#it's in my writing tab

[illufinch]

fish for a commission

[springbeans-art]

uff wish i had time to polish this more but I had to get it off my chest because it's inspired by @demonzoro 's absolutely stunning fic "and then the sun came out" and it literally rearranged my braincells!!!!!! The writing is impeccable and if you haven't read it yet do yourself the favor and go now!!!

[tobiasrieper]

stardew valley ► cindersap forest in fall

[lotus-pear]

bsd fic authors i understand yalls pain SO well right now why is it so fucking HARD to write dazai. like i have a whole fucking spreadsheet dedicated to tireless analysis i have done on my part so i can accurately characterize him but he is such an unpredictable and morally gray character that it's hard knowing his limits and boundaries and where he draws the line for himself.

[hardly-an-escape]

A Close Shave | Dream/Hob | 2150 words | Rated G

tags: retired!Dream, shaving, unmitigated yearning and longing, the pining is probably mutual but you only get Hob's POV

“Been meaning to ask," Hob says. "How are you feeling about... this?"

He gestures to his chin, the stubble there, and across the table, Dream slowly puts down his spoon. Even more slowly, he raises one hand to his own chin and runs the backs of his fingers along the newly-grown layer of hair there.

It’s been a little over a month, and by now Hob is used to the speed – or rather, lack thereof – with which Dream finds it necessary to live his freshly-human life. A month, since Dream had chosen to live, and chosen to live with Hob, taking over the spare room and filling it with books and soft cardigans and snacks as he learned his own likes and dislikes as Dream-the-human.

It still feels to Hob as though there’s a minor miracle sitting across the breakfast table, now thoughtfully fondling the brand-new beard on his chin.

“Ah,” Dream says eventually. “You mean this. The hair on my face. Yes, I have noticed it.”

“I’ve never seen you with a beard before,” Hob says neutrally.

“I suppose I never felt the need to manifest one when I visited the Waking World,” Dream says. He returns most of his attention to his oatmeal. It still requires some concentration, to hold the spoon steady; to make sure it reaches his mouth without spilling. Hob watches for a moment, impressed all over again with Dream’s willingness to try.

“Does it bother you, having one now?” he asks.

“Why would it bother me? It is a part of my body, is it not?”

Hob, wisely, refrains from mentioning the other body parts and functions – the sunburn, the stubbed toe, the sensations of hunger and dizziness and nausea, the need for sleep and to relieve himself – which have bothered Dream an inordinate amount over the past four weeks.

“But do you like it?” Hob presses gently. “I mean, one of the great things about being human is that it’s pretty easy to change our looks, generally speaking. Maybe not as easy as just… manifesting. But still. You get to choose what you look like, whether it’s a beard or clean-shaven, or, or pink hair. Or anything. Infinite variety.”

Dream puts his spoon down again and brings both hands up to his face. His palms cup either side of his chin and his long, narrow fingers stroke gently, from the downy hairs peppering his cheekbones, down into the hollows of his cheeks (not quite as gaunt as they used to be, Hob notes with a swell of gratitude), and then along the line of his chin to where it ends in a devastating little point.

In the morning light, with his face framed by those artistic fingers and a look of such solemn concentration on his features, he looks like a statue; a religious icon, perhaps, contemplative and blessed. His eyes are closed and his rosebud of a mouth is very pink and very slightly open.

Hob has to dig his fingernails into his own thigh to stop himself from reaching out and running his own fingers down Dream’s cheek, or brushing his thumb along that unfairly soft-looking bottom lip.

“Hm,” Dream says finally. “I do not think I dislike the beard. But equally, I am not sure that I like it. I am not sure that my face… feels like me.”

“Well,” Hob says. “You can shave it off, if you want. See if you feel more like yourself. I can – I can help you. Obviously.”

Obviously. Obviously. He supposes it is obvious – it must be – how desperately he wants to help Dream. How abject his desire to make this fragile, human life a little more bearable, in any small way he can.

“Yes,” says Dream. “I would… like that. Thank you.”

Hob drags a kitchen chair into the bathroom. Digs out his softest hand towel and wets it with hot water before wrapping it carefully around Dream’s face and neck. He chatters idly as he gathers his supplies: random recollections about his favorite Turkish bath in London, which had gone out of business during the Great War, and the Russian steambaths and Finnish saunas he’s seen during his travels.

He doesn’t use his old straight razor much anymore, preferring a good reusable safety razor for himself when he’s going clean shaven, but he’s always found a well-honed, old-fashioned cutthroat to be more comfortable when shaving someone else. And he keeps his razors, like any tool, in good condition whether he’s using it regularly or not; the mother-of-pearl handle is clean and polished, the joint moves smoothly, and the blade gleams.

Dream watches through hooded eyes as Hob strops the razor and mixes up the suds of shaving foam. He loads up the soft bristle brush before removing the towel and making sure Dream is positioned in front of the mirror.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Hob says. “I’m going to start by just doing your neck and cheeks, clean up the edges a bit. You might like it more when it looks like an intentional beard, not just a couple weeks’ worth of shaggy growth. And if you’re still not feeling it, we’ll shave the rest. Sound okay?”

Dream nods, and Hob goes to work.

Touching Dream is – not difficult, not exactly. If anything, it’s too easy. Hob’s fingertips hunger for the soft brush of Dream’s skin, for the fluff of his dark hair, for his stubble and his slender hands and the little creases in the corners of his eyes. In those earliest mad days, when Dream hadn’t even been strong enough to walk on his own, Hob had manhandled him matter-of-factly. He’d helped him walk, and dress, and eat; taught him how the bathtub worked and washed his body, cheerfully ignoring the furious flush on Dream’s face at the indignity of needing to be cared for. They’d gotten through it.

He’s mature enough to admit to himself that he misses it, now that Dream has gained enough strength of body and mind to do it all for himself. There’s something so intimate about that contact with another person: about being needed in that particular intense way. It’s heady. The longing for it almost chokes him, sometimes, with how badly he wants it: to hoist Dream in his arms and cradle him against his chest. To wash his hair and rub him gently dry. To hold a cup of water or warm milk to those perfect lips.

But Hob, for all his faults, is trying so hard not to be an asshole these days. So he doesn’t touch Dream that way, now that it isn’t needed – now that he isn’t needed. No matter how much he might like to.

Until now.

Now, for just a moment, he lets himself indulge. Runs his hungry fingertips along the soft, vulnerable curves of Dream’s throat and the firmer lines of his jaw as he brushes on the shaving foam. Tips his head gently this way and that, revels guiltily in how biddable Dream is as he sits quietly in the chair.

Hob takes his time with the actual shaving, both out of caution (perhaps even a bit of terror, that he might inadvertently mark that precious skin) and out of a desire to linger over the experience for as long as he can get away with. Unfortunately, shaving just a person’s neck doesn’t really take that long, regardless of how carefully one does it. Within just a handful of minutes, he is carefully wiping the last spot of soap from the hollow of Dream’s throat and turning him fully toward the bathroom mirror.

“What do you think?” he asks.

Dream doesn’t answer right away. He turns his head from side to side, surveying his reflection. Then he tilts his chin up and runs his fingers down the newly-soft skin of his neck. Hob’s fingertips tingle. He knows the sensation Dream is experiencing, knows it intimately: the smoothness of the hairless skin, the slight tackiness of the moisturizer. Knows it from his own face, and from the faces of lovers over the decades, and even from poor, long-dead Robyn’s face, when he’d taught his son to shave.

He doesn’t say anything, and after a moment Dream meets his eye in the mirror.

“I think I would like to have the rest of it off,” he says. “If you would not mind…?”

“No problem,” says Hob softly.

They go through the whole ritual once more: the hot towel, mixing up the foam. Hob strops the razor again, just to be sure. This time he carefully rubs a little pre-shave oil into Dream’s beard to soften the hairs as much as possible, then covers his face with the thick foam.

“I don’t really know if the oil does much,” he admits, “but the last time I went for a proper shave at a barber’s, the bloke who did it swore by the stuff. I guess I’m a sucker for a good upsell. And it does smell nice.”

It takes much longer this time, of course. He finishes the first pass, wipes Dream’s face, lathers him again and goes for a second pass. He leaves Dream’s sideburns mostly alone, just taking them up enough to blend in with the hair falling shaggy over his ears – if Dream wants a haircut that will have to be another adventure, to a real barber or a salon, because Hob doesn’t trust himself with that kind of artistry, not where Dream is concerned.

He narrates as he goes, describing the best angle to hold the blade, how to gently pull the skin taut to avoid nicks, when to go with the grain of the hair and when to scrape against it. Reminiscing further on his favorite barbers and spas and on a broad history of facial hair and shaving. He is babbling a bit, he knows, but he tells himself it’s for educational purposes; that this kind of general knowledge could potentially serve Dream well as he navigates a new human life.

He’s certainly not talking in order to distract himself from the sensation of Dream’s skin and the soft sounds of Dream’s breath, or to stop himself from saying something much more revealing and embarrassing. Like how he wants to take care of Dream for the rest of time. Or how badly he wants to see if his skin is as soft all the way down as it is in the tender place just behind his ear. Or how fiercely grateful he is that Dream has chosen to live, to try, to be here, to sit in a kitchen chair and eat oatmeal, to sit in this bathroom and let Hob run his fingers down the line of his jaw, over and over, trying to memorize the feeling of every inch of skin he’s allowed to touch as he runs the razor over the valleys of Dream’s cheeks.

He will never run out of words to say to Dream – or words he wishes he could say – but eventually he does run out of skin to shave. At his direction, Dream leans over the sink and rinses his face with cold water, then gently pats in aftershave while Hob meticulously dries his razor and clears away the shaving tackle.

Then it’s quiet in the little bathroom for a long, long moment while Dream reexamines his face in the mirror.

“Well?” Hob says eventually, so low it’s almost a whisper. He allows himself one last touch. Drops his hand onto Dream’s shoulder and squeezes gently.

Dream makes eye contact in the mirror, and Hob is shocked by a swift bolt of recognition. Here, in front of him, is Dream – his Stranger, his centennial mystery – so different, so human, and yet, suddenly, so familiar. It could almost be 1489 again, save the electric lighting; his hair is nearly long enough, and the imperious pout is back on his lips.

And then he opens his mouth.

“Hob, I –” he trails off. Breathes. “I am me.”

Hob squeezes his shoulder again. “Of course you are.”

“No, you misunderstand. I – I recognize myself,” Dream says, unconsciously echoing Hob’s thoughts. “I see a man, and he looks like me.” He meets Hob’s eye in the mirror once again. “I – thank you.”

Dream’s eyes are, unaccountably, welling up with tears, as beautiful and delicate as the rest of him. Hob does the only thing he can think to do, which is to drop his chin to Dream’s shoulder, lay his own hairy cheek alongside Dream’s newly-smooth, freshly-scented face, wrap his arms around Dream’s bony chest, and hold him.

One of Dream’s hands comes up and wraps itself around Hob’s wrist, and they stay that way for a long time: Dream in the kitchen chair, in front of the bathroom mirror, and Hob behind him, holding him, crouched somewhat uncomfortably, but exactly where he wants to be.

---

this has been languishing in my drafts for absolute ages and I wish it hadn't taken me so ding dang long but it is what it is || this two cakes situation is inspired by @watercubebee's art and dedicated to her and @valeriianz 🎂🎂 || art, Kris's ficlet (plus part two)

read on AO3 >>>

[the-scooby-gang]

Welcome once again toooooo

Velma by Me!

Watch me rewrite this show one 3AM idea at a time

[Part 1]

Shaggy is now Brazilian because I said so! AFRO LATINOS FOR THE WIN!!!!!

They are friends your honor, the Velma show is lying to you

Toxic masculinity? Never heard of him and neither did Fred

[philosophiums]

jjk atla au fic in the works!!!!

title: Like the Moon Haunts the Sun

@hinamie and i have been feverishly working hand in unsleeping hand on this, and, after extensive plotting and scene ideas volleyed between us, i have finally started writing. i am being consumed by this au firstly, if you haven't seen hina's concept art for the AU yet, find them here: main trio, gojo/choso/nanami, mahito/geto/yuta, yuji/sukuna/karucchi

i don't have a nice clean summary right now, BUT the non-spoiler-y gist is that it's going to follow yuji on his journey around the atla map, mastering the elements and taking on his role as the avatar. megumi, nobara, and yuji's owltiger, karucchi, will be with him every step of the way. and if he has to stop the nefarious plans of a certain corpse-possessing spirit, well... he'll do that, too.

we're pulling from both jjk and atla/lok canon and making something that's a pretty solid balance of both instead of strictly being jjk characters shoved into designated roles a la atla/lok. there will be some bends and some breaks in the way the atla world works, but canon is, after all, just a sandbox, and we came equipped with a shovel >:)

my goal is to write the fic in four parts (i'm aiming for like 50k words but who knows!), and i will start posting to ao3 once part one is done, just to give myself breathing room for chapter updates !!!

[officialkendallroy]

im sorry but this is insane to me like i get annotating a book i do it too sometimes but like this is crazy.... why are these people acting like emily henry is academic writing??? how long does it take them to do this???

[waytooinvested]

How it feels diving into the vast Supercorp tag on AO3 trying to decide what to read next. You're all just too good.

[cuties-in-codices]

Where do you find these manuscripts? Is it like a website or do you find it randomly??

hey, thanks for the curiosity! lenghty answer below the cut :)

1)

medieval manuscripts are typically owned by libraries and showcased on the library's websites. so one thing i do is i randomly browse those digitized manuscript collections (like the collections of the bavarian state library or the bodleian libraries, to name just two), which everybody can do for free without any special access. some digital collections provide more useful tools than others (like search functions, filters, annotations on each manuscript). if they don't, the process of wading through numerous non-illustrated manuscripts before i find an illustrated one at all can be quite tedious.

2)

there are databases which help to navigate the vast sea of manuscripts. the one i couldn't live without personally use the most is called KdIH (Katalog der deutschsprachigen illustrierten Handschriften des Mittelalters). it's a project which aims to list all illustrated medieval manuscripts written in german dialects. the KdIH provides descriptions of the contents of each manuscript (with a focus on the illustrations), and if there's a digital reproduction of a manuscript available anywhere, the KdIH usually links to it. the KdIH is an invaluable tool for me because of its focus on illustrated manuscripts, because of the informations it provides for each manuscript, and because of its useful search function (once you've gotten over the initial confusion of how to navigate the website). the downside is that it includes only german manuscripts, which is one of the main reasons for the over-representation of german manuscripts on my blog (sorry about that).

3)

another important database for german manuscripts in general (i.e. not just illustrated ones) is the handschriftencensus, which catalogues information regarding the entirety of german language manuscripts of the middle ages, and also links to the digital reproductions of each manuscript.

4)

then there are simply considerable snowball effects. if you do even just superficial research on any medieval topic at all (say, if you open the wikipedia article on alchemy), you will inevitably stumble upon mentions of specific illustrated manuscripts. the next step is to simply search for a digital copy of the manuscript in question (this part can sometimes be easier said than done, especially when you're coming from wikipedia). one thing to keep in mind is that a manuscript illustration seldom comes alone - so every hint to any illustration at all is a greatly valuable one (if you do what i do lol). there's always gonna be something interesting in any given illustrated manuscript. (sidenote: one very effective 'cheat code' would be to simply go through all manuscripts that other online hobbyist archivers of manuscript illustrations have gone through before - like @discardingimages on tumblr - but some kind of 'professional pride' detains me from doing so. that's just a kind of stubbornness though. like, i want to find my material more or less on my own, not just the images but also the manuscripts, and i apply arbitrary rules to my search as to what exactly that means.)

5)

whatever tool or strategy i use to find specific illustrated manuscripts-- in the end, one unavoidable step is to actually manually skim through the (digitized) manuscript. i usually have at least a quick look at every single illustrated page, and i download or screenshot everything that is interesting to me. this process can take up to an hour per manuscript.

---

in conclusion, i'd say that finding cool illuminated manuscripts is much simpler than i would have thought before i started this blog. there are so many of them out there and they're basically just 'hidden in plain side', it's really astounding. finding the manuscripts doesn't require special skills, just some basic experience with/knowledge of the tools available. the reason i'm able to post interesting images almost daily is just that i spend a lot of time doing all of this, going through manuscripts, curating this blog, etc. i find a lot of comfort in it, i learn a lot along the way, and i immensely enjoy people's engagement with my posts. so that's that :)

[djappleblush]

Have you ever sat down to read 17 fics all at once that the plots start to merge and you suddenly get an incoherent, jumbled mess of scenarios in your head you are no longer sure of what is happening

Or are you normal?

[vacantfields]

[Beneath the smile]

When you first find out about Eclipse's existence, you're... Well, you don't know what to think.

You were cleaning up the boys' room while they took care of the daycare; it was nice of them to take on the bigger tasks, especially since you had been so tired this week. You were picking up papers from the floor when you noticed something odd... A drawing? It was right underneath the table, beneath the heaps of art supplies and whatever else Sun could manage to gather.

You kneeled down on the soft carpet you had gotten them that one Christmas a year ago and pulled the paper out; it looked a couple of years old. You could tell by the dried... Blood? Oh. You tried to keep your mind off of that for a moment as you then looked at the picture. "Super Eclipse... And Cody bestest best friends forever..." You read aloud; you could tell it was written and drawn by a very young child, and you frowned. "Eclipse?" you questioned as you stood up to put the drawing on the table. You have heard the name Eclipse around here before, but you couldn't remember if you had ever seen or heard about him.

As you try to remember while looking at the drawing on the table in front of you, your hands are on the table as you're leaning over. The blood on the drawing is concerning, too, but before you can think further about it, you feel two large and robotic arms wrap around you, and you let out a surprised noise as you're lifted.

"Hello, little starlight~!" Moon purred against your jaw as he held you to his chest; you hadn't heard Moon come up here. "You looked so serious, almost like one of those detectives from your silly stories." He chuckled as he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, which made you smile and giggle just a tiny bit, before putting you back on your feet. His hands went to his hips. "So what's up?" Moon asked with his teasing grin.

You turn to look up at the tall and handsome android. "Well... I was cleaning up-." Moon nodded his head. "As you wanted to do," he added. "As I wanted to do," you replied with a snort before glancing behind you at the child's drawing on the wooden table, your small smile gone from your lips. "Who... Is Eclipse, Moon?"

You felt like all the air had left the room; everything felt tense and hostile. You were about to ask again when you looked up at Moon and saw his eyes were firmly on you. "Who told you about that name? Who said it to you?" His voice sounded angry and terrified. Maybe hurt... Even grieving, in a way. "No one told me!" You responded hastily before standing aside. "it says Eclipse on this drawing here, and I just wondered..." You gestured with a hand to the drawing.

Moon stepped closer to the table to take a look, and you heard his fans whirr loudly in his chest, his face plate spinning once before settling. "It's old. Do not pry, and don't ask again. Starlight. Is that understood?"

You had never heard him talk like that to you before, but you nodded before remembering he wasn't looking at you, so you spoke. "Yes. Sorry, Moonie. I didn't mean to pry." Moon hummed in response. "I think you should go down and clean with Sunny for a while, Stargazer," he said with a small smile. It looked like he was about to break. Or snap.

You frowned but hummed. "Alright, Moonie." You decided not to poke Moon more about it but hoped maybe you could ask Sun. You left the room through the secret door and went down the stairs. As you got down to the bottom of the stairs, you heard things get thrown around in their room or maybe moved around. You couldn't tell.

You will figure out who Eclipse is, hopefully, through Sun.

[jaesti]

first defeat

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 16: Flatline

Okay so I picked “flatline” but it’s not... EXACTLY flatlining. His heart’s kinda still going, so it only sort of counts but who cares anyway I got inspired by that one so that’s what it’s about—

...this one’s a little heavy.

(Also thanks @silvrash-797 for some help with ideas :)

Read on ao3

Warnings: serious injury, mention of broken bones, CPR is necessary

————————————————————

It happened so fast that even when he looked back on it later, Four still wasn’t entirely sure what happened.

Their group was standing at the top of a cliff, discussing how best to climb down and studying the long fall below. Wild jumped out with his paraglider and was making lazy circles in the air while he studied the cliff, pointing out what looked like a less steep area for them to climb down.

They’d all just decided it was the safest way when something caught Four’s eye, something small and fast zipping over their heads—

An arrow?

...headed directly for Wild.

“Champion!” he shouted, but Wild hadn’t seen the arrow, and couldn’t turn fast enough to do anything.

It flew straight at him, slitting a hole right across Wild’s paraglider and catching it at the perfect angle to rip the top nearly in two.

Four watched almost in slow motion as Wild let out a single shocked yelp, the arrow embedding in his arm, then dropped like a stone through the air. He fell out of sight into the trees below them, but only seconds went by before Sky and Wind were already leaping down after him, their faces white as they snapped open their own gliders.

Four shook himself out of his shock and began frantically searching for the best way down the cliff, Twilight slamming a mask over his eyes and shooting an arrow into the forest behind them.

Four registered a scream from a monster as he began to go down the less steep side Wild had spotted only moments ago, and seconds later Twilight was beside him, his face drawn with worry. The others stayed back to fight the monsters that were running out of the woods, but Four knew they had the small group handled.

Wild was their priority.

They reached the bottom and Twilight turned into a wolf, nose in the air already sniffing. His ears perked, and Four hopped on his back before he tore off into the woods, paws pounding against the ground.

Four’s heart was in his throat as they ran, heart beating almost as loudly as Twilight’s pawsteps. He’s fine, surely he’s fine, he can survive a fall from that height, it’s not likely but it’s possible oh Goddesses please let him be okay—

Twilight nearly skidded to a stop, and Four had to clutch him in order not to be flung. He jumped off at Twilight’s nudge, and the wolf turned towards a particularly thick section of bushes, shoving his way through with Four following.

And on the other side was Wild, snapped twigs scattered all around him, lying in a small smear of blood.

Twilight practically threw himself forward, changing into a hylian as he moved, and Four ran up beside him in horror. Wild lay crumpled in a heap among the bushes, blood trickling from his nose, his arms both at odd angles. The offending arrow stuck up out of his shoulder, but Four barely noticed, his gaze stuck on the rest of him.

“Wild— Champion, can you hear me?” Twilight said frantically, fluttering his hands overtop of him, unsure of what to do. Four took a slow step closer, unable to look away from Wild, eyes glued to his chest.

Wild was still.

Too still.

“Link, come on,” Twilight choked out, and Four dropped to his knees beside him, still staring at his chest.

“He’s not breathing,” Four said suddenly, the realization like a splash of cold water. “Twi he’s not—”

Twilight made a choked noise and Four lurched forward, carefully setting his head over Wild’s chest.

A thin, thready beat met him.

“He’s not gone yet,” Four gasped, and looked at Twilight, his face twisted in horror, eyes shiny. “We don’t have any fairies, we need Hyrule, you gotta go get him.”

Twilight stared between him and Wild with an agonized expression, but then he bolted back into the woods, shifting into a wolf as he went.

Four turned back to Wild, and breathed out, panic threatening to overwhelm him.

Not right now, you need to get him breathing again! his brain shrieked, and Four quickly moved to make sure Wild was in a good enough position.

Then he started rhythmically pressing on Wild’s chest, trying to remember the exact technique to get him breathing.

It had been a long time since part of him had read that medical book, but he still remembered most of what to do. Up and down in a regular beat on the chest, then breathing air back into the person’s lungs, back and forth to get their breathing going.

He just hoped it would be enough until Twilight came back.

Distantly he heard Sky and Wind run up, heard their gasps of horror, saw in the corner of his eyes as they kneeled at his side, but his focus was on Wild, and trying to get him to breathe.

Push down hard, but not too hard, stop and breathe into his lungs, start the compressions again—

More footsteps pounded next to him, and a hand suddenly pulled at his shoulder, despite how Four tried to throw it off.

He couldn’t stop, he had to keep going or Wild would be in an even worse state when Twilight came back, he might not even be able to be saved—

“Four, we have Hyrule, you need to let him work!” a voice shouted, and Four stopped pushing, letting the hands tug him backwards.

He watched almost dazedly as Hyrule moved to where he’d been kneeling, hands glowing a bright, intense blue. Warriors was next to him, saying something as he felt along Wild’s neck and shoulders, but Four could only watch in silence, blood roaring in his ears.

Please let it have been enough please let it have been enough please—

Wild jerked slightly, and Four heard a gasp of relief beside him, Legend pulling a shaking Hyrule back from Wild. The traveler began to argue, but Legend didn’t budge, and when Hyrule nearly fell over, the veteran pulled him further out of the way.

Four could only watch as Wild slowly stirred, Warriors working to make sure Hyrule had done what he’d needed. Wild’s eyes flickered uncertainly, and blood still trickled from his nose, but he was already trying to sit up, Warriors firmly stopping him from moving.

“He’s breathing, he’s okay, you and Hyrule did it Four,” Twilight breathed from next to him, and Four could only nod, still watching Wild.

The champion couldn’t even keep his eyes open all the way, and Time knelt next to him then, helping Warriors with the arrow Hyrule had accidentally healed into Wild’s arm. Four watched as Twilight moved to grab Wild’s hand, and the champion’s eyes closed again, face creased with pain.

Four swallowed. He’s fine, he’s fine he’s fine he’s fine he’s fine.

Sky gave him a concerned look from where he was kneeled, and moved closer to him, a hand settling over his.

“Are you all right Smithy?” he asked, and Four nodded yet again, reaching up to rub at his cheek.

His hand came back damp.

Four blinked in surprise, staring at the tears on his fingers and wondering when exactly he’d started crying. Why was he even crying at all? He wasn’t hurt, and Wild was okay now, breathing and being tended to by the others. There wasn’t any reason...

A wet hiccup suddenly escaped him, and Sky moved forward and pulled him into his arms, rubbing his back when a sound more like a sob came out.

“You did it Four, he’s alive, he’s okay,” Sky said a bit shakily, and Four swallowed, trying not to utterly break down in Sky’s arms.

He wasn’t usually one for hugging, at least not all the time. But under the current circumstances, the memory of Wild’s motionless body still sharp in his mind...

He sank further into Sky’s arms, and didn’t resist when he pulled his sailcloth over him, a hand running through his hair.

“He’s okay,” Sky repeated quietly, and Four clung to those words like a drowning man.

He’s okay.

[cowboybrunch]

"would you peel an orange for me" and "would you still love me if i was a worm" are the same question

would you love me needy? would you love me helpless? would you be kind to me and expect nothing in return? if i couldn't speak or hold your hand or do the dishes, would you still be gentle with me? would you wash my hair? would you resent me? would i be a burden to you? am i a burden to you now? and if i am, are you willing to shoulder it? can i rely on you? do you love me? do you love me?