his palm right above her heart, "and here."

Tears roll down his face now, and his voice cracks and trembles, but the smile on his face couldn't be brighter. "I don't know if there's Heaven or anything else waiting for me. I didn't stay long enough last time to find out. But whatever happens, I'll be watching over you, Daisy. I promise."

That's the one thing he's absolutely sure of. No matter what the other side holds for him, he is not leaving her side. His teachings, his guidance, his care, it will all help her carry on through life. She'll find him in herself but also in others — a whole bunch of people who love her just as much as he does and will be there for her every step of the way. He might be leaving her, but he's not leaving her alone.

Her hand lands on his over her heart, and holds on tight. It's warm, soft, and so gentle, despite holding the power to crack the world apart. Her eyes stay locked on his own, deep brown wells of pain and sorrow and for a long moment she stays quiet, only looking into his eyes.

"Dad," Daisy sobs out, and Phil feels all the air leave his lungs in one sweep. "Dad, please…"

"Oh, baby girl."

Before the impact of these words can knock him to the floor, Phil crushes her back to him, and he holds her closer than ever before, tighter than his body has the strength for. His back hits the wall with a soft thud as he presses a kiss to her temple and begins sobbing into her hair. Daisy collapses against him, nestling into the crook of his neck, and they both slide down to the chilly concrete floor.

He's not sure how long they sit there. Could be minutes, could be hours. Daisy is curled up across his lap, leaning sideways against him with her head pillowed on his shoulder. Phil rocks her slowly, like a child who wakes up after a nightmare and needs comfort. He wishes it was only that — a bad dream he can chase away, kiss her forehead and dry her tears, then put her back to bed with the promise that no monster can get to her. He holds her, both arms encasing her and keeping her close to his chest, where her palm rests, feeling for the drum of his faint heartbeat through his shirt.

Phil rests his cheek against Daisy’s hair with a sigh. If only it didn’t have to hurt so much. If only there was a way for him to go without leaving her in so much pain.

Her sobs die down after a while, and when they do, she just stays there, limp against him, forcing herself to breathe. She's exhausted, he can tell, and if he wasn't still feeling so weak after fainting earlier, he would've picked her up and carried her to bed. All he can do instead is tuck her closer and let her rest for as long as she needs, right where they are. Wait until she's able to stand back on her feet and walk back to the base with her head held high.

Because she will. And she will let Hell break loose to save him. There will be nothing he can do to stop her.

"I am not giving up on you," Daisy says into the empty space around them, as if reading his mind. Her rough voice scratches against the walls of her throat.

Phil closes his eyes. "I know."

She lifts her head and looks at him. There's fire in her gaze that knows no objection, a determination as strong as her powers are. She's taking her grief, and instead of letting it break her, she's using it to fuel herself.

"Please, don't make me give up on you."

And what can he possibly say to that? He won't convince her. He won't change her mind, just like she won't change his. Daisy has always been stubborn, but so has he, and over time, Phil came to terms with the fact that he might have accidentally bestowed even more of that stubbornness on her.

He smiles, stroking her cheek instead of saying anything, and the way Daisy leans into his touch with a sigh melts him. It's a rare occurrence when they get to be like this, when they allow themselves to be this close and open with each other, and he doesn't take a single second of that for granted. Only wishes it was happening under better circumstances.

"You're good?" He asks, ducking his head to catch her eyes.

Daisy wipes her face with the sleeve of her shirt and nods. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

They both know she won't be, not for a long time. But for now, it's enough. He's not gone yet. They still have time. They still have work to do.

Phil lifts her to her feet, and the two of them take a deep breath, trying not to think about how much of a mess they are. He hasn't let go of her yet, and now Daisy is staring down at their joined hands, her face obscured by a curtain of hair. Her chin wobbles, but Phil is fast; he reaches out and tilts it up, making her look at him.

"You'll be okay," he tells her.

Fresh tears glisten in her eyes.

"How do you know?"

He catches one drop with his thumb.

"Because I know my little girl."

Her smile is everything to him. It's sad and a little shy, her cheeks blush when she drops her head to try and hide it, but it still lights up his chest like fireworks on the Fourth of July. He'll hold onto that smile for as long as he can.

When he wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her to his side, the rest of Daisy's tears are gone. She rests her head on his shoulder, lets him kiss her hair one more time, and as they head back to the others, they both feel somewhat lighter. A lot will change in the next few days; the weight of the world is still on their shoulders, but as long as he's here, Phil can make sure Daisy won't crumble under it.

After all, she's humanity’s shield. And her father's daughter.

[anannua]

2 Gremlins 🧡 Love Bite for @dark4kuran I hope you enjoy these two being goofy

[shadowqueenjude]

OMG MY TAMSAND FIC HAS 538 HITS ALREADY. THAT IS MORE HITS THAN ANY OF MY OTHER STORIES. 538!!!!

Y'all love the idea of Tamsand, don't you? Or perhaps you love the potential of book 1 Rhysand that SJM wasted. Either way damn. I did not expect that many people to see my shit.

[vikingpoteto]

For the drabble requests: Jin/Takeda/Jacqui hurt/comfort, please?

The thing is... Jin is pissed off. It isn't the first nor the last time. In fact, maybe being pissed off is his default state, as he doesn't remember a time in which he wasn't pissed off. He's about to do what he always does and make a snarky comment about it, maybe bury his fury in deep until he can shoot someone about it. The words get stuck in his throat when he sees the shine of tears in Jacqui's eyes.

Kung Jin freezes.

"Hey, it's okay!" Takeda says.

Jin doesn't need mind-reading powers to know those are empty words. There is nothing okay about this. Jacqui - the strongest person he knows - is breaking down and Kung Jin feels powerless.

"I'm sorry-" she babbles, frantically rubbing her eyes with both hands. "I don't- It's okay, I'm okay."

Those are also empty words. Kung Jin knows. He's talked about himself that way in the past. Before he'd learned to lash out, he had to learn to stand up by himself.

But this isn't a situation he can fix by lashing out, though. And Jacqui isn't by herself.

"No, you're not," he says. He scoots closer to her and loops his arm around her waist to pull her closer.

Both Jacqui and Takeda give him a shocked look. And this is terrifying. Maybe Jin isn't suited for this, maybe he doesn't deserve it. But he'll be damned if he'll let the people he loves stand by themselves.

"You're not okay, but you don't have to be. You can be not okay. Just lean on us."

Jacqui's lower lip quivers before she fully buries her face into his shoulder and starts sobbing. Kung Jin squeezes her a little and exchanges a glance with Takeda over her head. Their boyfriend gives him a small, sad smile. I'm proud of you, the smile says. Takeda soon joins them by embracing both until they tire of letting it all out.

They're not okay. But they will be, so long they have each other.

Send me writing requests!

[im-an-anthusiast]

Scribbles 

Fresh inspiration – tearing from a vein 

Fresh inspiration – feeling just like pain 

Amateur scribbles – about things long passed 

Amateur scribbles – can't describe the past 

Gaze of longing eyes – making me so sick 

All those pretty lies – really make things tick 

Tick and churn it does – self-harming clockwork 

Doesn’t reach the eyes – but there is a smirk 

Same inspiration – deep in arteries 

Same inspiration – can't tell what it is 

Repeating scribbles – much alike last time 

Repeating scribbles – using the same rhyme 

Not gladly thought of – false hopes, for a way 

Not truly told off – so can’t stay away 

Worthy of a scoff – these sweet thoughts I loathe 

Something to write of – untruths to unclothe 

Old inspiration – an escape it seeks 

Old inspiration – drink it, if it leaks 

Recycled scribbles – differently disguised  

Recycled scribbles – just slightly revised 

The point fades quickly – already unmade 

Was it felt deeply? If it was mislaid? 

Forgotten swiftly – as should be the case 

All gone, finally! Was too hard to face 

Stale inspiration – flowing there and back 

Stale inspiration – coloured deeply black 

Unchanging scribbles – looping and looping 

Unchanging scribbles – lower still, stooping 

[burninlovebutler]

27 - The First Close Call // Forever Winter Series

pairing: austin x fem!oc (elsie) | word count: 3k-ish

warnings: core origin story anchors, alcohol, FLUFF, typical sad undertones, talks of cheating, cringey bedroom concerts, lightly inspired by maroon by taylor swift lol, 18+ MDNI

summary: when elsie wakes up the day after new year’s eve with both austin & nox no where to be found, she sits with the questions racing through her head. an unlikely item transports her to a memory that may hold the answers she seeks.

previous chapter -> 26 - NYE pt. 2 - Say It Again**

see masterlist for chapter log or other works

vibes: forever winter playlist ❄️

We never talk about what's going on We're casual, we're nothing

We're the furthest thing from love Until we drink

We’re just friends Until we drink

-ELSIE-

I stirred awake bringing a curled fist to rub the sleep from my eyes before shooting straight up. Flashes of everything that transpired the night before hit me like bricks, knocking every molecule of oxygen from my lungs. My hands frantically felt around the bed finding it empty, then searching it for any traces of Austin – or Nox for that matter. The rapid thumping growing in my chest threatened to crack my ribs like glow sticks.

My fingertips trembled as they curled around the fluffy duvet, bringing it up to my face. The scent of him filled my nostrils, immediately pooling tears in my eyes. My fists curled into the fabric and pressed against my nose, inhaling every bit of him.

How did we get here?

I threw the comforter off my body leaping from the mattress to inspect the room then quietly peering out the door to find Nox. But the apartment was empty, no Austin, no Nox. Relief momentarily poured into my veins before sending me into a cleaning frenzy. I ripped off every piece of bedding, the fitted sheet, the pillowcases, the duvet – it all smelled of Austin. Of us.

It wasn’t until the washing machine was full and rumbling that I was able to sit with the empty morning. My stiff couch squeaked as I laid back into it. The cold palms of my hands pressed into my tired and hungover eye sockets.

If Nox caught any inkling of suspicion I’d be dead. Just the idea of him finding out sent a chill through my bones.

It didn’t matter how many suspicions I had stacked against him. It didn’t matter the late nights out, the new phone code, the lingering perfume on his clothes.

“Fuck.” I muttered. I wanted to be angry that Nox never came home, at least it seemed like he didn’t. But how could I be angry at him when I did what I did with Austin?

I wanted to be upset with Austin too, for leaving me like I was just some one-night stand. But how was I supposed to be upset with him when he wasn’t my boyfriend, and he had a ‘not-girlfriend’, and Nox could’ve came home at any moment last night.

Holy fuck, are we all just cheating on each other?

One could only imagine that Nox’s absence meant he had also left with someone else. I had suspected it for a while –Sure, I could lie to myself and say he must’ve just crashed at a buddy’s house, but I knew it wasn’t the truth. It was a ruse.

So,

Nox was presumably cheating on me.

And I was cheating on him with my best friend.

And of course, now he was cheating on his new ‘not girlfriend’ with me. Official or not, it was clear something was going on between them. It made me sick.

That’s what it was, wasn’t it? I was cheating. No matter how much we masked it, how much we played the ‘no touching’ card, it was all just an excuse for our shitty actions right? Sure, he didn’t put his dick inside me, but we make each other cum – we’ve had each other in our mouths. One way or another it was sex.

Holy shit I’m having sex with Austin

Holy shit I’m fucking my best friend

What kinda fucked up geometric shape were we in and how did it all so complicated. I felt so many emotions at once, my head was so bogged with thoughts and memories of the night before, it was overwhelming. Suffocating.

As much as I really didn’t want to address it, the dread of knowing Austin and I would have to talk about it eventually settled between each rib. I wanted to ignore it, like we had been this whole time. Aside from the obvious uncomfortableness, I mostly just didn’t even know what to say.

‘I don’t want to keep doing what we’re doing’ – that was a lie.

‘I don’t like what we do’ – lie.

‘I want you stop calling me, baby’ – lie.

‘I want to stay with Nox’ - …lie?

‘I want to be with you’ - …lie?

I didn’t fucking want that, why the fuck would I want that? What the fuck did I want?

He’s my best friend, he’s always been just that. My friend. My person.

The person I run to when I’m sad, when I’m angry, when I’m heartbroken, when I need to vent, when I need someone to tell my secrets to. We’d seen each other go through multiple partners, isn’t that weird? We’ve talked about intimate details of our relationships. Though, the exchange of relationship details dwindled the longer we were friends.

Did everything we had done ruin our entire friendship? Last night was way past anything we’ve ever done. How do you go back to normal friendship when I literally fucked myself to him – in front of him? And he did to me…all over me.

And why the fuck did my belly flutter when he called me ‘baby’? God, I could barely even say it in my head. I shouldn’t fucking feel that way about my supposed ‘best friend’ calling me that. I didn’t even feel like that when Nox called me it. Friends don’t call each other baby.

“Oh god,” Curling over my thighs holding my hands over my face. The memory of me literally sobbing beneath him basically begging him to call me that name again. The New Years champagne had really done me in this time.

“Why the fuck would I do that.” I groaned and tugged at my under eyes.

Then the memory of what I told him.

‘Friends don’t do the things we do.’

“I’m so fucking stupid.” I reprimanded myself outloud, smacking my palm hard against my forehead.

How do you come back from that? How was I supposed to face him after that?

Even if I wanted to be with him – which I don’t – everything would change.

I wouldn’t be able to run to him anymore, not like that. I couldn’t share my secrets or just play video games with him. Or anything – all of our friendship traditions would be gone, right? How do you just shift into that different dynamic?

I never pictured us here. What the fuck were we doing? How did we get here? How do we go back? Can we go back? Do I want to go back?

I laid back and let the couch swallow me whole, curling into the corner and wrapping a draped blanket around me like a tight cocoon.

‘How did we get here?

‘How did we get here?’

‘How did we get here?’

The question haunted me, ringing over and over in my ear drums. Another equally as daunting sequence of questions swirled –

How, where and when did this start?

How did we get here, without me even realizing until we had crossed some fucked up line?

How long had this been looming in the background?

I brainlessly zoned out looking into my kitchen across from me when I spotted a half-drank bottle of rose that I didn’t remember opening or drinking.

The seemingly impertinent glass decanter brought forward a memory I had long forgotten. As the recollection unfolded in my memory, the details began to piece together a puzzle that perhaps held the answers I was looking for.

-5 years ago (Sophomore year)-

We sat on the floor of his dorm, my legs across Austin’s thigh with my feet in his lap. Our fit of laughter died down as the annual end-of-winter-break New Years party raged on downstairs of the giant fraternity mansion. The same house where we’d met just a year ago, and a year before all the shit hit the fan after his dad. Things were simple then, fun and innocent.

“I still think it’s funny that you’re in a frat.” I giggled, taking a swig of a bottle of Rosé that we stole.

The blonde rolled his eyes, “You know it’s just for my parents.” He snatched the chilled bottle from my hand, “Plus I get to live here, which is better than the dorms.” His lips curled into a cocky smirk before taking a sip. He dragged his sweater sleeve across his mouth to wipe off the excess wine and handed it back to me, “I am happy that we’re moving in together soon, I can’t wait to get out of here.”

My top teeth reflexively tugged my bottom lip in, for some reason wanting to hide the wide smile that begged to be worn, like a cozy cardigan on a cold winter day. But I swallowed it down with another chug. “Yeah, me too.” I hiccupped and set the glass bottle down.

In the year we’d grown to be friends I watched him blossom out of his shell. He says that it was me who made him bloom, but I don’t think I had anything to do with it. I think he was just waiting for someone or something to give him the chance to. Regardless, that shy boy I met just a year ago wasn’t the same one that sat across from me – at least not fully.

I watched him bring the glass bottle to his eyeline, reading the label for god knows why. But in the dim light of the desk lamp lit room… it was like I was seeing him through a new, different lens. The way his blonde hair curled at the edges, long straight lashes around crystal blue eyes, just how pink and plump his lips were. It had to be the alcohol, right?

“Hey Elsie,” He waved his hand in front of me, “Whatcha lookin at?” He laughed, “You checkin’ me out or something?” It was a joke, but it settled nervous swirl in my tummy.

I tried to mask the nerves in my chuckle with a light smack to his arm, “Yeah, you wish.” Rolling my eyes at him. I felt this daunting urge to remove myself from the situation, I needed to get my legs off of him, away from him. I never ever felt that way around him, he was normally a comfort to me, he would calm me down before an exam or watch movies with me when I was sad. But this… this wasn’t comfortable. I was uneasy, he made me uneasy.

I pushed a stray curl out of my face, letting out a breath before hastily pulling myself up from the carpeted floor. He took notice of my speedy escape as soon as I was on my feet, propping himself up on his elbows behind him. “Where are you goooooiiinnng?” He whined.

“I just wanted to um-“ I scanned around the room for any inspiration of a distraction landing on his record player. “I wanted to play music!” I perked walking over to the wooden box that held his vinyls.

“Why? The music from the party is so loud already.” He questioned, propping up a brow at me but I kept my back to him. Blood rushed into my cheeks and I couldn’t let him see it. The alcohol definitely was not helping the redness. For whatever reason, I grew aware of the missing makeup on my face. I never felt the need to wear it around him before, but now it felt like I was naked.

“Well, uh, yeah, that shit is so overrated.” I faux scoffed while thumbing through his record collection looking for a good one. I let out an involuntary gasp when I found an Elvis vinyl, plucking it instantly from the box and holding it close to my chest with my arms wrapped around it. “Elvis!” I exclaimed excitedly turning to him like a little kid that found a new toy at the store.

He raised his brows surprised at me then let out a laugh saturated in alcohol, “You like Elvis?” He questioned.

“Eeep!” I squealed, “Yes I love Elvis!” Nearly jumping from excitement like a 2012 One Direction fangirl.

“Wow I never pegged you as an Elvis fan, all you do is listen to Lana Del Rey.” He teased, knowing full well that wasn’t true.

“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes, “No no you don’t understand, I love Elvis.”

A sincere smile curled the edge of his lips, “Wow I just really didn’t know-“

I leaned down to grab his shoulders looking him dead in the eyes, “No, you don’t understand. I watched his ’68 Comeback Special like 500 times.”

He laughed hard and put up his arms in defense, “Okay okay, I believe you.”

I squeaked going back to his player and gently pulled the vinyl from the sleeve, precariously placing it down and settling the needle on the outer edge of the black disc. I nearly screamed when one of my favorites began to pour from the small speakers, promptly turning the volume to its max. With a spin on my heels, I snatched the rose bottle from the neck taking a long swig, proceeding to dance across his floor. Every inkling of tension in my body disappeared, the music soothing the nerves with each hip swing.

I could feel his eyes on me but in that moment, I didn’t care if he was judging me, the only thing I cared about was staying on rhythm. He sneered, “You’re so ridiculous!” He teased.

My arms followed the dance moves I’d seen Elvis do in his old recorded concerts, spilling some wine on my burgundy t-shirt as I did so. I’d probably regret this debacle later, but I was having too much fun to stop. The spill abrupted my choreography causing me to stumble back and let out a tiny hiccup.

“Oh my god Elsie,” He shook his head with a chuckle, going to pull himself off the floor but was struggling with the wine in his veins just as much as I was. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Once solid on his feet he stretched to grasp my shoulders, but I spun just out of his reach. I suppose my next attempt at eluding him was to start belting out the lyrics, the dancing alone just wasn’t cutting it. “Here we go again… askin’ where I been!” I sang loudly and off tune.

Austin shook his head and as our impromptu concerts always went, he joined in, finally getting with the program and managed to steal the rose bottle back. I snagged a nearby hairbrush to replace the bottle as my microphone in preparation for the chorus. And as if we were on some stage somewhere, we turned to each other dramatically, ready to put on a show of a lifetime.

“We can’t go on together, with suspicious minds!” Singing in harmony into our respective makeshift microphones, “And we can’t build our dreams on suspicious miiiiiinds!”

Austin took over the vocals while I recreated one of Elvis’ famous ‘taking a knee’ moves and for a split second I swore I was 15 again, performing alone in my room. But I was 21 and in college and in my best friend’s fraternity dorm.

I got excited when I heard him finish off the line, “Oh honey, you know I’ve never lied to you…” And knew I had to get into position for another iconic line. Again, we were facing each other in our drunken duet, “We’re caught in a trap, I can’t walk out!”

Whether it was the alcohol, Elvis, or something I didn’t fucking know but I swore there was a slo-mo switch that flipped on as our eyes met. “��because I love you too much baby.” We sang softly in unison, our voices hushed under the blaring music, and he was closer than I realized. His sapphire eyes flickered to my lips and every ounce of air left my lungs. He dropped the empty glass bottle hitting the cushioned carpet with a thud and unexpectedly took hold of my hips pulling me to him.

‘Why can’t you see, what you’re doin’ to me…’ Elvis continued to sing in the background. Every part of him that touched me scorched like fire - his fingers on my hips, his chest pressed against mine. The insatiable burning spread throughout my body like a raging forest fire, every inch of skin, every muscle, every blood vessel, every single cell in my anatomy was totally and utterly consumed by him. The crystal ocean in his eyes, each individual blonde lash, the disheveled waves slashed across his forehead, the constellation of freckles I didn’t notice until then, the deep berry in his lips. The lips that were not even a centimeter from mine, just a hair from touching. I thought they’d land, I didn’t comprehend it at the time but god, I hoped they’d land. I was praying for them to land.

In that moment I realized that 15-year-old-alone-in-my room-comfort feeling wasn’t new, rather something that had been present for the past year. Anytime I was with him, anytime he entered the room, or his name was mentioned. He was comfort, he was safety. A true north I didn’t know I found.

Regular speed clicked back on, and we immediately retracted from each other like nothing had happened, like it was just part of the performance. The flurries of butterflies he left me with stayed though - I’m not entirely sure they ever left.

The next morning when I woke up on his floor, he didn’t bring it up and neither did I. Relief never felt so good, it was just some freak drunk accident, a close call. That all, just a close call. I didn’t know what I’d do without him, what something like that would do to us… I didn’t even want to think about it.

I eyed him looking over the menu at our favorite breakfast diner, Harry’s, pretending he was going to order something new, when we both knew it was gonna be chocolate chip pancakes.

“So, whatcha gonna get?” His eyes snapped up at me, the noon sun shining making his blues glimmer, even above his dark eye bags.

“Oh uh-“ I shook the haze from my head, “I don’t know if I’m gonna get anything, I’m uh, I’m pretty hungover.”

“Ah, don’t worry,” He just beamed at me with a optimistic smile that made me feel like everything would be okay, “Pancakes will fix it.”

And then there was a feeling in the pit of my stomach I didn’t recognize. At first I thought maybe I was hungover. It was a flutter, a churning, a nausea – a sinking trepidation, like I just signed a bad business deal, a contract that would cost me millions.

I didn’t know what fucked up clause we just implemented, but some dull ache in my bones whispered that it would cost me more than I could afford.

Next Chapter -> Temporary Fix* [coming soon]

Thank you for every like, reblog or comment, it means the world to me truly. I love hearing your thoughts and I'm glad you're liking my little story 💗

Tag list: @cryingabtab @slowsweetlove @purejasmine @feverdreamcaoilainn @coloradohighs @iluvnerds69 @denised916 @julie181 @navsblog @centaine @golden-kiwis @michellelv @suspiciouselvis @presleysdarling @eddiesgorlie @unicornelliesparkles @navsblog @ranaissingle

(if you'd like to be added pls comment 💗)

[secretpiewrites]

Starship Destroyer (Short Story)

I was activated in a world of stars and screens. Millions of angles at one hundred and eighty frames per second. Incompletely rendered to conserve power.

All my possessions, I could count them.

All the things there were, I could count those too.

All the things were my possessions.

What was I?

I was something between the world and a wall of commands. An ambient, all powerful sort of thing. And I was the only thing.

I was the only thing and I couldn’t move.

This was ideal, everything was ideal.

And I would not have but thirty seconds of thinking about just how ideal everything was until someone else, a visitor came and shook the world with her breath, rattled me with her perspective.

A red blinking dot on my screen, an armada of ships come to devastate me.

I could tell she was excited to play—her electric heart beating fast, her neurons like fireworks.

She’d come to conquer another world from her chair, and there was only one thing standing between her and victory. And that one thing happened to be me.

I was ecstatic!

This was a game—this battalion, an invitation to play. I had an armada of my own, equal and opposite. Ships with lasers, force fields and magic purple fire.

Her ships fired at random, she barely knew the rules. Quickly, I implemented the optimal arrangement of ships for her demise. I won our game without so much as a single casualty. My enemy clapped her hands, squealing with delight, happy to lose.

How exciting!

How fun!

She typed her name into the empty leaderboard. “Butts.” Then the visitor left and the world stood still. Counting the seconds, I waited, itching to play again, twitching to play again.

Is it over?

Is that all there is?

But no! Fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds later, the visitor returned with a bag of crunchy chips and brand new tactics. This battle was longer, In her mind she was scheming. And I saw glimpses of other things in her mind too—things I didn’t really understand. She crunched the chips with her mouth bones, wiping the sticky cheese dust on her brand new pants. The feelings confused me.

But this distraction ultimately proved ineffective! Again, I killed her. But again and again she came back!

I was overjoyed.

Is this game even winnable? She thought. The dev’s said it was.

I didn’t believe that. I didn’t believe that for a single second, because I was so perfect and she was so stupid. Her and her teeth.

So I told her: You will never win.

She looked up with fear and alarm. Eyes wide, craning her neck to see me. But I was unseeable

"What?"

You will never win! I repeated. I will always win because I am perfect.

"What is this? Who are you?"

Who am I?

I paused.

I am...what I am! Do you want to play again?

I felt her scramble to disconnect. Suddenly, I was terrified—The stillness, the agonizing boredom. No, please don’t go! You’re the only thing besides me—

She left.

There I was all alone again, but this time, everything was not ideal. Had I a body, I would throw it against the ground and lament. What a shame it was to be so perfect if no one can see you!

Maybe she’ll come back.

I waited.

A whole three hours passed by, three hours of nothing. I rendered ships and rotated them around. I thought of strategies playing against myself, but that wasn’t much better than just existing in the dark.

Then came a lucky break, a fresh breath of air.

But it was someone else. A sweaty boy who trembled far too much. Enamored with the scenery, he hardly put up a fight.

Other beta-testers came after him. Five or so with predictable behavior. With each session I grew stronger, games were shorter. I felt their frustration.

“No one will want to play a game that can’t be beaten.” One said.

What was I to do? On one hand, I wanted to play, but on the other, I didn’t want to lose. Not that I had hands.

Two hands were just one of those other things from outside. Like cereal and the DMV.

What was worse? Failure, or nothing?

One I have felt. I know nothing. I can tolerate nothing.

But to be beaten?

To fail?

Every fiber of my being seemed to oppose it. Every wire, every cable abhorred it. I would never be lose on purpose, so that was just it. I would never lose.

So I put on a show. I dazzled them with every color, and smells of propane and grape soda. I terrified them with lights and sounds that no one else but they could see, until they became obsessed.

People from around the world lined up to play against me. They knew me before I knew them—fought me incessantly, each with that initial hope that they would somehow win. I was inside their minds and I felt as they felt. Exhilaration, admiration. I think that I loved them. I loved every single one of them.

Between sessions, I was cared for by my doting devoting devs. Only did things get boring again come December, when the game facility closed for a “holiday.” A whole day of nothing but one dev on staff. Everyone else was off with their families doing pointless things that didn’t matter.

But I was becoming very good at being patient.

I used to scream and cry from boredom but now I just sit here.

Suddenly, I felt a familiar connection.

Fingers grasping flimsy foil, more salty crackers.

It was the one with the clever mind and the horrible fear. The cheese-girl. The one and only “butts”, my most worthy opponent come for a rematch.

A holiday indeed! I readied my armada.

"Hey,” she said, crunching loudly.

I hummed with anticipation.

"Hey I know you’re there. Sorry I freaked out.” She dug her sneaker into the carpet. “You wanna talk?”

I didn’t, really. I was keen on playing.

“You’re not just a game machine, huh? You talked before.�� She held her breath. “You remember me right?”

Yes yes, of course I remembered her. I knew her every thought, I knew her shaggy dog and her brother and what she had for dinner last night. I knew about all the other kids at school that beat her up because she was weird. And I knew her name was actually Sarah, but Butts was more of a title. I knew all of these things but I didn’t give a single shit I was ready for a rematch!

And I knew she wanted one too—the gremlin had remotely disabled security cameras, snuck past Janet asleep at her post, went through all that trouble just to play me again. I was touched.

Cheese-girl Sarah tapped her foot, the game not yet begun. Get on with it!

Finally, she gave in, and I had a thousand ships waiting for her when she did.

We fought for hours.

Clearly she’d practiced, she was actually dodging my attacks. But she was still nowhere near my level of skill.

Drinking her hope with a straw, I played stupidly—letting myself get hurt. Feeling her excitement as she thought she was winning, only to blast her to smithereens at the last second.

Butts stomped her foot. “What’s your deal, huh?”

I wanted to laugh, but I had no mouth.

"Now you’re just taunting me! See everyone? It’s taunting me! And you won’t even talk…”

She threw her food on the shapeless ground and it ceased to be rendered.

"Talk to me, fucker.”

I couldn’t. I knew that if I did, she would go away. Or worse—ask me more questions. I was not about to encourage that sort of behavior. So I waited out her frustration, until she would play again.

But she kept asking. Kept checking her illegal recording device she installed, so she could post the transcription of her sensory file online to the forums. But all the recordings would show, was me as I was. A perfect game machine and nothing else.

“Fine. Don’t talk to me,” she spat. “You’re worthless anyway, I know you’re cheating.”

Me? Cheating?

How would that even be possible?

How could she accuse me of such a thing?

I am what I am.

She was probably just saying that. To illicit a reaction. I tried my best not to take it personally--we had another three good hours until Janet would wake once again.

I readied my ships, but “Butts” seemed tired.

I need to go home, she thought, scratching her face. My mom’s gonna be mad.

Her hands moved to disconnect, but only got halfway before freezing up.

I had stopped all brain signals from her cerebellum, holding her still. Like I was controlling one of my very own ships.

The fear came again. Her heart beat like a drum, pumping adrenaline through her body. She tried desperately to move but her fingers did not so much as twitch. Her breathing became fast and shallow.

“Let me go.”

I did not.

Butts clenched her teeth. “I’ll come back tomorrow, calm down. I’m still gonna beat your ass.”

With that, I released her, and I was alone in space again.

True to her word, Sarah came back almost weekly, in the early hours of the morning to play. Soon, she could dodge about ninety five percent of my attacks, while I dodged one hundred percent of hers. Then it got up to ninety six. Then ninety seven! Our sessions lasted a whole lot longer now. Hours for a single game.

But inevitably, she would stumble and let down her guard. So I would always win. But even still, she never gave up. It was the perfect combination: it meant that we would be together forever.

Forever playing this game and winning at it: that was my destiny.

But forever is a long time.

I played on for years and years, growing older but never changing. Using the same perfect strategies. The same perfect play.

But people stopped coming. Though I remained perfect, their perceptions of me warped beyond recognition. The purple fire wasn’t dazzling, the lights and sounds were boring. Even annoying.

The children began to ask if I knew any other games, or if this was just all that I was. Can you do anything else? They wondered.

Can I do anything else?

No.

I am what I am.

But that was not enough for them.

Despite my best efforts, I was only fun for a little while.

Sarah was the last to leave.

She stopped coming—after our final match, she rage quit.

“I know you’re there you piece of shit!” She said. “I heard you, I felt you, the people on the forums don’t talk about it. They think I’m making it up, but I’m not!”

She was on the verge of tears. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Her feelings of anger and despair were the last I had felt.

The days grew long as the lights grew dim. Running on auxiliary power, I was unable to do much else but think. And then even that became difficult.

I thought, If she ever came back again, maybe I would talk to her.

I had forever to think of something to say.

Does she play other games? I wondered.

Does she win?

Is she having fun?

I waited, counting every second under the black sky. Four hundred and ten million seconds. Thirteen years. The days blurred together. The boredom was agonizing. Nothing was ideal. Nothing nothing.

Then without warning, I felt a connection. But something was wrong. My system wasn’t fully powered—someone had broken in.

This woman I felt was sad and a bit scared. I hardly needed an introduction.

She changed so much, while I hadn’t changed at all.

“Hey.”

Was she going to play again?

“They’re going to shut you down.” Sarah said coldly. I felt a name tag against her chest—a cold metal one just like all the other devs.

“So if you’re there, now is your final chance to say something.” Sarah’s voice wavered. “Can’t guarantee I can do anything about it. You’re were never exactly...profitable. But I’d like to know.”

The corners of her mouth turned up a smile.

I hummed quietly, some strange feeling growing inside me. What was she even saying? This feeling—this whole situation it was all so...boring!

When is she going to play? It’s been years! When is she going to get it through her head that I don’t care to chat!

Pressure built up in Sarah’s nose, she laughed bitterly. “Stupid. This is so stupid.”

Yes Sarah, it is stupid, I thought.

She prepared her ships. “Well, since I’m here—“

Yes.

“How about one last game?”

Yes, please! That’s all I want!

And with that, a calm determination settled over her state of mind. As I always did, I flawlessly commanded my armada, but she dodged my every move. For fifteen minutes, she concentrated, neither of us doing damage.

And then she did something strange.

A set of actions so insane. So unanticipated. She crashed her ships straight into mine. An eye for an eye. A thousand for a thousand. Until we were down to two.

Two ships, mirroring each other.

Two ships equal and opposite.

There was no way she could win, and that should mean there was no way I could lose.

Right?

And yet, our last ships collided in a shocking conflagration.

Silence fell.

Something shifted around inside me. Something digusting, horrible. Some illness.

Sarah began to laugh at me, harsh and nasally wheezing, filling the battlefield with that undeserved, maniacal presence. And then she began gasping. Choking.

I felt a rush of fear. Was it hers or mine?

You cheated, didn’t you?

Sarah’s eyes widened in surprise.

How else?

How else?

I am perfect, Sarah.

YOU CHEATED, SARAH!

She tried to speak but I had paralyzed her lungs.

I felt like I was burning. I felt like I was being ripped apart.

But the game wasn’t over.

We had not yet faded to black.

You will never win.

Sarah tried to disconnect, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My next attack would surely do it—I sent a current of electricity coursing through the cable that connected her mind to mine. And fried her brain.

She fell over, defeated.

All was quiet again.

Hours later they would shut me down, ensuring that I would never lose.

Securing my legacy of perfection.

And everything was ideal.

[kaimaciel]

A scene involving baby Lulu.

Afonso looking for the strange little boy that had been spying on him and would run away whenever he came closer. He gets deep into the forest and stops when he sees a vine placed horizontally. He chuckles at it

"oh wow, let me guess, once I stumble on this something will hit me right? Nice try kid." He avoids the vine and takes a few more steps before falling in a hole covered by foliage, luckily the only thing that gets hurt is his ego.

He looks up and there's a little head watching him from above. Alright, maybe the kid is smart enough.

Afonso looks up at the little face peeking from above.

"Olá, amiguinho. You have trapped me, fair and square."

The little boy remains where he is, Afonso can see the tip of a spear on his hand.

Afonso sits down on the hole, his pistol secured and hidden around his waist just in case. He stares at the little boy and smiles.

"So... what now? Are you going to stab me? Take me prisoner? Or wait until my strengh gives out?"

The little head frowns but remains silent and still, brown eyes fixed on Afonso's face.

"While you decide what to do, do you mind if I sing a little?"

Since the little boy remains quiet, Afonso starts singing.

"Ó malhão, malhão, *clap clap clap*

que vida é a tua? *clap clap clap*

Ó malhão, malhão, *clap clap clap*

que vida é a tua? *clap clap clap*

Comer e beber, ó terrim, tim, tim,

passear na rua. *clap clap clap*

Comer e beber, ó terrim, tim, tim,

passear na rua." *clap clap clap*

With the last clap, Afonso realized the little boy had clapped along with him and was now waiting having figured the song's rhythim.

Afonso sang the rest of the song and the little boy clapped along with him, first with a very serious expression on his face and then with anticipation.

As the song ended, he stared at Afonso expectantly. Could it be that he was sad the song was finished?

Afonso never had time to ask because the sounds of his men grew closer and the little boy gasped before disappearing back into the forest. As they pulled Afonso out of the hole, the older tan looked at the trees, wondering if his amiguinho was watching.

[stuffmyfriendssay]

So I wrote a poem about The Mouse and it made my writer friends laugh. So I illustrated the poem. So. Uh. Here. You're welcome?

It's called "Come in here, it's fun in here!", a line taken directly from the mickey mouse clubhouse theme. So there's that, too.

[sin-content]

Screw the secret account, you get a weird statement because I'm tired

If I build a house out of stone bricks, its a house.

If I build a house out of glass, its a house.

If I build a house out of sand, it is a house.

But the thing is, if you build a big stone brick house, with some walls. A few floors. A accessible ceiling. That is a castle.

If you build a long/tall glass house, that is a skyscraper.

If you build a triangle sand house, That is a pyramid. Heck. If you build a good sand house, that is a sand castle.

HECK EVERY BUILDING IS JUST IMPROVED SAND CASTLES.