#I believe he deserved a proper introduction

[passiberri]

Salem the Cat ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽

[rxmye]

" 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 "

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — pristine and perfect, filled with grace and elegance, yet tainted with greed . . greed for you . .

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / slight religious themes?, I suppose it's a fictional religion, I'm still world-building / pathetic and submissive yandere / suggestive content? / he paints the reader as a source of comfort / stalking, which is conveniently described as 'adorable' and 'innocent' behavior /

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: ok so the person mentioned is supposed to be the God of this world, their introduction will also be out soon enough . . currently dropping hints here because world-building fun!!

Takamoto was an Arch-angel, one of the highest ranked angels in heaven—he was pure and truly the definition of elegance, he was never greedy, and he was almost always seen smiling or happy. For he, was truly contempt with his life, and position.

Takamoto was always someone who had truly been satisfied with all that he was given, he never craved more—he always thought and frankly believed, that he had received all that he deserved and that he should be contempt with what he has. He never really had any passion or desire for anything more—he was grateful with everything—he believed all his hardships had reasoning behind it, and that it will all eventually be solved. In fact a part of him believed he deserved any hardship he came by.

Many would believe he was naive for that sort of mindset, and many angels did truly believe him to be just that, yet against all odds he rose up the ranks fairly quickly for this sort of mindset, and of course his loyalty to his beliefs. Takamoto was sweet, he'd help everyone out, and would introduce new souls, and angels throughout the lands of heaven on his free time, he'd help guide souls and his fellow angels everywhere he could . . yet things slowly changed when he first met you . .

Takamoto was visiting, what could only be described as the countryside of heaven, with vast green fields, cozy homes, acres of farmland, etc . . He was checking in for this years harvest, as per high courts orders . . when he saw you, you were so graceful, your wings sparkled in the light, you were radiant, you're eyes glimmered as both of your eyes met for a brief moment . . he felt his heart skip a beat. . his face was heating up slightly, his face dusted with shades of bright pink.

His mouth hung slightly open, as his gaze lingered on you figure, taking in the sight—your wings were lovely, much smaller than his . . were you a new soul? Perhaps you were a lower ranked angel and hence why you both never quite met . . He wanted to know more about you—he need to know more about you—where were you going? . . . and before he knew it, he found himself following you, trailing behind you silently.

He found himself frequenting areas he last saw you, it was all so innocent at first, many of his fellow coworkers described him as a young schoolboy in love, teasing him for his oh so adorable behavior . .

Takamoto didn't notice how much you were invading his life, he hadn't even been able to hold a proper sentence with you yet . . . but even then his thoughts consumed of you, whenever he did paperwork, he'd doodle your face, his room was filled with various portraits of you . .

He found himself overtime growing desperate, impure thoughts flooding his mind, greed sinking its claws into his sensitive and naive hurt—he was the utter picture of perfection, just look at him, he was everything an angel . . a human, anyone should be!?!? Why aren't you looking his way!— . . he took deep breaths, his own fingers digging into his skin, as he tried calming himself.

Gold drips from his arm, the bruise left from his fingers still fresh—golden blood stained his pretty pale fingers—pupils dilating as he took deep breaths, a ruined portrait of your face on the aisle, paint splatters surrounded him, tainting his legs, as a mirror lay broken on the floor.

"Fuck", he cussed softly, tears threatening to spill, his usually well-kept hair was a mess . . "why can't I draw them . . ?", he asked, his voice hoarse, as he tried his best to contain the anger he felt at that moment, "why can't I fucking draw them??", his nails dig into the floor, as the door creaked open.

You need to love him, you need to see him. He had never craved someone's validation, he deserved this, he deserved you! He could offer you everything, he was perfect! Everyone he knows, envied that about him . . surely you'd notice, you have too . .

He turned to face the person at the door, tears now dripping down his cheek, he mumbled something under his breath, before he started begging, "Please, please, help me . . my lord"

want more, buy my limited time only advent calendar?

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[ghost-bxrd]

Been mulling over Titans Tower and it's really interesting to me how it's treated in Fanon as compared to how the events transpired in canon. it's a really fun topic! Honestly, the original writing in canon is DOGSHITE but not for the usual reasons people cite.

Here's what does make sense in canon but is largely ignored (this is using canon characterisations at the time): First, it's all about the whole Titans team, not just Tim. They really downplay his death a lot, did not put up his statue or honour him whatsoever. Plus the hero community tends to victim-blame him a fuckton. Jason is showing that his death could've happened to anyone. Second, Tim and Jason are just two yearish apart—Jay died at 15, Tim becomes Robin at 13—so those Titans are more like his colleagues than anything else; he's not some older guy beating the shit outta them. Third, Tim’s indifference to Jason's comments and his cockiness about being a better Robin are pretty on-brand for his early portrayal as Robin. (I think fanon Tim derives a lot of his characteristics from his Red Robin run, which is valid as well! But here in particular we have Robin Tim... who... was... uh... a bit of an asshole when he was written back then and the HUBRIS on that man? Immaculate.)

What still makes this absolutely dog shit is the dialogue and how Jason is pouring his heart out to someone who he doesn't really care about. Jason... just doesn't operate this way... Why's he trauma dumping on... tim... ???? It makes no sense whatsoever because Jason really is someone who'd keep those vulnerabilities to himself. Why would he open up to... CANON TIM??? He makes scathing remarks when faced with Bruce and Dick because he knows the knife twists then and at he cares about their reaction. But not tim ????? Canon UTRH doesn't even mention Tim ????? ???? So in the end it's still shit imo.

I also find the use of Pit Madness in fanon super interesting, despite it not being canon. It's used to propel the Titan's Tower incident, which fascinates me because it shows how people are willing to work around its flaws to maintain consistent characterization in their works (which is !!! cool !!)

It's so interesting how many other incidents that do occur in canon aren't as well known as this one aren't given much thought. But this one is and it's interesting how people try to work with it regardless of it's flaws originally!

I'd really love to hear your opinions about it and how flexible you are with the Titans tower incident! :) How do you work with your Jason and your Tim? because it's cool to hear your analysis etc etc

Hooo boi okay i was planning on replying to this earlier but this deserves a proper, thought out response (which I’m shite at but I’m trying here. Words are hard.)

For one, I wholeheartedly agree with the whole trauma dumping thing.

Obviously we all have different tastes in media and I know there are quite a few people who enjoyed the confrontation with Tim, which is totally fine, but personally… yeah, not my thing.

I got into the Batman/batfam fandom via fanfic, so my first introduction was some version of Titans Tower I believe. I was super intrigued by the characters and the tidbits of lore sprinkled throughout that I immediately began reading up on them and digging through the internet for more info and background story on them. Which then quickly evolved into the part where my adoration for Jason’s character began and a short phase where I absolutely despised early canon Tim.

Like— all the victim blaming. He seriously couldn’t mention Jason without adding something derogatory about getting himself killed, which sat so, so wrong with me. Not to mention the Titans just accepting a new Robin right off the bat and joining in blaming Jason for his own death. I’m pretty sure that was the point where I swore off comics for a long while and decided to live off fanon 🤣

And then Jason’s part in the Titans Tower incident. I think part of how weird the canon event was is due in part to how the writers fumbled to depict trauma? Or maybe they just outright hated him because I know a lot of people back then despised Jason and his run as Robin.

Whatever the reason, I think I genuinely cringed when he revealed the Walmart Robin costume he was wearing. And then the trauma dumping.

Jason is smart enough to know Tim wouldn’t care about his grievances. I mean- dude just broke into his hideout to attack him, I think Tim’s about as done with Jason as with any other criminals, regardless of his past. And all that is proven by Tim fighting back tooth and nail without pause. He doesn’t even react to the accusation of the missing statue in Jason’s honor. Like, he genuinely doesn’t seem to care. And why would he? They don’t know each other.

And yeah maybe he was trying to beat some sense into Tim (which is still wrong but— vigilantes I guess? Idk) and make him quit Robin, but Jason’s also smart enough to know that Robins don’t quit easily. And then, as soon as Tim is down for the count and can’t keep fighting, Jason leaves. Just like that. No actual murder attempt, no kicking-while-he’s-down (at least as far as I remember).

It makes no sense. What would Jason be gaining from that encounter? Why would he blame the kid that replaced him and not the guy that did the replacing? Hell, it would make more sense for him to go after the Titans than Tim. Not the mention him casually doubting Tim’s talents when he must have done some background checks on him.

It’s why I like the idea of Pit Madness I guess, and that Jason actually went to the tower with the intent to kill. Because that way the entire thing wouldn’t seem so… pointless.

As for how flexible I am with the Titans Tower storyline, it really depends on the route people choose to explore. But I’m a huge sucker for the “Jason was Tim’s Robin” trope where there’s at least a mild amount of hero worship going on. 👁️ Oh, and happy endings. I can’t deal with tragedies.

But yeah these are my thoughts on it. Obviously no hate to whoever enjoyed the comic mentioned above 💚 we’ve all got different things we resonate with after all~

[dom1re]

Introducing my MC

Thank you @lamieboo for the wonderful prompts! I'm taking advantage of #MCtober to finally make an introduction post. This little guy deserves a proper character sheet but alas I just don't got the time this week 😔😔 Someday!! For now plz enjoy some Sunan facts 👇

He was born in Nov of 1874 in a wizards' quarter near Whitehall. He was the only child and grew up pretty close to both his parents. That was, until he was sent to a Muggle boarding school at 13. He kept in touch with his father, but his mother not so much.

His middle name is Ernest. He never thought it suited him.

While at the boarding school he dyed his hair brown to fit in. Reverted it as soon as he returned to the Wizarding World at 15. He still does sometimes when he needs to evade the Rookwood Gang, but hates it. Reminds him of his time as a squib.

The gray hair runs in the father's side of the family. The asymmetrical dimple is from his mother.

Has a small golden pocket watch with him at all times. He fidgets with it when he's bored or anxious. It was a gift from his mother. He won't admit it but it's one of his most prized possessions.

Another one is his broom. He fell in love with broom-flying the moment he took laps around the castle with Everett. When he's not working on homeworks with Sebastian and Ominis he can be found on his broom trying new techniques, or playing two-a-side Quidditch with Everett, Nellie, and Natty. Secretly enjoys watching them bicker over rules and fouls.

He's active and always hungry. Often carries sandwiches or fruits with him. He will eat anything except slimy foods (and durian). Why is jellied eels a thing anyways?

Has a bossy little owl named Oliang, or Oli for short. The brown hawk owl was his father's gift upon his start at Hogwarts. She will ignore you if you don't have treats. She will peck you if you have them but don't give. She can always tell.

He doesn't know his Patronus yet. Perhaps he'll find out soon.

He's not as mature as he thinks. He believes he's done all the growing up after narrowly avoiding death many times during his first year at Hogwarts. But really he's still got a long way to go.

(feel free to check out my fic and learn more about Sunan 😌)

[jadeyarts]

Ngl, I think Chloe was done dirty in the show

She should've had her own fairy godparent then share with Timmy. Plus she was introduced when the show was dying and was used as an attempt to revive it.

I want a Chloe redemption, give her what she deserves.

agree! like, her introduction was awful and actually truly failed to introduce her character sincerely or accurately it was so baffling. i watched season 10 twice, first in reverse order then in proper order and it was actually absolutely wild how absolutely nothing in her introduction episode was really that indicative of her character??? it doesn't truly capture any of chloe's quirks and complexities, or even really why she would need godparents, and barely anything in the episode actually carries into any episode beyond that besides, like, the turners being rich for the rest of the season? which is not a decision i liked, and it really only served as a half-hearted reason for the carmichaels to hate the turners inexplicably, but they really didn't need to be rich for that. the turners being rich could have been interesting if they actually brought back remy, though, since the turners literally bought the country club that remy's parents owned. whatever.

i mean, i think i understand what they were trying to do - setting timmy up as being jealous and frustrated with her and then forcing him to have to try being cordial, to force them to have to work in tandem, makes sense as a narrative and stakes. and revealing that she isn't actually as perfect as he initially believes her to be also narratively makes sense! but sadly the execution of these ideas is very disjointed and shallow. not to mention the way they tried to explicitly spell out its themes was extremely forced. it's kind of a retread of both imaginary gary (the episode) and the boy who would be queen in those aspects, but lacking cohesion. it feels like maybe a first draft that wasn't revised nearly enough, or something. maybe it was! maybe they hadn't truly figured out what they really wanted to do and by the time they did it was too late. i dunno, but whatever it was, the end result is the same: a lot of people barely make an effort to understand chloe as a character and instead parrot whatever reviewers said about her intro a decade ago. and i get it, i'm not innocent of that either, i did the same thing years ago. but then i decided i wanted to come to my own conclusions. and i ended up loving chloe's character, she would have been a great addition to the series if she just came in at a better time. she was a great foil for timmy! and their chemistry as friends was actually great!

and... to that second point... i guess i think you're objectively right, a lot of viewers would likely have an easier time accepting chloe if she had been introduced with her OWN fairies, separate from cosmo and wanda, while just coincidentally becoming friends with timmy... or even being the protagonist of a sequel would have been less controversial... but i also kind of disagree. the fact they were forced to share cosmo and wanda was actually one of the more interesting aspects of the season to me, even if the actual reasoning behind it was dog water. but i really liked the dynamic that formed as a result. this sort of allegorical stepsibling, blended family dynamic. i like the way that cosmo and wanda specifically both represented different attributes and values they needed in their lives! i like what this specific set-up added, even if i find the execution of most of its episode ideas to be um. well. season 10. i honestly think a better way to introduce chloe and incorporate these dynamics i found so interesting would have probably been to make them actual, literal stepsiblings and not just allegorical fairy god-stepsiblings. not sure who would have been into that besides me, though.

sighs loudly. maybe someday ill rewrite season 10 or something. i have a lot of story ideas for chloe.

[cas-kingdom]

White Flower

A/N: Definitely a long time coming. I've been so slow in my writing since starting university but I'm glad to finally have this one done. Hopefully you all enjoy the introduction of my OC!

Set in the aftermath of Glass Onion.

Title: White Flower

Summary: Fleur Blanc, art student and only daughter of the world's greatest detective, wants to steal the Mona Lisa.

Words: 2336

Despite the alarm and the impassive yelling of “this is a smokeless garden”, Benoit Blanc believed he quite deserved this cigarette, thank you very much. Trying was one word to describe the weekend he’d had. All-round tits up was another.

Besides. The island was pretty much a raging pit of alarms, fire, and general chaos by now. One more addition didn’t make much of a difference, and there certainly was no stopping the activation of the hydrogen fuel now.

“Oh, do shut up,” he said anyway, because it felt good, and because the first yell had made him jump and squish his cigarette between two fingers.

He reached for another and let his sunglasses fall over his eyes, squinting into the distance.

The horrifically neon pink of Birdie Jay’s sunhat stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of the remaining participants of the weekend’s fiasco. They were all fanned out across the beach, as far apart from each other as possible, waiting impatiently for the policeboats to arrive. Ironic, really, considering how they’d arrived, each one a suck up to the next.

Benoit lit his new cigarette and shook his head with a scoff. “Megalomaniac, Janus-faced…” He muttered the words under his breath and took a puff. The alarm and impassive yelling restarted, and the second cigarette promptly joined the one on the ground.

“For the love of...”

He was owed a proper vacation after this, at the very least.

The yelling stopped abruptly with a crackle and a robotic groan. When Benoit turned, he was met with the sight of a young woman, her feet precariously placed between the gaps of the odd white sculpture that the yelling emanated from.

No longer.

After a violent snap, she held a handful of the offending wires, a look of irritation settling on her face. A flick of long hair and a moment later she tossed the wires onto dry land and followed them down into the shallow water with a quiet splash. Benoit rose a brow and fit his third cigarette neatly between smirking lips.

“Why, thank you, my darlin’.”

Fleur Blanc, twenty-year old art student and daughter of the world’s greatest detective, offered a mock bow as she stepped out of the water. She stretched out a leg and shook her foot dry as her father turned his gaze back towards the beach.

It hadn’t been his idea to bring Fleur along on this particular adventure, and he had in fact protested against it when she and that good-for-nothing roommate of his had suggested it, remembering quite well the last time his detective business had taken him on a wild ride. Alas, lockdown had turned Fleur into a firecracker and Philip had eventually boiled Benoit’s options down to “you take her with you, or I take myself out with the shotgun in the safe.” All fun and games, of course. Of course.

He couldn’t say her presence had been unappreciated. Apart from the obvious ease in her company, and the slightest spark of feeling like they were on a proper vacation, she had helped with the investigation, too. His little detective in the making, he’d always teased, though for as much as he was sure she loved the thrill of investigation, he was certain her career path would lead her straight to the arts.

That certainty was consolidated at the unusual silence coming from Fleur. When he turned, she was standing with her back to him, her eyes fixed on what remained of the Glass Onion. The structure that had once been so…not on fire generated quite the backdrop for his obviously preoccupied daughter. Her head tilted, arms crossed, feet bare and loose hair billowing behind her in the summer breeze, one would assume she was the picture of innocence.

Benoit knew better.

The moment she glanced over her shoulder, a twinkle in her eyes and the—in this case—horrifying beginning of “Dad?” on the tip of her tongue, Benoit pulled his cigarette from his mouth and pointed it at her. His own head dipped dangerously low, and his brows raised in what Fleur knew to be warning.

“No,” he said. Firm and simple. He would not deny she often found herself wrapped around his little finger, but this was one thing he’d be ridiculous to abide by.

“But—”

“My goodness, Fleur, no!”

Fleur narrowed her eyes and whipped her head back around. Benoit saw her fingers tapping rhythmically against her forearm. He remained still, waiting, ready. Because when a thought entered Fleur’s mind, she was hard-pressed to get rid of it.

With a defining nod and not a single glance back, Fleur slipped her flip-flops on and started walking with absolute intent. Benoit rushed after her. He grasped her shoulder and stopped her before she could take another step.

Fleur was ready for him. “I’m doing it,” she stated, “I’ve decided. I have to.”

“You are insane if you truly think—it’s—you are just preposterous, child!”

“But, Dad, it can’t be a crime, right? Most of it’s already destroyed!”

Benoit spluttered. He dropped the cigarette and, with a sudden distaste for the thing, squashed it under the toe of his shoe.

“Jesus, God, Satan, give me strength,” he muttered under his breath, not for the first time concerning his daughter and certainly not for the last. He grasped her by the shoulders, ensuring she couldn’t avoid his gaze, then, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Fleur, sweetheart, you want to steal the Mona fudgin’ Lisa.”

“Rehome,” Fleur was quick to correct. “And it’ll have a better life with me! You really think Miles appreciated it as much as I will?” That was a given. “And—and only a small part, Dad, that’s all I want.” She suddenly hardened her stare, that familiar seriousness suddenly reappearing. “That’s all I need.”

The detective’s speechlessness after that closing statement could have been due to a number of things. One, because the pure gall of this girl never ceased to amaze him. Two, because something seemed to blow up behind them, a puff of smoke emanating from the top of what used to be the Onion. Three, the most likely contender, because the moment said explosion had him distracted, Fleur ducked under his hold and made her way intently towards it.

Like father, like daughter, was all he could think. And he wasn’t referencing himself.

Surprising, considering he followed after her with absolutely zero hesitation.

The Glass Onion’s majesty was long gone. The maddest of people would advise anyone and everyone to stay about a hundred feet from its flaming mess, armed with a hard-shell helmet and a fire extinguisher, just in case anything went even more wrong. Which, looking at it, was likely.

Still, as was typically—stupidly—the case, Benoit Blanc stood in the middle of it all.

One hand wrapped around his daughter’s, the other gripping the doorframe for easy escape, his wide eyes darted around the Onion. If he was any less focused on the state of his surroundings, he would have been more concerned at his daughter’s lack of concern. True, the fire had somewhat died down, and the structure itself looked less ready to cave in than it had done before, but safe was still not a word he would use to describe it.

Helen’s stunt had certainly done a number on poor Mona, but the world of aesthetes could decidedly remain relieved with the knowledge that some parts of her were untouched. Surrounded by what had once been her glass refuge, she sat still in the place she had done since Miles had obtained her. One eye was black, the other pristine. A side of her hair reflected the fire, the other had been destroyed by it. Needless to say, the majority of her was gone, and if Fleur had the time, Benoit had no doubt she’d be down on her hands and knees, collecting the ashes in a little pot and shamelessly risking her life in the process. Alas, he would sooner drag her out, kicking and screaming, than have her be here a moment longer than she apparently needed to be.

Benoit watched his daughter’s eyes as they scanned the room before landing on Mona. In less than a second, that tell-tale glint went from inquisition to pure delight. It seemed no amount of staring from outside of the case could prepare her for now. True, the painting was charred more than not, and his watchful eye did catch a spark of disappointment, but it only seemed to spur her determination in getting it safely within her grasp.

Parental instincts ablaze since the moment he’d stepped foot on the island, Benoit immediately tightened his grip on her hand and yanked her back when she made to move forward. “Hold your horses,” he said, waiting for her eyes to meet his before wildly gesturing around them. “There’s glass everywhere, Fleur, and you’re wearing flip-flops. Why would you bring flip-flops to this island and nothing else?”

“We’re on vacation!”

“You knew darn well this wasn’t a vacation!”

Fleur spluttered for a moment before pointing accusingly at his own choice of footwear. “Like you and your boat shoes can do any better.”

Benoit gasped. Audibly. “These have hard, glass-proof soles, I’ll thank you to notice.”

He wasn’t quite sure what it was that spurred him to his next decision. Perhaps it was the urgency of the situation. Or the very distant, but ever-closer, sound of sirens. Or, maybe, it was the pure eagerness of his daughter; eagerness of which had always softened his heart, no matter the circumstances.

Whichever it was, he tried not to think about the guilt that would remain on his conscience for the rest of his life as he turned and bent over slightly, motioning with his hands.

“Get on my back,” he said hurriedly. When Fleur stalled, shock settling quickly on her face, he motioned again. “Come, child, we haven’t got long.”

And, with that, Fleur hopped on her father’s back with as much excitement as a child. Benoit gripped her legs, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning her chin on his shoulder, the biggest of grins adorning her lips.

“Look at you, Dad,” she said as he began walking, stepping carefully over large shards of glass.

“We are not to tell your father,” was his only response to her obvious insinuation that he was becoming rebellious in his old age.

“Might be a little difficult when we come home with the Mona Lisa. Ooh! Why don’t we take the Porsche home too? Just the steering wheel?”

Benoit uttered a silent apology to da Vinci.

“Do you see these grey hairs?” he said. “You are the cause.”

Needless to say, through no innate conformism, Fleur’s inner connoisseur had won over her desire to keep a piece of the Mona Lisa in her cardholder. The moment the police had finished detailing the basics of the weekend’s mess with her father and struck up the sensitive question of the possibility of either of them having seen the Mona Lisa’s remainders at all during the night—Benoit believed it was their imploring “the Louvre are simply desperate to get it back” that had swayed her—Fleur had produced the scraps she’d been able to save from her pocket. Handing them over with only the tiniest hint of reluctance, she’d smiled at the gratefulness from the police and watched them go with the bit of longing she could allow herself.

Chuckling softly, Benoit wrapped an arm around her and drew her into his side, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Well, darlin’,” he said, “I’m very proud of you, if it counts for something.”

Fleur breathed a deep sigh and pressed her lips in a thin smile. “It does. At least I cay say I’ve touched her, right, Dad?”

“Oh, absolutely. That’s more than most people can say, after all.”

The police were wrapping up now, gently guiding the exhausted party members onto a boat—one in particular in aptly placed handcuffs. The island itself would take mountains of work to be habitable again, he’d heard a firefighter voice in passing, and for a moment he wondered if Derol had made it onto the boat. After brief consideration, he decided Derol was probably better off here than America.

Benoit pushed his sunglasses down and steered himself and his daughter in the direction of the shore. He didn’t quite enjoy the idea of sharing a boat ride with previously-dubbed megalomaniac, Janus-faced…people, but alas, after today he would no longer experience the displeasure of seeing them again. Though, he would be glad for Helen to attend a few of his dinner parties when the pandemic allowed.

Fleur reached up to grasp her father’s hand at her shoulder as they walked slowly, stepping carefully around anything glinting in the sand. Then, quietly, “Where’re you gonna put your steering wheel?”

Ah. Benoit instinctively glanced down at the duffel bag in his free hand. True, it was heavier than it had been when he’d first arrived on the island, but he had told his daughter that he’d be much appreciated if she didn’t remind him of his rebelliousness at every given moment. Which she had.

“I’m going to lock it away in a safe, so it’s never found, and I’m never arrested for thieving,” he said, finality embedded in his tone. If anyone ever asked: no, he had not stolen the steering wheel of the Porsche 918 Spyder’s wreckage. No, he did not have it in his duffel bag, blanketed by his clothes and second pair of boat shoes. And, no, once it entered the safe he would never look at it again. Except on birthdays. And maybe Christmasses.

He couldn’t say he regretted it.

But he did regret not regretting it.

“And may I just reiterate,” he said, leaning closer towards her, “your father does not need to know a thing.”

Knives Out Masterpost

[moonjellysfeast]

Arthur - Introduction

via picrew ^

Arthur is not meat, If you want to eat him he won't complain of course, but he doesn't actively want you to.

You are a god to him, as violent as you may choose to be, you use such sweet words even as you degrade him, he's certain you know all and love him so deeply. This worship is only furthered by Hanna pretty much abandoning her already off morals to obey you.

Treat him like whatever animal you want, he's only called a lamb for the imagery(and I'll be honest as a sort of tribute to bunny). He may need to be trained to be certain animals but he's extremely pathetic and all he's ever wanted was to feel loved so as long as you show him any form of affection, he'll obey your every command.

He is not really a yandere, he's obsessive, yes, but he holds literally zero power, you could hiss and boo at him and then leave him forever and he wouldn't do anything but maybe try to end his own life.

His kisses tend to taste like cinnamon, but he is only human. Of course, you can have him altered via Hanna's magic whenever you want.

His dead eye and face scar are meant to be from a small explosion but the picrew used for this didn't have the proper face scars I want and I have 0 art skills to draw humans.(might beg my cousin to draw my critters sometime).

He is a crier, the moment he is experiencing anything, he's crying. Be sweet to him and he's overwhelmed by the affection(also watch out for Hanna, she doesn't like that). Be mean to him and he sobs in pain as he thanks you. You really cannot do wrong in his eyes.

He's great as sucking dick. Also kinda a masochist, he really just gets enjoyment from you being happy and believes he deserves pain over anything else. He's kinda into being cucked, more so the idea that he's so beneath you he doesn't deserve to be your source of pleasure. Make him lube you up for someone else. If you make him sit at your feet or beside you as a servant or tool while you fuck Hanna, they'd both enjoy it to the fullest.

He's very insecure about his scars when you catch him, but any scars from you are a source of pride for him, even if he were to be rescued and allowed to acknowledge the trauma he's endured. If he were saved, he would never be able to shake a twisted admiration for you. He wouldn't know how to process that, though.

[stevesbipanic]

Steve hadn't even remembered the letter.

After everything had happened, after Steve had to leave Eddie's body, had to sit at the bedside of a girl that might not wake up, had to bury an empty box and hold his kids as they were told they were losing Max all over again, the letter was furthest from his mind.

Max's body was too damaged, her mind too post despite El's best efforts. The weight of responsibility and the energy it took every time El tried to bring Max back was killing El too. After the fifth time Max had coded, Hopper had to tell her to not being her back again if it happened.

Three months after they buried Eddie, they buried Max too. The ghost of her was felt in everything they did. When Suzie visited Hawkins for the first time, Max was missed in the party's introductions. When Lucas became captain of the basketball team in junior year, Max was missed in their group hug. When they party graduated, Max was missed in the chair left empty between Darcy Lunce and Paul Meston.

As the kids left one by one to college, following the footsteps of Nancy and Robin years before, Max was missing from their goodbyes.

Steve hadn't been able to leave until he knew the kids were safe and grownup and out of Hawkins. He'd thought about leaving with Robin when she first left, he'd had a panic attack when he started packing. Now the kids were gone he could leave too, the protector could finally rest.

He was moving to Chicago, Nancy and Robin already had his room ready for him. They had understood why he'd had to stay. Most of his items were packed up and loaded into a moving van that the girls had driven back to their apartment. All the was left was Steve's car. He was selling it, he didn't need it in the city and some extra cash would tie him over while he looked for a new job.

He was cleaning it out ready for the buyer when he found it. Dropped between his chair and the gearbox. Perfectly preserved from the day Max handed it to him. At the time he refused to believe he'd ever need to read it, refused to believe he'd lose one of the kids before dying himself first. Yet here he was, alive, and the author of the note was gone.

He tucked the letter into his jacket and finished with the car. Once it had been picked up he still had an hour before the taxi came to take him to the airport. He made his way to the cemetery, it was only fair he say a proper goodbye to her before leaving her to watch over their town. When he arrived at the plot he took a moment to admire the bright flowers the kids had planted years ago, the beautiful mural Will had painted on the back of the headstone.

Here lies Maxine "Mad Max" Mayfield

1972-1986

He took a deep breath and sat down facing her grave, eerily mirroring the girl years before. He took out the letter, carefully opening it and began to read.

Dear Steve,

First off yes of course I'm going to write you a letter, I don't want to hear any self deprecating nonsense when I hand this to you, you're my brother as much as Dustin is and as much as Billy was. People care about you and love you and shut up yes they do.

Second of all if I somehow don't die you better have burned this I don't want you having anything soft and gooey to hold over me if I'm still kicking. If I find out you've still got this I get to drive your car ok?

I should really get to the point of this letter, I'm writing yours while putting off Lucas', I don't know what I'm going to say to him yet, I wish I could ask you to help me but I need to write these myself, he deserves that and so do you. These might be my last words to you and I need you to know a few things and you've got to believe them because if you're reading them it means I'm gone and you have to honour the dead asshole.

It's not your fault.

Listen to me Steve, if this is the last thing I do, if tomorrow everything goes wrong and I can't be berating you for getting hit in the head and you're crying somewhere alone I need you to know it's not your fault.

If I'm dead, if any of us are dead, it's not your fault. We're old enough to make our own choices. If I'm lucky in a couple years I'll be the age you fought a demogorgan for the first time. If I'm dead it's because whatever is down there took me but that's not on you. If I've made myself bait, or run off or done something stupid or brave or sacrificial or we just got unlucky, it's not your fault Steve.

It's not your fault.

If I hear you thinking it's your fault I'm coming back to haunt you.

Love, Max (your favourite)

Steve has to catch a later flight, he doesn't cry until later. Max's words rattle through his brain, years of guilt that he had pushed down slowly bubbled to the surface until he was in Chicago and could sob in his best friend's arms. Whenever he needed to he would reread Max's letter just to remind himself.

It's not your fault.

[alessiathepirate]

Now You See Me 2

MIDNIGHT ON THE THAMES: Dylan Rhodes/Shrike x fem!reader

Summary: The reveal happens at the stroke of midnight, in the middle of the Thames, on New Year's Eve - and she couldn't be happier. Or maybe she could, because Lula and Jack won't be the only ones kissing that night.

Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I made while I wrote this short story.

This man is so underrated, it's a crime. He deserves some love - please love him.

Warnings: a bit of swearing, but nothing more

•••

No matter how many successful reveals they pull off, she still feels the same amount of excitement, happiness and slight nervousness at the end of every trick and show.

Yet, the strongest feeling out of all of them was the happiness. The happiness because everything turned out just fine in the end, because this tiring performance is close to being over and mostly because her friends are also smiling with honest, wide grins and letting out excited chuckles.

This one though, this one wasn't easy to pull off. It was possibly the hardest show they had to put together with the trouble and issues they had to overcome. It was tiring, stressful, but also kind of fun and thrilling.

After this they'll sleep through a day if not two, she smiled at the thought as she let go of Lula, who was the last to end the group hug.

As Walter, Tressler and Chase slowly, reluctantly left the plane, stepping into the light, not understanding what is happening around them; the last act was about to start -- and this, this will be her favourite.

Those three absolutely ruined her whole week, made her almost choke on tears and worry and made her hate their whole existence and the fact that if they wanted to fool them, they had to let them believe they won was hard to swallow. Now they will get those smirks off of their faces and make them realize how easy it was to fool them. They were greedy and arogant and now they are losers -- nothing more.

God, how much they had to go through to reveal their real faces to the world.

"No, no, you should feel pretty good about yourself man. You predicted it correctly." Atlas started to tease the three of them for her pleasure, as they looked around with nothing but pure shock on their faces. "The Thames, stroke of midnight. New Year's Eve. Happy New Year!"

The people, the hundreds of curious fans who decided to come and see the final act shouted in happiness and excitement. Before these people tonight, there'll be nothing they'll be able to hide. That thought alone made her smile wider.

"We would like to acknowledge not just our old friend, Arthur Tressler, but his young and brilliant son, Walter Mabry!" Daniel continued. "Who has performed one of the greatest feats of illusion even we have ever seen. He has, amazingly, brought himself back from the death!"

The audience roared again, but this time the happy laughter wasn't the thing what made her heartbeat unevenly fast. It was the presence of the person who could both calm her down and make her uneasy with butterflies. Dylan's hand landed on her arm, squeezing it gently, lovingly, making her mind into a mush and her tounge forgot how to function to speak - and it's soon her turn to say something. She didn't know what that meant, but it was a sign of something - something soft like a silent 'thank you' or 'congratulations'. Even if it was slightly confusing, it felt nice. Too nice.

"But before he did that, he revealed someone. And we think it only right to give him a proper introduction. He is our friend and he is our leader, Dylan Shrike!"

His hand slowly left her as he turned towards their audience and began to speak.

"So normally only the magician, his assistant, and a few trusted stage hands know the secret of a trick..."

His voice faded away as she looked at him, quietly admiring him from afar, letting him enjoy his place in the spotlight. Her mind was full of memories. Memories of him, memories of today. The day she thought she'll actually choke on stress and worry.

God, how thankful she is that he's okay. That he's alive and up here with them, not down there in the water.

They were close, so close she felt comfortable in his presence. He was a person she could trust with anything, a person who didn't tease her like Merritt or Danny did sometimes. They were play fights, she knew that, but still there was something special between her and Dylan, a different kind of honesty.

And knowing that he could die from the digusting 'magic trick' those three tried to pull off with him made her cry. Like actually cry, many tears with a dry and quiet voice.

After he climbed out of that damned safe, she followed him around like puppy, sitting next to him on the stairs as they discussed what to do next. She sat next to him, not daring to hug him, but craving it -- yet instead she just let their knees touch slightly. It was enough to give her some energy and acknowledge that now they are going to war.

A slight nudge made her let go of those memories, getting back to reality, to a moment she should enjoy. Jack was the one talking now, explaining the secret behind 'Find the Lady' and this time Merritt was the one standing next to her.

"Don't daydream yet, lover girl. We still got a show to run." he patted her back and then walked away with a knowing a smirk.

Damn mentalist, she thought just as Lula began to explain the secret behind the airplane. He knows everything he can use to tease people with.

"Basically, we showed them everything." she finally spoke up herself, still laughing a little as she watched how Merritt teased his brother, finally getting the upper hand. "The switch, the plane, the manipulation... Yet they were still too blind to see." she turned towards Walter, a smirk forming on her face. "And you kidnapped us to steal the very thing that is in your pocket."

Walter was about to reach into his coat's pocket, to see if their homemade special card is really there; but Atlas was quicker.

"Whoops!" he said as the card appeared in his hand, seemingly out of nowhere. "You know, this thing here, which you said you could use to adjust markets, manipulate goverments, and spy on whomever you choose."

"Also, you could, as you said, control the public from outside the grid." she continued as the public groaned in frustration, realizing what their words really meant.

That reaction filled her heart up with pride.

"These men destroy people's lives. Spying on the world, robbing you of your right to privacy." It was weird, how well she recognized Dylan's voice and how well her heart did as well - as it was beating faster. Their eyes met and even if he was speaking the harsh truth, his gaze was still soft. It was always soft with her. "And they do that by hiding in the dark. So in true Horsemen tradition, we are here to expose them."

"Tonight, they, like all of us, are finally stepping into the light." she was grinning as the people reacted, shouting, screaming happily, because the truth was finally out. "Thank you everybody!"

"We are the Horsemen and we will be back very soon!"

And the moment came - when the show ends, the tiredness appears. Her chest was heavy with pride and happiness, justice found those three men who ruined their lives for days without stopping. Now they got what they deserve.

And then the coundown began. The audience shouted, like if the wait until New Year was part of the show... They shouted as the sirens were turned on, meaning the FBI was on its way. It was time to leave -- and then finally rest.

And then she felt it, the push - the literal, physical push she knew she needed, which got her closer to Dylan, almost bumping into him. She didn't know who it was, although she could bet her right arm on one of her friends -- but it didn't really matter. Thoughts didn't really matter. She was there, close to him, their eyes met.

It was their moment.

"So fun's over, huh?" she tried to joke, but her throat was dry and she could feel that her cheeks were pink for sure.

And then it happened - the need in her was satisfied, they touched the other. That kind of closeness was new and intoxicating, but not at all uncomfortable. It was something what both of them longed for since forever - and now here they were.

Their lips touched. It was a quick and short kiss, but it was a very meaningful one. She felt it. She felt it in how warm his lips were, how he touched her cheeks and how he was slightly shaking just like her, because what they wanted finally happened. It was soft, but it was full of passion. All the unsaid feelings were pushed into that one, simple kiss.

"I love you." his words were simple, they were nothing special, but they still made her insides warm.

"Hey, we are on the clock here!"

Damn the clock!

They had to run, sure. But even that couldn't wash the lovesick smile off her face. It couldn't, because Dylan Shrike loved her. He said it himself and she knew it was true.

Dylan grabbed her arm, he held onto her firmly as they started to run - just in time, because the boats arrived and agents started to get out of them, running towards them.

"I love you too." she said as they hurried away. "I think I've loved you since you interrogated me."

"Ever since then, huh?" he chuckled.

"What can I say? I think it was the suit. You look really good in suits."

They both laughed even if they were a little bit out of breath.

Dylan suddenly stopped and so did she. She took a deep breath as she looked at the water of the Thames, which was only a few meters away. People shouted behind them, possibly the agents who were sent here, only to fail their mission once again. They never really learn.

He turned towards her and touched her cheeks once again, his thumbs drawing shapes gently into her skin.

"I need you to go, okay? I'll be right behind you, but there's one more thing I have to do."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek and then she looked up at him with a shy smile.

"I'll see you soon."

And just like that she was gone. Gone, disappeared into the night like the magician she is, making a fool out of the FBI once again.

Dylan stayed there, waiting for an agent to turn up so he can finish what he started and give them the proof they need against Tressler and his son. He stayed there as the shouts came closer. He stayed there and looked after his lover, knowing that he'll adore the moments he'll spend with her once they finally get to a safe place where they can finally rest.

[glasskey]

Justice THT Style - Part 4 - Tuello

Today I’m going to be discussing Tuello and all his various forms of justice. Tuello’s had quite a journey lately and as his allegiance to June grows, so too his sense of Justice must also change.

In season 4, when Fred was at the top of everyone’s shit list, we were finally given a proper introduction to Mark Tuello (YAY). As a character he seems to have an almost Teflon like quality, he’s likeable to the point of being cuddly, and even when he does fuck up he seems to redeem himself without so much as a scratch. I love Tuello, he’s extremely layered and I’m always on board for the onions in any cast of characters. Tuello is, for all intents and purposes, the Nick Blaine of Canada. They both occupy positions of power and judgement and like Blaine, Tuello acts like a light in the dark whenever June needs to find safe harbour.

As a diplomat it’s expected that Tuello’s sense of justice is strictly procedural and in season 4 he bargains with Fred to acquire him as an asset. But he’s a complicated guy, Tuello feels Junes rage and frustration, he knows Fred is a POS who doesn’t deserve immunity and a quiet house in the suburbs. He knows full well that by handing over Fred to Gilead he’ll be sentencing him to death, but regardless he marches him with firm righteousness across the border and does just that.

The similarities between this and Blaine's walk with Fred through the woods seemed to foretell the partnership between these two men in delivering justice that was at last cemented in season 5. With both men Fred stops mid walk to rage indignantly at them, only to be brutally rebuffed each time. I am not joking when I say the very SECOND I saw Blaine jump out of that truck and flash those suspenders (sweet mother of Mary) I knew their partnership would come to pass.

Like Blaine he’s not really one to revel in retributive justice, but in this case he was happy to partake and in season 5 he stopped by Junes’ house to give her an unexpected pat on the back for her murderous endeavours. Tuello also seemed to have an intimate knowledge of what this would ultimately cost June personally…..the figurative second grave.

Tuello may be truly benevolent, but every move he makes is a precise and purposeful attempt at the restoration of democracy to a broken country. Tuello likes Blaine, he honestly believes he is an “honourable man” and he’s truly awed by Nicks love for June. He’s a romantic and he simply can’t understand why Serena would go back to Fred or why Nick didn’t run away with June. He’s visibly heart broken when Blaine professes that he feels worthless and I was utterly convinced in that moment that Tuello would need to light the way, if Nick was ever to hope to make it back to June.

As romantic as he may be, he’s no fool, he makes Nick sign a contract and he intends to hold him to it. Nick Blaine is a HUGE asset to Tuello, ultimately taking the place that Fred would have occupied as a source of information about the inner workings of Gilead, this may mean that Nick is in for a long haul as a double agent. Tuello is ultimately a real messenger of peace; his kindness towards Blaine, his repeated attempts to help Serena, his attempt to rescue Hannah and his warnings about New Bethlehem, all testify to this. Everything about Tuello is designed to command respect, but in his case its done with a kind word and a contract instead of a noose. Tuello has been constructed to be almost father figure like in nature. There’s something wonderfully comforting about his presence; he has a voice that could read you off into a blissful slumber and he’s rarely seen dressed in anything but a well tailored suit.

Tuello is remarkably cool headed in most situations, even those that should send him into a tail spin. I’ve only seen him get slightly flustered once or twice, the most notable being when June neglected to make an appointment and surprised him jogging. To be fair, no one looks their best clammy and gasping for breath, and lets face it their last encounter didn’t really end on a high note.

While I’m thrilled to have Tuello along as an ally, I’m acutely aware that everything about him screams (in a warm caramel voice) the virtues of restorative justice, and I’m wondering how well our lovely diplomat will fair once he’s seen some actual corpses swing. Tuello, like Blaine, may want to stick to the rule of moral and law, but I fear that as Gilead seeps across the border, he may quickly come to realise that stronger methods will be required in order to restore peace. Next time I’ll be discussing the use of Tokens in THT. What are they and what do they mean? See you then.

[shinglescat]

With all its faults, i enjoyed the story of Stalker 2. It feels like home.

After 2nd pt, I grew to love Faust, easily one of the most memorable and iconic characters of the franchise. I still wish monolith and ex-monolith had more screentime besides being the go-to adversaries for exploration shootouts. The few quests they had are not enough, especially given the tragedy of Strider and his entire group. I'm still not over his death, he of all people in the franchise deserves better. The way he tried to shoot himself right after the Signal went off broke my heart. And the death scene, where he's free of monolith influence again, realizing he nearly killed Skif........................

Surprised by Korshunov, like super surprised. First time i did Varta-Varta-Strider-Strelok-Doctor (i also did permutations of the last two to see the three other endings), and this time I did Spark-Spark-Varta-Strelok-Doctor. I expected him to be a typical soldier bossman, someone who would betray me and who would try to off me, but nothing like that, and he actually respects Skif and does not consider him to be a meat on legs. He's very convincing, menacing but not evil, likable also. The "i can't even bury them" speech hit right in the heart - he's got his men at the top of his priorities, and it's a breath of fresh air to see a military man in a media to not think of his subordinates as of disposable.

Dalin Jr. is the same revelation. I thought he'd be a scumbag, a scientist without morals, another trickster, but nope, man with a heart of gold following after his not so good father. Feeling a bit guilty for not trusting him the entire time the first playthrough. I laughed my ass off during that one section at the institude where Korshunov casually watched Skif assault Dalin, as if it's a regular occurence at the place.

Scar is one big holy shit. I both love him and hate him. He's definitely not something i thought him to be from Clear Sky, but he's entertaining nonetheless. He is actually the ruthless and crazy motherfucker i believed Korshunov to be, with absolute fuck all about human lives. Proper terrorist. And his S2 story tying with CS - i can't help but pity him, groomed to be used as a modem by people with power.

Separate mention to Spark's Star. The guy had at most 10 minutes of screentime total, but he's got some real good chemistry with Skif.

Richter is a whole nother beast. He's like an autistic golder retriever puppy. Jesus, man, just kiss Skif already, you aren't gonna see him ever again anyway.

I swear, if the game was less depressing, Skif, Richer and Star could be boyfriends.

Strelok is everything i thought he'd be and would become. Definitely didn't disappoint, tho at one point i questioned where tf he got so much money hiring all those mercs lmao. He definitely had his brain scorched with an idea, but he's somehow still rational about everything else. Clever, stubborn in his ways, rigid, unable to see thru some subtler parts.

Really glad to meet Doctor proper after so many years. He's everything I expected him to be and more. What I didn't expect is him throwing heavy as fuck lines constantly, making me question every single step.

Degtyarov... had crininally little time after introduction. Certified badass tho.

Oh my god Agatha the bitch. This is the ruthless person I believed Dalin to be. The Varta ending is easily THE BAD one because of who she is, who she is serving and what their plans are, though not even remotely as depressing as Scar's. The old hag had my homie Korshunov follow her without any doubt. Ugh I wish there was a way to knock some sense into him....

For the Varta ending, Strelok literally says they're going to use the Thread project for something during that one infiltration mission with the TVs, but he doesn't know exactly what for. I followed Korshunov's reasoning and logic that the Zone is to be destroyed, but somehow, i disregarded Agatha completely. And then the ending hit me. Ye, the Zone is gone, but something far more sinister is in its place, with project X finished after so many years and its goals fulfilled. And those TVs at the end, being creepy. Nah, never picking that one again.

The Scar ending is easily the most depressing one. First Korshunov kills Richter, but then turns out that O-Soznanie is legit and exists in the subtle matter, and Dalin is ecstatic to finally be able to talk to his father. And then the O-Soz representative sends you to the generators, and it's surprisingly peaceful and not dangerous at all, rainbows everywhere, and you chill near the blue campfires under emissions with your now suddenly alive-but-not-really Richter and other dead homies from the subtle matter (Strider is suspiciously absent), and Richter shows you the way like a fucking disney princess. And you think, hey, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. WRONG. You get to the X-lab, and Scar is having a life crisis cuz his entire life in the Zone was a lie, his memories have been imprinted from another stalker, and he himself was programmed for this exact job, but then he comes thru and decides to go into the fish tank anyway. And then it's butterflies, poppies, unicorn farts everywhere, all dead people are alive, and Skif be having a grand time of his life chatting with homies.... UNTIL THE FUCKEN CAMERA SHIFTS, and turns out it's all in his head. Yeah no, never again.

The Strelok ending is probably a good one. Or at least neutral. He gives his reasoning, he tells everyone to fuck off, he prohibits exit and enter into the Zone, and he's now the entity guarding her like a loyal dog. The Zone supposedly (because let's face it, this balding mofo's in charge now) has no masters anymore, no one can abuse her ever again, but she's not free either. Tho it's kinda a weird one with him. He wanted the Zone gone, but now he put her under his own protectorate? I mean, it's been 10 years, a man can change, but... would be interesting to hear a more elaborate explaination than "she gave me a new life" or smth.

And then the Doctor ending. Some say it's a bad one, but I really do love it the most. I knew i wouldn't be able to kill him as Strelok wanted, and he gives very compelling arguments against Strelok's crusade... and you spare Doc, run to hide into the basement of his house from the emission... only to find more notes down there, talking about the O-Soz agents and him using them and scaners and alpha-artifacts for something... makes you question if he wasn't the mastermind behind all this. Maybe even his couriers were behind the explosion at Skif's khrushovka. Maybe it was a setup to bring an outsider to make his plan come true. And then, at the end, as the Zone finally frees herself of her shackles, expanding worldwide (i doubt it's an actual expansion, more like local anomalies appearing worldwide), Doc morphs into Faust and makes you question the entire Doctor's story. Was it Faust the whole time? Was he not killed by Skif? Is he a manifestation, an illusion? Was it Faust himself that is the mastermind behind all this? And then remember that reactivated monolith-Strider tried to kill doctor. Was it a coincidence? Was it a command to kill Doctor Kaymanov by O-Soz, was it a command by O-Soz to kill Faust while pretending to be Doctor because he's sorta gone rogue/against his original program, or was it a command by Faust himself to get Skif to trust the illusion?

And the awesome part is that all of the endings-related parties are right about their respective things.

This is the game narrative-wise I wanted Veilguard to be tbh. But here I am, left alone to geek out about stalker 2 instead. Oh and in this game they drop some serious lines, most notably Doctor, as I mentioned above. His "But how does one know the value of freedom if one has never been free?" hit me like a truck. Strider's monologue after his death about monolithians being puppets brings tears to the eyes.

Ugh, this makes me think what kinda ending woulda been if Strider was alive and still himself, if he went into the aquarium instead of everyone else.

Oh by the way, the Faust theme, 0:40 - 0:50, I swear I can hear "let me out". Not creepy at all, but checks out.

TL:DR i want more monolithian stuff, i want justice for my bestie Strider AND I want a romance-dating DLC because Richter and Star are definitely boyfriend materials for Skif lmao.

[cptn-m]

One Piece chapter 1132 review

What a weird month and a bit it's been. The double two-week breaks with a single chapter in the middle was weirdly discombobulating, making it feel like it's been longer than it really has since the last chapter. I feel bad for Oda, falling ill right after the research break, when he seemed like he was coming back with a second wind. But we're back now, and it's worth the wait for the proper introduction to Elbaph following the arc's fakeout prologue.

The main thrust of this chapter is the two groups of Strawhats resolving their previous plot threads and converging in one place to get the real story started, but that doesn't mean Oda doesn't find time to set up a few mysteries and build up the figures who will influence the story to come. The opening scene introduces Collun (can't believe the scanlations actually went with Colon for the name; Collun is better, but I would probably have used the classic Japanese L/R switcharoo to make him Coron or something similar) reinforces Shanks's presence and the weight he carries in this land. I'm glad to see Shanks was hyping up Luffy to Collun - easing some of the cynical theories about whether Shanks really cares about these kids he's inspiring around the world or if he's using them in some undefined way - and I'm looking forward to seeing what kind of interactions the two will have.

There's wonderful art and a fantastic sense of worldbuilding whimsy in some of the big moments this week, starting with the ride up the rainbow bridge. The sudden vertical turn makes me think back to the journey to Skypiea, and I can't wait to see what the full colour manga does with the glowing light of the bridge when it catches up to here in a few years. One Piece is beautiful in black and white, but this is a spread that feels made for colour.

As Luffy's group reunite, it's curious to see that Luffy's talk with Loki ended with a deal. When we last saw them, it seemed like the mention of Shanks had soured the conversation, but now they've come to some kind of accord. The fact that Oda is playing it off so secretively makes me think it's not going to be as simple as just getting the key to free him like he asked before. Loki may have offered an alternative, or Luffy may have changed the terms. Sticking in a pin in this one for later.

Rodo's unceremonious and unserious dispatch comes well deserved. Probably not the last we've seen of him - almost definitely not if the theme of the arc is going to be competing sun god candidates. I don't think Rodo has the raw charisma to be the Buggy of the Nika lineup though.

And the centerpiece - the thing that makes it all worth the wait - the "welcome to Elbaph" spread. The detail! The scale! The spirit of adventure is very, very much alive in this one. The one analytical angle I can think to take here is a comparison to Rodo's diorama. Bigstein Castle provides an obvious matching landmark, but nothing else quite matches. The style of the houses doesn't feel as reflective of the viking-style houses of the real giants, the trunk of Yggdrasil is placed different relative to the castle and the town in the real world, and the diorama has no indication of the gaps and waterfalls down to the underworld layer - save maybe for recreating the bridge. I'd be surprised if anything Nami learned studying the map of the diorama manages to be relevant to the real version here.

A Louis Arnot callback mixes nostalgia with what's new, as well as providing an ominous warning. How much of the arc are we going to have to get through before we find out why he'd say that? But the real treat here is the hint that the dude who was with Crocus in the cover story could finally be getting revealed! Man I've waited a long time for that. And yes, I got my hopes up and got burned once already at the start of Onigashima when the shadows on Izo's kimono looked like the stripes on the guy's cloak, but this time it feels a lot more certain. I'm ready to be hurt again.

As good as all this has been, I don't dare hope for this momentum to continue. There's at least one more chapter coming, which is great, but then a difficult regiment of Christmas/New Years' breaks to wade through before the series can settle back into any kind of a normal rhythm. Just bad timing, but we've survived it every other year up til now, and we'll do it again.

[quillandink333]

Dear Sunflower

Kazuma Asougi × Original Character

SPOILERS FOR THE GREAT ACE ATTORNEY CHRONICLES ~ Read ahead at your own risk!

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.6k

WARNINGS: depression, mentions of psychosis, insufficient self-care, sleep deprivation

Summary: Kazuma pens a heartfelt letter to the estranged Cecelia, in which he tells her everything he should have done long ago but couldn’t.

Notes: Special thanks to @angeaxil for letting me include her OC Genevieve in this series! It’s both an honour and a pleasure to be able to work with this lovely girly~

Masterlist

It was late into the night on the fifth of November when Cecelia heard a knock at the door to her desolate little room. No matter who it was on the other side, she at first wanted nothing more than to dismiss it and pretend to be asleep. But then came the familiar voice of her dear friend and role model, Genevieve Bellerose.

Of course, Cecelia invited her in, enquiring not ungratefully as to why in the world she was visiting her at such an obscene hour. Miss Bellerose replied by reaching into her handbag, pulling out an envelope, and offering it to her. The thing was heavy with paper, its sheer thickness almost half that of her beloved botany journal. A wax seal embellished the front, depicting a posh fleur-de-lis emblem in dark red. When she turned it over, she gasped. Written there in Japanese katakana was her name, ‘セセリアガードナー.’ She glanced up at Miss Bellerose in shock, her heart caught in her throat, but the lady simply urged her to open it.

“Miss Cecelia,

“Although your spoken Japanese is nothing short of excellent, I am uncertain as to whether you are as comfortable reading it as you are speaking it. Thus, I have decided to write to you in English.

“I realise that much time has passed since we last spoke aboard the Steamship Vitesse. I hope you have had little trouble getting settled back in after our long journey. As for myself, a great deal has happened in that span of time, the most significant of which being that a large portion of my memory has returned, having evaded my grasp for nine whole months. As I sit at my desk with pen in hand, I ponder which of these events would serve best as an opening to this extensive letter.

“It occurs to me that, although I unfortunately cannot give it to you in person due to—” His pen came to a halt, an unwelcome warmth quickly spreading throughout his face. Tersely he continued, “circumstances, a proper introduction is in order. My name is Kazuma Asōgi. I am now twenty four years of age, and my land of origin, as you so astutely surmised on the day we first met, is the Empire of Japan.”

Kazuma went on to write about everything he’d experienced since their parting in great detail—from the start of his legal apprenticeship to the return of his memory and every regrettable thing that had transpired thereafter. His penmanship in this section became a bit scattered as he gathered together each crucial piece of the story in its proper order. Though of course, none of it was enough to justify the way he’d cast her asunder like some kind of discarded project. Even so, he believed she was deserving of an explanation.

“It is now that I must apologise to you again, for there is still much that I have yet to relay to you in addition to the paragraphs upon paragraphs of which you have only just reached the end. Should you feel the need, please set this letter aside and let those sparkling eyes of yours rest a while before continuing.”

Cecelia suddenly realised how dry her throat was. Thankfully Miss Bellerose had been kind enough to put on a pot of tea in the meantime, which she thirstily accepted.

The letter’s author was spot on; her eyes were indeed sparkling, albeit because of the tears that had formed as she’d read. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to follow his advice. She couldn’t simply sit there staring into her teacup for longer than a minute or two. So she read on.

“Shortly after the return of my memories, it became apparent to me that the sword you had commissioned for me was more than just a parting gift. I recognised the message that it conveyed: ‘Be wary of the truth,’ if I am indeed interpreting it as intended, but it was not until the trial had reached a critical turning point that I came to understand the purpose it was meant to serve. I must say, I have no idea how you could possibly have predicted that I would be needing a reminder such as that, but if it had not been for your remote guidance, I surely would have pursued the fallacious path set before me by the Reaper to the bitter end, and the truth of what took place ten years ago would have remained shrouded in shadow for eternity. For that, you have my undying gratitude.

“Having said that, this is not nearly all for which I feel obliged to thank you. Over the course of those six months at sea, I spent every day in confusion and paranoia, surrounded by unfamiliar sights and sensations and all the while questioning what was real and what was not, who I was, and what purpose I had. In the midst of all that turmoil, you remained a constant source of stability and comfort for me. You stayed by my side all throughout our voyage, regardless of how stubbornly I may have tried to keep you at bay. The happiness by which I am assailed each time I recount how easily you would put a smile upon my face, I fear I am unable to express through written word alone. Likewise am I unable to express my remorse when I recall the circumstances in which I left you, without even bidding you goodbye I should add, in Dover.”

Kazuma noticed his pen was trembling in his tight grip as he went for more ink. He took a moment to breathe and collect himself, his lungs shaking just as much as his hand.

“Since then, not a day has gone by when I have not thought about you. In truth, ever since the conclusion of that horrible trial, I have been contemplating a means by which to get in touch with you, but have also simply lacked the courage necessary to do so. Recently, however, it dawned on me that your parting gift contained a second, smaller message, but one with an imperatively greater meaning. There is truly no modest way to phrase this, but when I saw it, and the nature of your affection for me came to light, I knew I could no longer allow you to go on living in the dark as you have been. It is for this reason that I am writing this letter to you now: so that you may know who I truly am and decide for yourself whether you still feel the same way with the knowledge of all my flaws and misgivings. With that in mind, if you despise me, I ask that you please destroy this letter as soon as possible. On the other hand, if by some miracle you find that your feelings do not change, I want you to know that they would not go unreciprocated.

“I fully understand that I’m in no position to ask for your forgiveness, and as such I have no intention of doing so. Please take as much time as you need to come to terms with all of what you have just read. I can only imagine how jarring this must be for you. In the meantime, I shall surely have you in my thoughts.

“Yours sincerely, 亜双義一真”

The next day, no later than six o’clock in the morning, a telegraph came to the Van Zieks estate for Kazuma. He rushed to the door, having spent the whole night wide awake in the grand parlour pacing about until the soles of his feet grew sore. He ripped open the envelope despite that persistent tremor in his hand, his eyes burning holes into the little paper card.

“Stanhope Gate, Hyde Park, 7:00 am, 6th Nov. ~ C. Gardner”

This was it. The time had come for him to look his victim of the heart in the eye. He was so wrought with anxiety that he ended up arriving just less than half an hour early. The streets were completely barren, dusted with a thin and undisturbed layer of snow. The wait was torture, and not only to his morale. The harsh morning air was cold and dry, forcing him to breathe into his hands for most of the time he stood there, but for her, he would endure even the most ferocious of blizzards. This was truly the least he could do.

“Kazuma-san?”

The sound of his name came from directly behind him. He froze. It couldn’t be, and yet it had to. That soft, slightly faltering voice was unmistakable. His cowardice paralysed him for a few seconds until he worked up the nerve to turn around.

And there she was. This time, he was certain she wasn’t just another result of his mind playing tricks on him. He knew the girl in front of him was the genuine article. Her breaths condensed in front of her, and her boots left clear tracks on the pavement. “Is it really you?” she said.

Kazuma could think of nothing to say in reply. Every word that came to mind seemed either futile or just plain wrong. Why was he even here? To give her a chance to slap him across the face and demand that he never speak to her again? In that case, so be it. He would accept whatever punishment she deemed fair. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Then he felt two arms wrap around him in a vicelike embrace and a warm body press up tightly against his.

“Cecelia-san, how…? How can you forgive me?” His voice cracked under all the pressure he’d stacked upon his own back. “I thought you called me here because you wanted to tell me just how cruel and, and two-faced I’ve been.”

“No, no…” She shook her head without lifting her chin from his shoulder. “I never blamed you for anything. I just wanted to help you.”

“You did,” he sighed, letting a smile show through. “You have no idea.”

“Thank God…” At last, a beautiful, blinding smile of her own graced her face as the tears continued flowing. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you,” she wept, framing his face in her hands. “I missed you so much. So very much…”

His heart ached as he watched her fall apart. He brought a hand to his cheek where hers was. “I missed you too,” he confessed, the truth of that very statement finally dawning on him. “I’ll never push you away again. I promise, I won’t.”

Holding her close, he tilted his head and aligned his lips with hers, then stopped, breath stagnant and eyes half closed. For a moment, the world stopped spinning and time stood still, and the only sound to be heard was that of their hearts beating in unison. Then she closed the gap between them, and in that fleeting, fragile moment, everything was just as it was meant to be. This… This was the true meaning of home.

When they eventually parted, she rested her forehead against his. “You look well,” she smiled whilst drying her tears. “I’m so glad.”

“Well, you don’t look well at all.” He huddled her thin frame closer to him. She was shivering and the shadows beneath her eyes were long, to say nothing of the slight teeter in her step as she stood before him. She looked as if she might just collapse from fatigue at the drop of a hat.

One of her frail hands flattened against the plain of his chest, then grasped at the front of his waistcoat with all the strength of a wilted dandelion, unwanted yet stubbornly persistent. “I just…missed you,” she whispered. “I could never stop thinking about you, every day. About everything that happened, and where you’d gone, and…”

“There, now, I’m here.” He tipped her head up to look at him. “I’m so…so sorry, from the bottom of my heart. Let’s just try to move forward with our lives and…let bygones be bygones? Alright?” It felt so wrong for him to be the one saying that. “I just want to be near you again. I need that now, more than anything.” His closest thing to a family that he had left was already set to begin their journey back to Japan in just twenty four hours. “I know I don’t deserve to ask this of you, but I need you with me. Now more than ever.”

She needed a moment to collect herself as her voice was refusing to come out. But her silence made the anticipation unbearable for him.

“Please…?”

At that, she couldn’t stop herself from laughing out loud at the way he may as well have been begging on his knees. “Yes, Kazuma, I accept. I’m sorry,” she chuckled. “Of course I accept. I need you too.”

The acute lack of suffix with which she said his name just then made his heart throb. “You do?”She nodded, still wearing that thousand-watt smile he’d missed so dearly. He looked her up and down, taking in her pitiful condition, then smiled back. “I suppose so, don’t you?”

“I mean, you of all people should know,” she laughed, recalling all the times he’d used to lecture her about making her bed correctly, remembering to change the oil in her lamp, and countless other such menial tasks. “But aside from that, what I really need is just to know, for myself, that you’re okay.” A trace of sadness flickered in her smile, causing his to fall. “That’s why I want you to come live with me.”

He froze up all over again at her appreciated but frankly ridiculous suggestion. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, don’t even start. I’m absolutely sure. I’ve been sure since before we even arrived in Dover. That’s how sure I am.”

“But—”

“No ‘but’s.”

She gave him little choice but to shut his mouth as she pulled him along on her quest to hail them a carriage.

“We’ll have all the time in the world to argue and deliberate once we’re home.”

“Home…” The weather was quite frigid today, he had to admit. It would look rude if he kept refusing her hospitality, but he had to wonder if she was truly serious about having him move in with her full-time, after everything he’d said and done.

“If it helps,” she offered as the two climbed aboard their ride, “you can think of this as a way to make up for, ehm, past mistakes, shall we say.”

How on earth could she be acting so nonchalant about it all?! Surely there had to be loads of pent up words she was leaving unsaid, at least for the time being. But she was right; it did help to think of it that way. “I promise to take care of you,” he straightened up and asserted, having to raise his voice to be heard over the rumbling of wheels on bricks. “I swear, I’ll do anything. Anything you need, just name it.”

But all he got in reply was a soft hum and that radiant smile again. The next thing he knew, she had her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed and her body lax. Remnants of tears glistened against her cheeks, like sunlight on melting snowflakes. The mere sight had his own eyes welling over at last.

[frostbitfey]

(＞。☆) ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ 🍂 Introduction!

✦ Uses he/him/his pronouns and identifies as a trans man. He is also an aromantic homosexual. (...Fictoromantic??)

✦ Sixteen years old. However, despite putting this in his bio, introduction, and almost every post he makes, always somehow gets followed by MDNI NSFW blogs, lol.

✦ Non-human; Falmer / Elfkin & Wolfkin. He is also a physical therian & identifies as transspecies.

✦ He has a lot of different fictotypes. The most notable ones are his permashifts, Dante Sparda & Raiden (MGS). If you ask him, he'll give you a list of his kintypes.

✦ In a committed relationship with Amir Beckett. From what I hear, he doesn't like to share.

Hi! I'm Nínimdir! I'm a teenage Elf from the Midwest of the USA and this is my multifandom personal blog, where I ramble about pretty much anything under the sun (Mostly otherkin/nonhuman posting, OCs & F/O stuff).

I'm in a lot of fandoms, but my most notable are: Warframe, Devil May Cry, Metal Gear Solid, JJK, Chainsaw Man, Dungeon Meshi, League of Legends, Valorant, Warrior Cats, The Lost Boys, Baldurs Gate 3, Dungeons & Dragons, Don't Starve Together, Dead By Daylight, God of War, Final Fantasy & Warrior Cats.

I don't have an extensive DNI, because I think a lot of them don't really work. I do ask, however, that discourse accounts, exclusionists, radqueers, tccblr & proshippers don't interact and block me. Thank you!

(The being who made the pixelated icon art is dragonroilz)!

THE LONG AWAITED OPINION SECTION...

P.S. My account is not discourse focused and I will not engage in it, however, I understand some beings have strong opinions on certain things. That is why this section is here.

Without further ado...

Proshipping: I understand why people may turn to proshipping when under distress/ while processing their trauma. I will not fault them for that. However, I do not believe it to be a healthy coping mechanism in the way that online proshippers do it and find the subject matters that they indulge in uncomfortable. There is a difference between exploring dark themes and romanticizing said themes, and I find that more often than not, proshippers romanticize these toxic dynamics. I also believe lolishocon to be disgusting, and believe that anything resembling a child is downright despicable. For these reasons, I do not support proshippers and consider myself an anti.

Mspec Lesbians/Gays and other contradictory labels: Who cares? Labels are just words that are used to explain our complex, individualistic experiences. Using multiple of these labels in juxtaposition is just another way of using those labels to define your being. Definitions are always shifting, and at the end of the day, it hurts no one, so who cares.

Endogenic systems: I'm not a system. Point blank— therefore, I do not have the experiences to formulate a proper opinion on this subject. However, what I will say, is that it is not your job to figure out the why of somebeing being a system. You are not a medical professional, and nor are you the expert on all things living (or not— for you undead folks out there). If you don't like or agree with somebeing, the block button is a free resource.

Physical therians & The matter of being transspecies: I am both a physical therian and transspecies, and find it upsetting that this has even become a source of discourse. Physical therians have been part of the otherkin community since the beginning. I am an Elf, therefore my body, too, is one of an Elf. Unfortunately, my current physical attributes do not correspond to that, so I plan to fix it. Simple as that.

Delusional therians/Endels: LEAVE THEM THE FUCK ALONE. I don't know where the sanist attitude within the community has come from, but delusional beings still deserve respect and support. Somebody being mentally ill doesn't mean they automatically deserve to be stripped of your respect of their identity, and to believe that to be the truth is inherently MORE harmful.

Radqueers: I do not believe that transids are in good faith in any aspect and believe that they do more bad than good and think its ridiculous that this is even a thing in the first place. I block all radqueers on sight, simple as that.

[yiga-hellhole]

TWILIGHT FOREST, TWILIGHT KING UPDATE: PART 5

another huge whammy of an update. this time we’re exploring more of the interactions with YUGA!!! things kick into gear, and then back out of gear, to have some well-deserved downtime before the campaign on the eldin province. and of course our favorite nasty men bond. 13k words under the cut

ao3 mirror HERE!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

Ghirahim cocked a brow at the curious figure so busily admiring him, bewildered yet charmed by his immense enthusiasm. “And yet I must insist! I’m afraid the Master has not yet given me the gift of your introduction,” he said. “I would very much like to put a name to my admirer.”

The strange man snapped out of his bout of fascination, and with a flourish, took a step back. “Where are my manners? Of course, Lord Ghirahim,” he curtsied, his arms, clutching his staff in one boney hand, spread to either side. “Yuga, High Sorcerer of the Kingdom of Lorule! I am very much looking forward to our cooperation. If the tales I’ve heard of your battling prowess are anywhere near as accurate as those of your stunning appearance, then we are firmly set on the path of glory, indeed.”

“You do so flatter me. I’m afraid I must disappoint you, though. As of late, I happen to be occupied,” Ghirahim laughed with a gesturing peek to Zant, fingers casually resting against his cheek in amusement.

Yuga scoffed, for a second looking almost disgusted. “Oh, please. Do not get ahead of yourself. My appreciation of your beauty is merely an aesthetic one. I have no intentions of pursuing anything so frivolous!”

Perturbed, he just grinned in return, shooting another quick glance at his still shut-away companion. Had that helmet not been blocking his view of his face, he might have caught a glimpse of the steam coming out of the Twilight King’s ears.

“I see! Well, then… What is it exactly you are pursuing, then?”

“Why, mere artistic intrigue! You have such delicate features, dear Lord,” Yuga dismissed his staff and clasped his hands together. “Have you ever considered having your portrait taken? I can see it now, you would be an absolute delight to paint.”

Now, Ghirahim’s impression of this man was skyrocketing. A portrait? Of him? Thinking about the past, he did remember how his likeness was portrayed by the people of the skies. Hideous, unflattering blotches of paint, making absolutely no attempt to depict him accurately. Meanwhile, such vanity was denied him by his own people, as, rightfully so, Master Demise was central in their so-abstract iconography. Naturally, the glory of such a powerful figure could do nothing but overshadow his measly importance in comparison! There had never been a need to deify him similarly, but…

This was different. He was now a commander of high standing, and Master Ganondorf seemed to grant him somewhat more of a spotlight in their conquest. Certainly, a portrait would not be too drastic to request..?

He blinked at the man again, looking him up and down. Certainly, he did strike him as a painter… Never had he met any artistic fellow that didn’t look horribly tacky and eccentric. If such correlations were to be believed, this harlequin-like figure must know what he was talking about.

“A delightful offer, certainly. My only problem is pinning down a proper moment for me to sit and pose… You must know, we are terribly busy.”

“Of course! I am well aware of my duties here, but surely we have some time here and there?”

Ghirahim’s eagerness to be flattered almost made him lose sight of his initial goal. Indeed, he did not come to find the man for small talk! “That we will, indeed, but today is not that day. Our Master has requested we walk you through the progress of our campaign thus far. If you would be so inclined, you ought to get yourself ready and head to the war room. Do you know where to find it?”

Yuga nodded. “Right off to work already? Ah, I adore such an efficient pace! Yes, I will gather my bearings, as you wish.” He awaited Ghirahim’s acknowledgement, before bowing his head as a polite gesture. “I expect to see you there, then,” he said with a smile, before trotting off toward the staircase.

The hall was cast in a deafening silence once their new associate left them to sort out his business, leaving Ghirahim and Zant to stand there thoroughly nonplussed. Well, if anything, Yuga had set a baseline of thorough friendliness, so he expected to find no more trouble in meshing with him throughout their mission. Zant, on the other hand…

Amused, Ghirahim brought a hand to his cheek, tapping a finger to his face in thought. “I daresay, Zant. When was the last time you complimented me like that? If I wasn’t so fond of you, you might have had competition.”

Zant’s head whipped around to him with such speed the metal of his helmet squeaked. “Unbelievable,” he exclaimed. “That is all you think of right now? This entire conversation, and he did not acknowledge me even once!”

Ghirahim laughed. “Oh, it’s terrible, I know. Forget about a third wheel, you weren’t even near the wagon,” he nudged him in the elbow playfully, but Zant did not share this amusement. “I suppose I do draw the eye.”

Zant grunted in annoyance, turning away from him at once. Silence befell the pair again, but Ghirahim did not relinquish his self-satisfied stare, boring holes in his co-lieutenants helmet. Whether he noticed this or not, Zant’s confidence whittled away nonetheless. “… Do you truly wish for me to praise you in such a way?”

A shriek of laughter burst out from him in response. This new ‘friend’ of theirs was truly making life so much more amusing, and it hadn’t even been ten minutes since they had met! Just this encounter alone had the menacing King of Shadows feeling jealous and insecure in his courtship. It was a delight. “Please, Zant. Can we discuss this later? You’ll kill me before we can teach our rookie the ropes!”

He was met with silence until Zant set off down the hall again. “Very well,” said Zant, the sharp snap of his metal soles against the tiles betraying an irritable mood.

“Oh, you’re mad at me, now?” Ghirahim tittered, unable to resist the opportunity to bully him, and fully embraced the snappy fit of bickering that came to follow…

Despite the pair’s now thoroughly acquired taste for shenanigans, they were still bound to their duty, especially in such a pressing situation. Master Ganondorf had given them the time window of tomorrow to introduce Yuga to their campaign, but they both knew that that was more the window he gave them until swift punishment was to come. By all means, it meant they should be ready by tonight. And if there was any place in Hyrule fit to orient any fledgling commander, it was the war room of Gerudo Palace. Ghirahim stepped nostalgically inside, squinting to adjust his eyes to the contrast of the torchlight and cavernlike darkness that blanketed the room. The place was made to be nigh impenetrable, which meant that it had been situated in the basement, not a speck of natural light entering it. Such a setup was preferable to their night-dwelling soldiers first of all, but also ensured such high security, not even a fly could enter unauthorized when the meetings were ongoing. The room was certainly imposing, and every time he stood in it he felt as much of an invigorating sense of devotion as he did when he first stepped inside. Banners and mosaics, depicting scenes from ages of Demon Kings long past and alternate adorned the walls, emblematic of Ganon’s forces. They had mostly been gifts from the sorceress, Cia, in an attempt to appease Ganondorf’s boundless fury and lust for power, but as things stood, his Master of course had simply pocketed them and chose to betray her either way. The real showstoppers, enshrined above an auxiliary throne to the north of the room, were depictions of Ganon during his time of victory, the once humanoid-appearing Demon King then twisted into a mighty, giant-tusked wild boar. The other mosaics were equally grand, and though they all depicted battles ultimately lost, they were not to be understood as attempts to sugarcoat his Master’s losses. Instead, they symbolized his unwavering tenacity, his endurance, and the inevitability of his return, no matter how many times his soul was sealed or ripped from the mortal realm. Ganondorf’s pride as a Gerudo was similarly celebrated through the antiquary of traditional weapons and armor displayed near the walls, showcasing his people’s mastery of smithing and fast-paced, efficient warfare. All golden helmets placed in the corners of the room gazed at the centerpiece of the room; the strategy table, a dark wooden surface that now stood empty, waiting to be covered in maps and pawns. 

Zant passed into the room before him and walked straight past the central table, instead browsing the shelves across the entrance. With astounding clarity, as though he had already figured out their exact steps, he began scooping map scrolls and various boxes of navigational pegs and tools into his lanky arms. Soon, he had spread the biggest essentials neatly across the table, and under Ghirahim’s watchful eye began dividing the first pegs to denote the advance of their skirmish thus far. Right as they were about to devise a way to summarize the past efforts of war, Yuga, indeed, found his way to the room and stood idly turning his flaming staff in his hands.

“You will have to forgive the delay, gentlemen. Those bokoblins of yours simply couldn’t figure out how I wanted my room!”

“Tell me about it,” Ghirahim groaned, before idly beckoning Yuga to approach the table. He quietly noted Zant’s mood dropping the instant their new coworker made himself known. How adorably juvenile! 

Yuga strutted his way on over, gait floaty and rhythmic as he bounded across the carpet, and came to a halt at Zant’s side of the table. Half-lidded eyes brought out his rainbow-layered eyeshadow immensely as his eyes scanned over the table, perusing the various maps and registers of stocks. “Oh, yes. You lot are certainly more organized than my previous team. I reckon we will take over the Valley in no time flat.”

Ghirahim but smiled at him, while Zant gave him not more acknowledgment than a brisk nod, and a short “indeed.” To prevent himself from getting annoyed, instead of endeared, by Zant’s indignant grumpiness, he quickly changed topics. With Zant’s assistance, they completed marking the keeps that they had captured on the maps and gave Yuga an overall run-down on their available troops and provisions. The summary was welcome to Ghirahim, as well, as, to be frank, other than the delightful memories he’d made of thrilling victories and near losses, he himself was losing track and had Zant do most of the talking during briefings. Invigorated by their talk, he assembled another stack of documents and was about to reach the next stage of their meeting. Alas, his enthusiasm was struck down quickly enough, because Yuga interjected.

“Ah, if I might be so bold. Before we are to discuss any future plans, I do have some of my own intel that will be most crucial to our advance,” he offered, hovering with the narrow end of his staff above the map, using it as a pointer. 

Zant hummed. “By all means, continue.”

“Now, it is still in the works, but on my way here from the northeast, I heard tell of an ambush from the Zora preparing to take our flanks during our next advance,” Yuga daintily tapped the end of his staff on the map. “They will surface from the water somewhere north of the lake, and skirt the river to strike right at the edge of Death Mountain. They will be led by Princess Ruto, and some rumor General Impa will assist. Though, personally, I find it very unlikely she will leave the Hylian Princess’ side for even a minute.”

Ghirahim leaned on the table, peering down at the trail Yuga had laid out. “This is valuable information. You ought to have led with that, I’d say!” He laughed, only to be met with a contemplative purse of the new lieutenant’s lips. 

“I thought it wise to gauge our resources first, is all! That way we can get right to the planning.”

Zant had not responded yet. He simply loomed over the table, staring at the map. “That will not be a problem,” he suddenly said, with the same grave clarity he had every meeting. “I propose the following,” he gestured with his own designated pointer at the map, drawing a trail from their pinnacle keep in Eldin to the north. “You join us in our trek through Eldin, but split off to intercept their ambush. There is another entrance to the Eldin cave system that leads near Lake Hylia; I trust you are familiar with it?”

Yuga nodded. “Oh, yes. It’s how I got here.”

“Excellent. You split off with your troops to intercept them at the edge of Hyrule Field, where I suspect they will surface to organize their formation. It will be wisest to allot you a sizable company of Lizalfos, who will be able to chase the Zora even as they retreat into the water.”

Yuga, who hadn’t given Zant as much as a glance before, was now paying great attention to him, eyes increasingly gaining a spark of captivation. Ghirahim, too, found himself once again swept away by the vividness of Zant’s plotting.

“While you are there, I request you dedicate several platoons to the capturing of King Dodongos.”

Yuga cocked his head, turning his gaze from the map to Zant’s helmet. “Dodongos? As far as I know, those linger on Death Mountain, no?”

“In this world, there is a pseudo-aquatic variant. For the time being, two will suffice. We will need as many beasts as we can throw at them,” Zant said with candid eagerness. As cold and calculating as he might be, Ghirahim came to know that such brutish assaults remained one of his guilty pleasures.

“I see! Very well, that all sounds feasible.”

They continued plotting the specifics for about an hour or so. Ghirahim was once again out of his element, somewhat, but to his comfort, Yuga appeared similarly overwhelmed. Much like him, he was used to bossing around smaller groups, while any further strategy was limited to simply letting loose a random number of monsters on unsuspecting Hylians. This comforting level of peerage at least soothed his biting feeling of incompetence a little bit. Still, one thing bugged him. Their last advance, they were thwarted by the sudden appearance of one of the Hyruleans' higher commanders. With the injuries they inflicted upon Midna, she would likely be out of commission for some time. Yuga’s arrival may have given them an advantage in that regard, but even then, it was three against… At least eleven, at this point. Cia may have been whittling away at them at another front, but in her exacerbating madness, she was no longer reliable. Not to mention, while Zant admitted to having acted carelessly at the time, it took both of them to take down just one of the enemy’s higher commanders. As good-natured as they might claim to be, the Hyruleans may have caught on to the weakness that emotional turmoil brought upon Zant, arguably their most terrifying commander, and sought to exploit it. Ghirahim worried, idly, what they would throw at them next, and if perhaps he would be targeted this time around. Nevertheless, chipping away at team morale was the last thing he wanted to do, especially in front of their rookie. Such worries would have to be left for another time.

With their negotiations wrapping up, each lieutenant retreated to their individual duties for the day. For Ghirahim, this meant another afternoon spent in the training fields. As the resident master swordsman (though quite a few ranks below his Master, still), it was his duty to perfect the form and technique among their troops. This proved to be somewhat difficult, as by far not all their troops actually wielded blades. Furthermore, the sheer differences in anatomical proportions between all their rich types of troops proved to be quite a challenge. Still, he had many a trick up his sleeve, as there was a clever method of striking available to all, no matter how stubby their legs or the count of their fingers. By far his favorites to train were the twilit Darknuts, not to speak of the elegant and disciplined desert warriors of the Gerudo. Frankly, he hardly had to teach them a thing, but their eagerness to learn new techniques and to spar with him caused his pride to swell and soar. Where other people might prefer to wind down for the day with an idle evening tide hobby, Ghirahim found the best way to ease his frustrations to be a good tussle out in the dust. It was bullying, frankly. Unless they played dirty, none of their troops stood a chance against him; and of course, everyone held him in too high esteem to try taking potshots at their commander. The battlefield was his dancefloor, one he glided through in ferocious choreography. His feet rhythmically striding across the beaten dirt, he used nothing but his hands to deflect the flurry of swords advancing on him. Blades screeched to a halt between his fingertips and chipped when bouncing off against his metal body; he needed only flick his wrist to disarm even the most frothing beasts from their weapons. He was in peak form once again, now that the ache of cursed magic no longer ailed him. No weapon could harm him, slicing through his false skin as they may, littering his body with a hatching pattern of facsimile injuries. The glittering black and white of his true form were slowly unveiled to the world around him, dazzling the nearest troops with the scorching sunlight refracting off of him. Straps of his clothing tore off of him in the scuffle. Any other time he would be angry, but oh, he had just so much fun like this, and it could all be made right with swift jabs of his elbows to the teeth of the offenders, stomps on their toes, or kicks in their groins. Others may leave this battlefield battered and bruised, but he was looking forward to leaving it a new man. Gradually, those brave enough to try and face him grew fewer and fewer, intimidated by the sheer number of monsters backing away from him, limping or not. He panted, a smile stretched across his face as he retracted his excitably lolling tongue back into his mouth. 

“It was a decent effort you all have put in today,” he spoke, straightening his posture as he referred to the crowd around him. “But next time, I expect far more of a challenge out of you! Look at yourselves, and I haven’t even broken a sweat!” Hundreds of beady eyes looked back down at him, sheepishly nodding berated yet determined, and the lot of them turned back to the barracks to nurse their injuries. These brutes knew only the rule of the strongest, and lithe as he might be, he once again firmly seated himself at the top of their hierarchy. Perhaps one of these days, he ought to invite Zant or Yuga to come spar with him, and see where they landed in the pecking order… For the time being, he ought to change into his more presentable threads, before the dinner bell could summon them back to the halls.

The sun was slowly setting as he entered the mess hall, clad in his open-backed body suit and a shawl lazily draped over his arms. He only ever hung around here as an excuse to socialize; he did not need to eat, but the distant sounds of merrymaking tended to make him furious was he not involved in them. As usual, he entered it alone, though he quickly heard an unfamiliar footfall coming up behind him as he stood waiting at the doorway. Behind him, of course, was his admirer — the one he wasn’t romantically involved with, that is. He turned to see Yuga, too, had changed into more leisurely clothing. Though he was as gaudily caked in cosmetics as before, his layering was far less obnoxious. This time, he simply wore a flowing dark robe, adorned with subtly shimmering tyrian purple patterns. Small beads glittered on the outlines of the inverted triforce emblems on the fabric, almost delightfully tasteful compared to his previous attempts at dressing himself. Hands daintily clasped in front of him, he addressed Ghirahim with a smile. 

“Lord Ghirahim! What a joy it is to see you again, not to speak of getting a glimpse of your extended wardrobe!”

At least someone gave him his well-deserved attention. “The sentiment is quite mutual, Lord Yuga. I take it you have settled well?”

Yuga nodded pleasantly, his massive curls bouncing under the motion. “Oh, yes. All is in perfect order,” he purred, before his eye contact was, with visible struggle, broken, his eyes instead wandering around the mess hall. “Shall we be seated? I reckon it will be much easier to converse over a warm meal.”

Ghirahim hummed in thought, peeking for a moment back into the hallway. Unfortunately, he did not find what he expected — no one else appeared to be coming. “Ah, well,” he started, “it appears Zant hasn’t quite arrived yet. It would be best if we sit at the darker end of the table, so that he may join us later.”

Yuga’s smile cracked just a bit at the mention of the Twilight King’s name. “Right, Zant.”

It was evident Yuga did not care much for the Twili’s company. From their very first encounter, he seemed to ignore him completely, only giving him the slightest bit of recognition during their strategy briefing. Disliking Zant was terrifically easy, but Ghirahim was deathly curious how he could have immediately developed a disdain for him before having spoken to him even once. Perhaps he could tease it out over dinner? “Oh? Do you dislike him?” he queried, bringing a hand to his cheek as he made his way over to the grand table reserved for their commanders. 

Yuga followed him obediently but let out a conflicted sigh. “Oh, I shan’t gossip on my first day! For now, I have… Some respect for him as a commander, nothing more, nothing less.”

So there was something that awakened his ire! What a delicious development. They approached the table, bowing in respect for their Master who sat at the center overlooking the mess hall, and quickly took their seat after receiving his greeting. In the few minutes they sat there chatting, Ghirahim would learn an awful lot about their new co-lieutenant. Nothing he explicitly told him, per se, but rather the quirks that his rambunctious attitude completely failed to hide. Yuga was horrifically vain, even more so than himself, and extended this obsession with aesthetic perfection to every bit of his surroundings. He carried himself precisely so, from the way he consistently brushed the wrinkles out his clothing, to the careful and sweeping gestures he moved his hands with to avoid damaging his manicure. Really, he was starting to wonder if a creature so keen on his own appearance could survive even a second on the battlefield, but he made his way all the way over to Gerudo Desert from his respective Gate of Time, so perhaps he could set his gargantuan pride aside for such moments. 

Soon, a demonstration of ‘such a moment’ arrived. All decorum went out the window when Yuga suddenly appeared distracted, his eyes widening and his jaw falling slack as his fingers tightly gripped the edge of the table. If it were not for the bustle of hundreds of men gathering in this hall, Ghirahim could have heard the wood creak under his knuckle-whitening squeeze. Yuga exclaimed a high-pitched noise of shock at whatever he was looking at and hastily began beckoning a certain someone to take their seat near them.

Zant had arrived.

The royalty-obsessed Twili had failed to change garbs as they had, but he was notably lacking the armor usually perched on his shoulder. Much more interesting was the completely befuddled look that pulled at the four corners of his split lips, and hesitantly, he made his way over to their corner of the table via the proper procedure. 

Yuga had sat quivering in his seat, looking as if about to explode all throughout Zant’s advance towards them, and whatever pent-up energy burst out from him as soon as he stood at the seat they had reserved for him. “Zant! I thought that abominable helmet was your face all this time,” he hissed and screeched. “Good Lord! You are… Beautiful! Perfection!”

Ghirahim reacted to this statement almost as severely as Zant himself. He sat there with his brows knit, eyes wide, as Yuga began to wax poetic at his boyfriend. Zant, similarly, had not the slightest idea of how to react to such treatment, standing stiff and powerless as a bright red blush coated his cheeks. The poor man could do nothing but stutter out a ‘pardon?’ before being assailed with further compliments and carefully manicured hands snatching him by the chin to observe his face from various angles. 

“Oh, forgive me for being so awfully forward! I simply… Agh! You, too! I must paint you! Never in all my years of living have I seen faces like yours,” Yuga clasped his hands together in a fawning gesture, continuing to ramble. “Coming here has truly been a fantastic decision! Had I known you two were hiding here, I never would have lingered in that shadow image of my home.”

Much of that evening was spent being mercilessly praised and ogled by Yuga, which Ghirahim was far more capable of taking in stride than his fellow sufferer. Zant only managed to fend off his delirious admirer with the feeble request to have his meal in relative peace, after which Yuga, too, remembered his mortal needs, and agreed to join him for dinner. The matter of Zant’s eating habits, Ghirahim suspected with some smug amusement, was very likely to put a damper on Yuga’s enthusiasm and redirect the praise he had for that bumbling fool of a Twili and back toward himself. Which, frankly, would be a favorable outcome for both of them. At first glance, the shadow-veiled King’s table manners might appear impeccable, with how patiently and delicately he handled his utensils. Ghirahim knew better, though. He looked on with a smirk as a dangling strip of meat was lifted to Zant’s mouth, and promptly, the end of it disappeared into the sharp-toothed maw. He chewed but a few times per overly-gluttonous bite before leaning his head back to swallow the entire slab whole, a visible lump slowly sliding down his undulating throat. Even past his gorget, the detail of his neck’s bulging anatomy was unpleasantly visceral to look at, though Ghirahim had grown used to it. He expectantly looked at their newest co-lieutenant, hoping to find him unnerved, but instead, read nothing but morbid fascination on his face as he continued to eat.

Oh.

Well.

Perhaps Ghirahim was not the only one with an iron stomach at this table. 

Now that the bustle of the day was dying down, their conversation turned to more leisurely matters. Yuga once again inquired about their portraiture and was shocked to find neither of the men had their likenesses depicted in quite some time. The time to pinpoint a date for their posing was drawing ever closer and more inevitable, it seemed, which seemed like such an inane prospect in the midst of war. Even now, miles and miles away, troops were dying in battle for their glory, and here they were, discussing paintings and looking on in amusement at their fellow commander’s oddly lizardlike gorging. It struck him then, what a different life he was leading under Ganondorf’s leadership. In his efforts to resurrect Demise, he could not even dream of a moment to himself, spending every waking second scouring the lands for iconographical hints and monsters to beat into submission. And here he was, leisurely sitting at a dining table, finding the time to mingle with his fellow men. Taken aback by this realization, his eyes wandered to his Master, who was engaged in pleasant conversation with one of the previously reigning Gerudo governesses. Equipped with an acute perception of when he was being gawked at, Ganondorf soon met his gaze and, upon noticing he was occupied with neither dinner nor conversation, he beckoned him over with a sweep of his hand. Nigh instantly, and without looking back to his companions, he stood up and marched towards him with great enthusiasm. Though Ganondorf was seated upon his throne-like wooden chair, Ghirahim found himself in no need to bend down to meet his gaze and simply took his place beside his throne. To be at eye level with him was infinitely jarring, but there simply was no space for him to kneel, and the Demon King showed no sign of malcontentedness at his presence. 

“Ghirahim,” Ganondorf rumbled, voice resonating through his metal interior. “I trust that your negotiations with Yuga have concluded successfully.”

He closed his eyes with a nod in response. “Indeed, Master. All is in order for our briefing come the morrow.”

Ganondorf hummed contentedly, leaning his chin on his rugged fist as he overlooked the rich chaos in their mess hall. “And what of your cooperation?”

That made Ghirahim pause. Less than an hour ago, the matter stood that Yuga and Zant had a remarkable distaste for one another, that only just now seemed to be mending itself. He glanced at the end of the table where the two engaged in idle conversation, their earlier unease with each other beginning to fade. Though their bickering was far less snappy and furious than his own early days with Zant, he found himself at a loss for an answer. “Ah, well,” he started, hoping to find confidence in his words as he went along. “I myself am getting along quite swimmingly with our new recruit,” he gestured to himself with newfound pleasantness, “and I expect Zant to follow quite soon.”

To his barely disguised horror, Ganondorf let out a chuckle, idly shaking his head. “You should know better than to come to me with such trivial matters, though I suppose the morale of my most loyal men is not entirely irrelevant…” The massive man shifted in his seat, wood creaking under his weight. “Your synergy. How fares your compatibility in battle?”

Long he had feared this question. Yuga was not even the biggest thorn in his side over the matter. Truth be told, even after the past few months of battling together, he and Zant still had not the slightest bit of synergy. Though they were adept at assisting one another in fending off threats, their styles of battle completely clashed. Ghirahim found himself better off standing at the sidelines while Zant went off on his many rampages than attempting to squeeze himself into the front and risk his hide. To face his Master with this knowledge fresh in his mind felt like an affront to everything he stood for, and he feared that he could read the inner conflict from his expression. “I must confess, Master. I have not yet been able to gauge the new lieutenant’s skills. We were quite occupied with his settling, and our plans for the next campaign,” he finally stammered, less secure than he would prefer to appear before the Demon King.

Ganondorf averted his gaze from him, idly rubbing at his beard. To Ghirahim’s anxiety, his warm amusement from earlier faded with the wind. “Then see to it. I entrust the assessment of Yuga’s fighting prowess to you, Ghirahim, and with it, his place on the battlefield.” Sternly, he looked at him again. “I realize I may have spoiled you, but I cannot afford you shirking your efforts when not on my watch. You all are irreplaceable. Even one of you falls, and so does our formation. Do not give me any more reason for concern. Understood?”

Ghirahim could do nothing but respond with a nod, before as quickly as he had summoned him, Ganondorf dismissed him again with a wave of his hand, and he sheepishly returned to his seat after a brief bow. Rejoining his companions then felt like crossing a threshold, the worry caused by the scowl of his Master forcibly setting itself aside to avoid showing weakness in front of his peers. Said peers greeted him again pleasantly with a hint of curiosity, but both knew better than to pry into the private matters of the King of the Gerudo. Instead, they dawdled for a moment, wondering whether to pick up their conversation from where they left it, before Ghirahim folded his hands together and leaned forward with great felicity. 

“So! What did I miss?”

Night fell, and the pair retreated to their usual spot in Zant's chambers. His quarters in Gerudo Palace were significantly larger and furnished as Ghirahim would expect of the Twilight King. After dismissing a gaggle of gruff-looking Gerudo from fussing with his room, they finally seated inside to collapse after a long day of negotiations. This room, unlike the one at Eldin, had an actual seating area, and to his mild chagrin, that's where they had sat down. It seemed that Zant's earlier tolerance for his presence on his bed was primarily motivated by the lack of other seating before, and now that they could be sat politely, he decided to park the both of them straight there. Well, whatever. For the time being, he was happy to simply sit and gawk. He noted that some of the furniture had been freshly painted with details of some sort of phosphorescent dye, mimicking the teal glowing markings so typical of Twilit artifacts. Particularly receiving an upgrade was Zant's desk area, which was fitted with multi-compartment storage, and two sizeable bookcases on either side. Save for perhaps a dozen books, the text on all of the covers was illegible, meaning these were likely all smuggled from the Twilight Palace. Naturally, him being the only person capable of reading the text, these volumes were better off in his personal collection than the palatial library. His eye then fell on the bed, that big, pillowy thing, with its large mass of pillows and the sheer, sparkling shroud that encircled it. He would pout about his lacking presence on top of it, but amid their idle chatting, Zant had found something to giggle about and thoroughly distracted him. His eye was drawn to his face, only to spot one peculiarity. Sitting across him, rather than every night at his side in entanglement, allowed him to idly notice more things than usual. Right now, it occurred to him that Zant's hair was getting long enough to obscure the mark on his forehead.

Ghirahim sighed, gesturing nonchalantly at his balaclava. "Say, Zant. Isn't your hair growing awfully long?"

Zant hummed curiously, running a finger through his front bangs. "I suppose so."

Suddenly struck by an idea, Ghirahim shifted to sit on his knees. "May I?" he asked, reaching over to his balaclava. Zant gave him a brief nod, curiously eyeing his hands, squinting his eyes shut as Ghirahim's fingers slipped under the garment framing his face. Gradually, he pushed the tough, leathery fabric back, fingers running through his hair as he went along. As he thought, it was getting long. That messy mop upon his head was in even more disarray now that the haphazardly chopped locks were starting to tangle and overlap.

His eye returned to Zant's face, back at those big, bug-like eyes that stared so expectantly, and mildly flustered, up at him. "You're due for a haircut, I'd say. If you are to have your portrait taken, you want to look your best, wouldn't you think?"

A mischievous glint sparkled in Zant's eye. "You mean, the way you do every day?"

To Zant's amusement, the hand that was still plucking through his hair quickly stiffened as Ghirahim let out a scandalized squeak, and promptly delivered a light smack to his cheek. "Oh! You and I both know you wouldn't have said that if it weren't for Yuga riling you up earlier."

Zant squinted his eyes in a daring smile. "You'll never know for sure," he sneered.

Rolling his eyes, Ghirahim sat back down, his hand trailing to rest on Zant's shoulder instead, and he turned to the triptych vanity near the easternmost window. The idea of a man like Zant, constantly covered by his helmet, and overall frumpish as he was, possessing, much less using such a thing was perplexing to him. He wondered the last time the elegant granite surface must have last had elbows resting upon it, at the mercy of whoever was dolling themselves up. Peeking back at Zant through the slight gaps in his bangs, he promptly stood up, starting to pull him off of the couch and towards the vanity. Zant yelped slightly in response, the sudden manhandling likely rousing his scabbed-over injuries, while Ghirahim dragged him over and shoved him down into the seat before the mirrors of his dressing table. Fingers ran through his hair again while Ghirahim loomed behind him, meeting his restlessly darting eyes with a flirtatious gaze. He bent over to hover with his face next to his, fiddling with the locks of his hair — stretching out his bangs to measure their length to his chin, ruffling the back to see how it puffs out. Much of it was now shoulder length, unexpected from a man who’d always kept it fussily cropped short. Perhaps it had gotten away from him, with how occupied his evenings had been. Well, thank Demise for it!

“At least I have plenty to work with,” Ghirahim chuckled, fluffing his hair as he stood back upright.

Zant scoffed. “You? You’ve taken enough possession of me to start cutting my hair?”

“I only mean some offense by this, but every time I’ve seen that hair of yours, it’s messier than the last time. What you need, is someone with a steadier hand.”

Zant folded his arms poutily but was unable to think of a retort that did not incriminate him. Ghirahim continued his stylistic brainstorming instead. “You know, now that I look at it… Don’t you think you would look quite regal with longer hair? I could trim the ends, so it all grows out evenly—“

Zant quickly raised a hand, stopping his line of reasoning. “Ghirahim, I have tolerated your musings until now, but this I must decline,” he hissed, before his next words left his mouth with more of a mutter. “I do not see myself in my own reflection, when it is long.”

Ghirahim paused, then chuckled. “Surely it is not so drastic!”

But Zant’s expression did not change. “I am serious.”

He stood there blinking, caught off guard by his grave tone. Such an abstract concept was nigh incomprehensible to him, but if anyone was familiar with being picky about one’s appearance, it would be him. So, he did the next best thing: play right into his hand. “Right. Then, I’d like to suggest we stick to your usual length, but try to make it look less like a herd of goats went and ravaged it. Does that sound agreeable?”

Still in a bit of a sore mood, Zant’s earlier sternness lingered, but Ghirahim’s incessant taste for bugging him chipped at his composure. Soon, he sighed, meeting his eye again through their reflections. “If you absolutely must.”

Ghirahim chuckled victoriously, finally relinquishing his toying with his hair. And how good it was that he did, as that sweaty, greasy mess was starting to make him cringe to touch. “I’d reckon we ought to find an opportunity to wash it before I do, though.” 

A sudden spot of genius struck him. “Why! I have the perfect idea. Before we get back to Eldin, we ought to make good use of the bathhouse here. Surely you’ve seen it!”

Zant, by now fed up with being treated as a dressing doll, refused to speak to him through their reflections any longer, and instead turned in his seat to look up at him. Their meager height difference as he sat was a little grating. He nodded. “I have been to it, on occasion.”

Speaking to him today was just one surprise after the other. Someone as modest as he? Sneaking off to bathe in a public place? Voluntarily, without him to goad him into it? Ghirahim was learning many new things about him, and he hardly even had to prod for the candor to come dripping out. “That spares me the effort of showing you around, then,” he nodded, resting a hand on Zant’s shoulder again. The Twili did not even as much as acknowledge the gesture. “Perhaps it’s an idea to invite Yuga along?”

This startled Zant out of his monotony. “Yuga?” He stammered. “We have only just met! You want our second encounter of diplomacy to be spent in… Well! In the nude?” 

Ghirahim jeered, retracting his hand from Zant’s shoulder to wave him off with it. “Oh, he wouldn’t make a fuss! Most he’d show is an enthusiasm for sculpting us, or something like it,” he drawled on, reminiscing their earlier encounters with that eccentric figure. Indeed, most Yuga had done was ogling at them, but in a distinctly… Platonic way. The man viewed the two of them with deep aesthetic admiration, but in the same way one would a picturesque landscape or a particularly pleasing assemblage of still life knickknacks. In short, Yuga beheld the both of them as though they were living, breathing pieces of art already, itching to immortalize them. Needless to say, Ghirahim wanted to make fast friends with him. 

Zant frowned at him for a moment, before his long, pointy ears drooped with a sigh. “Oh, I truly do detest how right you are. Very well; though I wish to gauge his reaction, personally, when you do offer, otherwise I will take to the baths some other opportunity!”

Ghirahim smiled, again sidling up behind him, laying one hand on either of his shoulders. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Your Majesty.”

Unable to resist the charms brought on by his enthusiasm, Zant exhaled a single squeak of amusement, leaning back to rest against him. Ghirahim’s hands slid their way up his neck, gliding past its taut muscles, and rested instead upon his jaw, stroking thumbs across his cheeks. His lips puckered in endeared enthusiasm as Ghirahim looked down to him so fondly, the heat from his face spreading to the darkened metal of the sword spirit’s hands. Oh, if only kissing him wouldn’t wobble the two of them off balance.

Amidst their sickeningly saccharine display of affection, Zant broke their fond silence. “If this is your attempt at seducing me into letting you crawl into my bed again, it is working,” Zant purred, cracking open one eye to peer up at him.

Offended as he was, Ghirahim couldn’t help but laugh, his face wrinkling in a mischievous grimace. “You think me a harlot!”

Zant giggled in response. “Throughout at least half of our conversation earlier, you were eyeing the sheets without even so much as a shred of subtlety.”

Ghirahim narrowed his eyes sharply and dug his fingers in to squeeze his cheeks as punishment. “Well, then. Aren’t you going to invite me?”

“Do I need to? You tend to simply go wherever you please.”

That was enough! Ghirahim promptly smacked his hands back on his shoulders, shrouding the both of them in yet another explosion of monochromatic diamonds. They arrived at the other end of his spatial warp wrestling for the better spot, somewhat in mid-air before they dropped with near-synchronized ‘oof’s into the mattress of Zant’s aptly king-sized bed. It had been a few days since their last night together, but from the previous handful of times, he remembered he must savor his time wisely. The Shadow King was a surprisingly kind lover, preferring his affections to be light and feathery over the carnal crashing of mouths Ghirahim was so used to, and tonight was no different. Still, they never did stay entangled for long. The passionate creature had a way of caressing him like a poem had its arcs, which meant that no matter how swept away they may get during its central stanzas, an end truly meant an end, and he would always request his leave after. There was something he was hiding, certainly, but he found this form of courtship oddly intriguing. Perhaps it was a Twili custom, or simply Zant’s overall way of being, that made him treat their budding romance as a dance, guiding Ghirahim through its various steps and twirls all the way through. His curiosity for whatever came next bested his impatience in this regard, but eventually, his urge to turn the tables would burst free from its chains, and show Zant just how fiery a lover he could be. For now, he was content to lay in his arms, those strange, split lips leaving their marks on his own, before bidding it all farewell for the night.

——

Another day went by in their usual routine. This time, it was Zant who approached Ghirahim’s quarters come daybreak. The man arrived at his doorway somewhat dispirited, dark circles set under his eyes, though he greeted him with a smile as always. He was mellow that morning, to Ghirahim’s great surprise, and simply seemed to want to poke around his room now that it was furnished. In comparison to Zant’s scholarly clutter, his own abode was disturbingly minimalist, save for what he could only refer to as his sewing corner. Currently lacking any projects, all there stood was simply a mannequin and a shelf with rolls of fabric, which Zant took to with great interest. Much of that morning was spent with light-hearted chatting, with the Twili leaning on him, seeking comfort from an ailment he would not share. Ghirahim found himself trying to brush it off. Certainly, if it was important to their mission, he would have poured his heart out to him as the impulsive creature was expected to do. Despite this sound logic that usually would sway him, an odd worry continued to eat at him. His Master’s words echoed in his mind; if even one of them were to fall, it would spell doom for their entire mission. Zant’s well-being was crucial to them all, as dubious as his mental state usually was. Still, Ghirahim found it was not merely his sense of duty that agonized at his inability to gain his trust…

Odd mood or not, the war continued. Their briefing with Ganondorf and the lower-ranking commanders went by as smoothly as it could. The Demon King seemed most pleased with their negotiations, and, as though reading Ghirahim’s mind, had only the possibility of the higher Hyrulean commanders swooping in as a concern. That very noon, scouts would be sent ahead on either route, hoping to spy on camps and keep an eye on any noteworthy occupants. Despite his disappointment from the night before, to Ghirahim’s great joy the Master actually seemed pleased. Still, he could not grow complacent just yet. That very afternoon, he was set to spar with Yuga. As expected from a mage, the man was far from an expert in melee, but this did not take away from his overall versatility. His choice of weaponry was most confusing, as other than the beams from his staff and a frequently summoned trident, his primary way of fighting was carried out… Using a picture frame. 

“Oh, those are portals!” Yuga cheerfully proclaimed, swinging his staff wildly to force Ghirahim back out of melee range. “They summon various elemental magicks, weapons, and, well,” he ranted on, assailing his opponent with narrowly-dodged bolts of lightning and arrows pelting out of thin air, “They also pack quite a punch!” 

Ghirahim grunted as out of the corner of his eye, he noticed far too late a teal smudge hurtling toward him at breakneck speeds. He reeled as it smashed into the back of his head, cracking the false skin upon impact. Thankful then for his constitution, he only needed to shake his head to rid himself of the worst dizziness. Yuga covered his lips with the tips of his fingers, a little bashful under the burning glare he shot at him. “Oh! I do beg your pardon, I expected you to dodge that.”

Indeed, it was his mistake. After this morning, he had been distracted, and in his attempts to tease out Yuga’s abilities, he overestimated his reflexes to the point of carelessness. How unbecoming of him! “Quite the nasty tricks you have. If anything, it made for a fine demonstration…” he trailed off, his attempts at saving face interrupted by a familiar giggle coming from the shadows of the nearby storage rooms. It appeared they had an audience. Zant apparently found the time to sneak off and watch their practice and took great amusement in his fumbling.

Ghirahim responded to this mockery with a scowl. “Don’t you have some bugs you need to be looking at?”

Zant’s earlier amusement all but faded, but he did put his hands in his sides, squinting at his snide comments. “I am simply here as your fellow commander, sating my curiosity about our new lieutenant’s skill in battle. If you so desire to make a fool out of me, I will be more than happy to join Yuga in beating you into ingots!”

Ghirahim grimaced at him with a sarcastic laugh, before lunging back at Yuga, rapier extended. Not expecting the sudden onslaught, Yuga shrieked, just barely deflecting the tip of his sword with another flying frame. This time, he had the upper hand, driving the man back by continuing to push against his shields. He stabbed and kicked at the translucent frames that appeared before him, pushing the sorcerer backward with each strike, before finally deciding to sidestep past. With one decisive thrust, the tip of his rapier was now under Yuga’s chin. 

“Your skills are terribly interesting, I do say, though your defenses could use some work,” Ghirahim said with a smile and a tilt of his head. “Sturdy as those frames may be, they’re quite easy to slip past.”

Yuga swallowed, the bob of his adam’s apple briefly pushing the blade further into his skin. “I see! Well, ah, thank you for your insights!”

“You are most welcome. Oh, by the way,” he intoned cheerfully, removing the blade from the poor man’s throat. “Now that Zant is here, I have a proposition…”

It went without saying, but Yuga was incredibly enthusiastic about the matter of there being a bathhouse, even more so about joining the pair for an afternoon of socializing. Zant, on the other hand, was more difficult to persuade. He seemed to be having a severe case of ‘cold feet’. It was nothing a bit of well-timed prodding couldn‘t help, though. Before he knew it, he had the lanky thing stripped down to his robes and padding, and shuffling obediently, yet uneasily, down to the north of the building after him. Yuga had gone on ahead, apparently in more need of preparation than the both of them… Whatever that meant. Walking past the colonnades and into the bathhouse itself, the two men quickly went to the dressing rooms, the sound of gently running water just behind the wall. They had the place to themselves, Ghirahim had seen to that — they’d be meeting nobody but the occasional attendant.

“Ghirahim, I must attend you to one thing,” Zant stated with slight apprehension in the hitch of his voice. “When I have undressed, you may find my anatomy… Not as you expect it.”

Now he was even more curious than before. He had promised Zant to keep his back turned until they were both more or less bared, but the temptation to look over his shoulder was starting to get nigh unbearable. “Not to worry, I’ve long since made myself comfortable with your otherworldly appearance. I’m certain it will be nothing shocking,” he intoned, trying foolhardy to mask his burning curiosity with a nonchalant tone. Oh, but what if it was shocking? The possibilities were endless! He had felt his body pressed against his, but only ever through the padding of countless robes! Whichever way it went, he was terribly intrigued, and could only imagine what was hidden on the lanky form beneath.

Zant was silent a moment, before humming in mildly conflicted affirmation. He heard nothing more but the gentle slaps of shuffling straw slippers on the tiles and the rustling of thick clothing for a while, until they had both well and enough prepared themselves for their little afternoon of relaxation. By now Ghirahim decided he’d waited enough, and he promptly turned around.

The Twili stood before him, a woven towel held loosely at his waist. Against all odds, the humble creature had indeed undressed to nothing but his footwear, allowing him his first-ever glimpse of whatever mystery he hid behind his eternal mass of robes.

Various features could have caught his eye. It could have been the weak glow of the elaborate markings adorning his body, or the black-and-white patterns swirling around his limbs and torso like shadows, or even the way the deep black on his upper arms slowly faded into a sickly grey the further down his arms he looked. Instead, his eyes were promptly glued to one particular trait.

Were those..?

Those were definitely..!

A small clear of the throat snapped him out of whatever wild goose chase his mind was sending him off on. “I must beg your pardon,” said the voice diagonally in front of him, “I realize this may be somewhat difficult for a man of your stature, but I truly would prefer for you to look me in the eye when we speak.”

Embarrassed, Ghirahim quickly craned his head back to meet Zant’s gaze. He feared having insulted him, but instead, he was greeted with a smile, clad in subtle, eye-squinting smugness. That bastard was toying with him! 

“Of course,” Ghirahim found himself stammering, shamefully, yet futilely, fighting against the blush creeping up on his cheeks. “Oh, I do apologize… How unbecoming of me,” he muttered, clutching his towel to his chest during a struggle to find an appropriate pose for his arms. 

Zant’s smile broadened, baring the first glimpses of his teeth. “Very forward of you, indeed,” he crooned, “but such curiosities and inquiries will have to wait until some other time.” 

As Ghirahim still stood there, perplexed by the strange up-and-down in the gravity of this situation, Zant was already turning to leave. “I believe we have a guest to tend to, and it would be even more unbecoming if we left him waiting, no?” 

Turning to look over his shoulder, Zant curiously gauged his next course of action or perhaps hoped to spot him sneaking in more opportunities to ogle. Against both their expectations, Ghirahim found himself, shockingly, too shy to do so, and instead stood staring at the face so gingerly obscured by the choppy locks of his plum-colored hair. Him, shy? Embarrassed!? It was unheard of! He had to save face quickly. 

“You are most right, my dear,” he purred, briskly taking off to keep up pace with him. “Let us hope our new comrade hasn’t gotten himself lost a second time!”

Soon enough, they encountered Yuga standing in the middle of the hallway leading to the baths, hair wrapped in a towel. Without his gaudy clothing and flashy hair, he could only recognize him from his boney, yet delicate build, facing away from them to gaze out the window to the courtyard oasis. The sound of their sandals slapping against the tiles alerted him, though, and he turned with a smile. It seemed that his horridly pale skin and long lashes were natural, for he was lacking his trademark jester-like makeup. 

“Ah, gentlemen! Not to worry, I wasn’t waiting long,” he said, casually looking the both of them up and down.

Ghirahim, fully aware of this, cocked his hip, a hand resting on his waist. “Good to hear. Lovely place, isn’t it?”

“Oh, indeed! I only hope the water isn’t all too heated. It is sweltering in this desert!” Yuga responded, fanning himself with his hand with a sigh.

For once, Zant cut in. “You will find it to your liking, then. Come along. I hear that I’ve a need to wash up.”

Trying his very hardest to crane his head up to look at him, Ghirahim watched the Twili leave rather quickly, making his way straight for the washing rooms. Zant’s sudden change of demeanor was puzzling to him, but he supposed he preferred it over having to drag him kicking and screaming. In fact, his favorite part was coming up next. He trailed after him, Yuga in tow, to reach the lineup of square plaster tubs that lined the entrance of the bathhouse proper. Casting his towels aside, Zant lowered that towering body somehow down to the shoulders into the very first bath he came across. Ghirahim saw his moment and shot his shot. Before Zant even noticed him coming up, he already sat on the edge of the bath directly behind him and locked him in place with his legs over his shoulders. 

Zant yelped. “What foolishness are you up to this time?”

Ghirahim chuckled, reaching over to the edge of the tub to fetch a handful of bottles of soap. “Hush, you. Some people would pay for this kind of treatment!” 

Zant groaned as well-manicured fingers found their way to his hair. “I can wash my own hair perfectly well, thank you!”

“Oh, I know. But I can do it better.”

“You-“ he sputtered as water was promptly poured over his head, running into his eyes and nostrils. A frustrated whine sounded from him, struggling in vain against the legs that so firmly held him in place. His stubbornness would not hold, though. A cold trickle of soap cascaded upon his head, and soon, hands rubbed across his scalp, pulling apart the strands that were once held together with sweat and grease. If anything could successfully pacify even the most aggressive and nasty-mannered of people, it was having one’s hair played with. Zant, who now grew slack under his touch, was evidently no exception.

“You might want to pick another bath, Yuga,” Ghirahim remarked bluntly. “Lord knows what I’m about to scrub off of him.”

“Oh, say less,” Yuga responded blandly, before so luxuriously claiming an entire tub for himself next to them.

A good scrub-down later, it was just about time for the primary goal of their outing. They sat Zant across the window, close enough to the light to allow them to work accurately, but far away enough for him to not get scorched within seconds. Zant nervously eyed the two men who hovered around him like vultures, fiddling with the asymmetrical locks that now limply hung wet from his head. Ghirahim frowned at what he saw, once again, before taking hold of the long strands of his side bangs. 

“Now, whatever is the point in these?” he inquired, twirling one of the locks in his fingers. Zant, never one for fashion, simply shrugged in return. Ah, so they were pointless. But before he could approach with the scissors, Yuga halted him. 

“Ah-ah! Not so fast,” he said, taking the strand into his hand. “Now, hear me out. What if we were to braid this, and then…”

As they continued bickering, it was clear that Zant had absolutely no say in what was to happen to his own hair, aside from the length. Ghirahim was the one holding the scissors, after all, and he made sure Zant knew better than to even attempt to take them from him. Yuga, in the meantime, was proving to be a fine assistant, using his many years of experience in portraiture to pick out just what would look flattering on a royal. A King Zant was no longer, but getting to play the part still seemed to bring him some delusional fulfillment. Who was he to deny him such a pleasure? Damp, purple locks gathered on the floor around him, but mostly on Zant’s shoulders and lap, as his face was slowly being framed with an unprecedented, actually decent-looking haircut. Seemingly zoning out to someplace else, the Twili wide-eyed and obediently followed their every command in the angling of his head and the squinting of his eyes, and he hadn’t uttered a word of protest since they’d trimmed the hair away from his forehead marking. Perhaps the undivided attention of two people vastly exceeding him in levels of stylishness finally shattered his poise. 

A good ruffle with a towel later, Zant was sitting stiffly upright, eyes darting between them as they styled him back to perfection. 

Yuga stood back upright, adjusting the knot of the towel he had wrapped around his chest to cover himself. “Why,” he exclaimed delightedly, “how lovely this looks! Zant, if it weren’t for your one-in-a-million face, I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

Indeed, Zant was quite the looker when he actually put effort into his appearance. Or, well, if others put the effort in for him, Ghirahim casually observed, dissipating the scissors into thin air. “We ought to find you a mirror… But first, you might want to wash all those little hairs off. Careful not to get your head wet, we worked hard over here!”

Idly, but with utmost carefulness, Zant began to feel at the silhouette of his hair. “I appreciate your efforts, ah,” he contemplated, “but I will refrain from thanking you until I’ve seen it.”

Yuga rolled his eyes with a laugh. “You’re worried? Please! Our tastes are hardly any more flashy than yours.”

Zant narrowed his eyes with a hum, shivering under a sudden chill. Ghirahim had taken the liberty of giving him somewhat of an undercut, which those twiggy fingers were now curiously rubbing at, fascinated by the texture. 

As Ghirahim expected, though admittedly, he was also a little relieved, Zant was most pleased with their work. Less pleased he was by the otherworld sorcerer now constantly buzzing around him, who was far more interested in him now that his appearance was a bit more groomed. A brief wash-up later, Yuga signaled them to go on ahead, as his own hair care routine could get rather lengthy, and he wouldn’t want to keep them standing around in the dry heat of the desert that wafted in through the windows. 

Little did he know, this was the exact window Ghirahim had been hoping to get. For what was a trip to the bathhouse without a bit of skinship? A short walk down the next hallway later, he took Zant by the wrist to halt him in his step and quickly slid in front of him.

“Bend down, you nasty creature, and give me a kiss,” Ghirahim murmured, shimmying up to stand closer to the object of his affection. “We’ve been wandering about nude for nearly an hour, and you expect me to keep my composure?”

And yet, Zant stood perfectly upright still, unmoved by his advances. “I do! We have a guest!” He cheerfully chimed in, before giving him but the mildest peck on the nose, and promptly wandering off again. The nerve! To reject him was one thing, but to belittle him was just plain unnecessary! 

Huffing grumpily all the way, he trotted after him. “Whatever’s wrong with, ‘no thank you, Ghirahim, some other time, Ghirahim’,” he inquired, caricaturing Zant’s voice. “Why must you make a mockery of me?”

Zant snickered in response. “You spend every breathing second trying to get a rise out of me, so forgive me for retaliating!”

“You bumbling fool! I ought to drown you,” he growled, clawing hands about to dig into the Twili’s ludicrously long waist, but he promptly warped out of his grip. Amused by the thrill of teasing him, he reappeared quite a few paces ahead of him, gait floaty and arms swaying. Zant looked back at him just once from across the hall, a smirk stretching across his face, before he disappeared around the corner. One way or the other, he had to figure out a way to get his hands on that man…

They made their way over to their reserved bathing space, away from the burning sun, and into a cooler apex of the building. Such a space was preferable, not only for the overall comfort of all three of them, but also because Zant would last perhaps five minutes if exposed to any more of the deadly rays of daylight. They had an entire pool to themselves, not exactly large but certainly clean and heated, which they casually reclined around, dipping their feet in the lukewarm water. Yuga had not arrived yet, which gave them a few precious minutes to sit shoulder to shoulder, doing… Whatever nonsense Ghirahim could tempt him into. He swayed his feet in the water, watching the little waves lap lazily at the Twili’s ankles next to him. His gaze trailed up his body; he found himself captivated, then, by how the refracting light from the cyan water danced across his pale skin, making the dull glow from his markings appear that much brighter. Against the cool blue hue the water cast the room in, his orange eyes were once again quick to draw and trap his gaze. Zant caught him staring and cocked his head playfully.

“Peeping at me again?”

Not a problem. He could segue into favorable territory with ease. “You truly do look far more handsome with your hair like this, you know. You ought to let me do this more often.”

“Perhaps I will,” Zant chuckled, turning to face him with an almost serpentine motion of his neck. “You, too, are looking quite a few shades brighter after your wash-up, Sword.”

It seemed that Yuga’s incessant flattering still kept him on edge and at a need to overperform. Either that, or Zant’s amorous mood began to match his own. He leaned in, unsubtly pressing his shoulder to his arm. “You’re quite certain you don’t want to sneak in a peck or two?”

Zant smiled at him again, slinking away from him. “Quite certain indeed,” he said, before unceremoniously dropping himself into the water. Thankfully for the both of them, his sheer height made sure not even a droplet of water landed on his freshly-groomed haircut. 

Ghirahim laughed purely out of reflex at his tremendously quick escape. His chin rested upon his palm and his elbow on his knee, he leaned forward to look down at him. “Of course, I’ve no intent to force myself upon you, but you’ll have to forgive me for wondering about your sudden insistent prudishness.”

His inquiry was met with a sniff. “In roughly twenty seconds, you’ll see,” Zant smirked, before swimming off to the other side of the pool in a surprisingly swift motion. Long, lanky arms flowed like octorok tendrils, jetting him forward in bursts. Perhaps his earlier mental comparisons of him being a lizard were unfair, he pondered. The man was really much more like a frog. Zant continued to amuse himself in the water, twisting his body back to face him as he continued to paddle himself backward. He really wasn’t going to let any more words slip, was he?

Oh, this cryptic creature! He blew his bangs out of his face with a single puff and crossed his arms in a miffed gesture. Truly, he wished he would just tell it to him straight sometimes, but with the way he was always sending him back and forth with his own teasing, he supposed he had it coming. The meaning of the Twili’s words soon became apparent, as indeed, a few seconds later, Yuga came around the corner, holding a sizable fabric fan, and his hair hanging loose and wet over his shoulders.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for too long! I managed to hail a servant, she’ll be down here with a jug of wine in a little while,” he said cheerfully, dapping the water out from his ear.

Zant crooned approvingly, while Ghirahim’s eye was moreso drawn to his new accessory. “And where did you get that thing?”

With a smirk, Yuga unfolded the fan, and daintily fluttered it before his face. “I borrowed it,” he giggled, before joining the two of them to sit across the pool. 

Much of that afternoon was spent with varying degrees of productivity. Ghirahim knew that between lieutenants, even outings such as these were meant for diplomacy. He recalled it so during his time under Cia, where any alliance was wobbly, and his compatriots could be expected to be swayed by their own selfish needs any minute. Not that he particularly enjoyed spending time with either Volga or Wizzro; the former was a bore, and the latter… He preferred not to dwell on the thought too long. But as he sat there, watching his Twili dipping in the water and Yuga reclining close by, giggling under the enjoyment of a cup of wine, he couldn’t help but consider the two as friends. Yes, they were all united under Ganondorf, unwavering in their loyalty to the Demon King. They had a cause and a promise, with incredibly little need for worry of subterfuge. But perhaps he was naïve in assuming that. Still, today was not about gathering intel or picking apart every little word to hope to wring out any and all secrets that would come dripping out. It was about… Companionship. Boosting their morale. Finding another moment of cheer before those goody-two-shoes could swoop in and beat the tar out of them, and vice versa. As the day of their campaign through Eldin crept ever closer, Ghirahim could not think of a wiser way to spend their time.

The day flew by. They had dried off and had their supper, and after the last meetings were tended to, the bustle of the castle died down, the troops inside retreating to their chambers under the setting sun.

All but two.

Ghirahim and his co-lieutenant sauntered through the hallway to their chambers, having joined each other wordlessly in their stroll. Yet as the doors that would come to separate them grew ever closer, Ghirahim broke the silence and looked up to the King of Shadows, who had long since shed his helmet.

“Are you feeling better after this morning? I hesitated to bring it up, but you seemed somewhat… Downtrodden, when you first came to see me today.”

Zant perked up, his ear twitching slightly at the sound of his voice, as he looked down at him with a smile. “Your care for me flatters me, Ghirahim. Yes, it has been quite a productive day. I find myself quite fulfilled, indeed.”

Humming in response, he once again found himself lost in thought. So childishly they stood before the door to Zant’s sleeping quarters, not knowing what to say yet not wanting to bid goodbye just yet, toeing at the ground and hesitant words sucking back into their throats. He was a weapon, a tool for bloodshed and destruction, yet here he was, at the mercy of the thumping in his chest. Truthfully, Zant frequently angered him, dragged the proverbial blood out from under his nails with his foolishness and incompetence. But when alone with him like this in the shades of evening, he found himself longing for nothing but his company. A man so strange, so opposite from him, threatened to be the one to understand him most intimately. 

This, too, ticked him off. Was he going to let a lanky imbecile like him play him like a fiddle? He had to suck up this timid reluctance and assert himself once again. Zant perked up as he stepped closer to him, and gingerly reached over to him, taking hold of his forearm. “We needn’t say goodbye here, Zant,” he whispered, craning his head up to look at him. “Won’t you let me stick around?”

Zant swallowed, yet in his shyness, did not break eye contact. “If you’re so inclined,” he responded with a sigh, “but we have a long day of preparations yet ahead of us, you oughtn’t to stay long.”

Again with this! His hand slid from his arm down to his wrist, and despite his apprehension, Zant clasped their hands together before Ghirahim could think to do so. He needed to hear it, he wasn’t putting up with getting pushed out any longer. “Why must you always dismiss me? Have I not earned your trust?”

For once, it was Zant that broke his own hypnotic gaze, darting his eyes away from him as inner conflict furrowed his brow. “It is not just a matter of trust, Ghirahim,” he muttered.

Oh, this man was going to be the death of him. Once again, the alien creature had managed to slip past his defenses and rid him of any desire to snap at him. “Then whatever could be the matter?” he insisted, “Tell me.”

The Twili visibly hesitated in his arms, his spindly fingers squeezing his hand once, before retreating from his grip. Yet, Ghirahim did not let him relent, and stepped in closer to him, stroking his gloved hands up his forearms as his eyes pleaded with him for an answer. Finally, Zant sighed and met his eyes again. “Restless dreams plague me, and unbothered sleep does not come easy. You, as a being without need for sleep, must know how terribly long such nights feel.”

The warmth of his body radiated off him, the beat of his pulse thrumming through his sinewy arms. Ghirahim slid his fingers down that barren grey skin, only to end up hand-to-hand, lacing his fingers with Zant’s. “Then why not seek out my company?”

“You do not know what you might find,” he responded gravely, trying to shy out from his grip.

Such struggles were only met with another step closer, and a tip of Ghirahim’s head, looking up to draw their faces parallel. “Do you think me afraid?”

“No. Perhaps I am.”

“Then let me soothe those fears, Zant, creature of the night you are,” he whispered, lips now agonizingly close to his, enough to feel the Mortal’s breath on his skin. His voice buckled under the weight of his words. “Please don’t send me away again.”

Hesitation. The Usurper looked down at him, eyes glazed over with a film of early tears. A tremble coursed through his body, holding back the crashing waves of an insurmountable feeling, one so strong Ghirahim could feel it through his skin. Raw, arcane, and violent. Yearning deep enough to infect him, surging from his lips to his core.

Attunement.

Suddenly, silk-clad, lanky arms wrapped tightly around his waist, and pulled him through the threshold of his chambers. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them and sheltered them from the outside world with a click. Pale lips met his own, and all faded around him when his back hit the cushioning of the mattress, losing himself to a living dream when the shadows of the Twilight King enveloped him. 

For just that night, Zant would lift the weight of such a betrayal of loyalty. He was his, and they were one.

[evanox]

THEH RELEASED A TEASWR FOR THE NEW PJO SERIES!!!! IM THROWING UPPPO I LOVE ITTTTT

alright I’m calm now (lie)

So when you first sent this many months ago, I didn't know there was a trailer so I only found out through your ask. I was so, so incredibly excited when I watched it I didn't know how to put that excitement into words and thus couldn't get to your ask right away. Then I kept forgetting, and then forgetfulness turned into embarrassment because how could I answer this ask after leaving it for so long? In light of Rick Riordan's recent statement on the Palestinian genocide, however, I think there's no better time to get back to this ask than now. Do forgive me for using your dust-laden ask as a chance to vent out my frustration.

PJO was a huge part of my childhood; it was my introduction to fandom life as I set up my tumblr back in 2015 and followed any cool PJO blog I could find while also making my own shitposts. All of my first online friends were people I found through PJO, some of whom I'm still friends with to this day. Even as I started losing interest and distanced myself from the fandom, I still found myself seeking out PJO/PJO-inspired rp blogs to join because that's how much I loved the world of demigods.

So you can imagine how excited I was to hear that there's a more faithful adaptation of the series, one that Riordan himself approved of (unlike the-movie-that-shall-not-be-named). You can also imagine how Rick has very much fallen from my eyes, as has anyone who still puts him up on a pedestal and chooses to support him, after his statement.

When you don't know enough about something, the reasonable thing to do is A. educate yourself before speaking out on it, or B. literally just shut up. I find it very ironic how Rick made sure to establish at the very start of his statement that he's just too busy for social media, so busy he does not "read posts, reply to posts, or share [his] thoughts about world events," but I guess he still finds himself qualified to step up and preach about what's happening in Palestine. Palestinian journalists have lost their lives documenting Israel's atrocities (before and after October 7); families can no longer grieve in peace because they have to hold up their dead children before cameras in hopes that people will think we deserve basic human rights; after everything everyone has done to amplify their voices, I do not know he could come up with a take this bad. Maybe if Rick took a nice proper scroll through social media before taking on the moral high ground, he'd be singing a different tune.

He claims that fanmail was his window to both sides of the conflict but it's hard to believe he's been receiving mail from many Palestinian and Israeli children in the past 18 years when his contact information from as far back as 2011 mentions that his writing schedule had gotten too intense to keep up with fanmail, and his most recent contact information page says he's straight up not accepting fanmail anymore, physical or otherwise (I assume that was back in 2019-2020 since he mentioned remote work and safety measure related to the pandemic, but I could be wrong). Call me cynical but it's hard to take seriously his implication that children of both sides have come to him about losing family members to violence and waking up to the sound of gunshots and bombs when I've had to watch Israeli settlers take to tiktok along with their kids to make a mockery out of Palestinian suffering and flex having the basic resources Palestinians have no access to, while every video update filmed by Palestinians is backed by the sound of military surveillance drones hovering over their heads night and day. Israeli settlers get to make cutesy tiktoks about looking for gluten-free flour while Palestinian kids are digging for their toys under the rubble of their homes and gathering in hundreds and thousands to beg for a few spoonfuls of soup. The only bread they could bake is from the fire fed by debris from the wreckage of their homes. Yeah, both sides sure are suffering the same hell :((

"If there are two sides to this issue, those sides are not Palestinian/Israeli or Muslim/Jewish. The two sides are humanitarian and dehumanizing." Actually, there are two sides to this and they're "genocidal illegal ethnostate" and "native people who were minding their business in their own land, welcomed survivors of the Holocaust with open arms, only to find themselves getting pushed out of their homes for the coming century." Not choosing a side (or preaching about how you're on the side of humanitarianism) puts you on the side of oppressor, period.

"It is easy to point to atrocities committed by our enemies, while justifying or minimizing the atrocities committed by ourselves or our allies." Boy you're outta your mind if you think anything committed by Palestinian resistance is in any way, shape, or form equitable to Israel's crimes in the past 75 years. It's hilarious how he can admit that what Israel is committing is genocide but goes on to say that Israel deserves "security and support," but I guess Hamas isn't deserving of the same sentiment when it retaliates to 75 years of terrorism and ethnic cleansing. The best Palestinians deserve is "international aid," not like the very Israel you support has been blocking off any aid people have been trying to get into Palestine.

"If violence could end violence, if we could put an end to 'those other people' once and for all, human history would read very differently than it does," has the same energy as going bUt mArTiN LuThEr KiNg Jr BeLiEvEd iN nOnViOLeNcE while actively ignoring that he did end up getting assassinated at the end of the day, and also the fact that his message of nonviolence has gotten distorted over the years to villainize those who resist in a way that disturbs white peace a lil too much.

Never mind the fact that peaceful resistance has never paid off against Israel. Never mind the fact that Israel has been using "Hamas hides behind civilians!!!" excuse to blow up hospitals, schools, refugee camps, and homes when in reality they don't know jackshit about where Hamas is, and every claim at knowing the location of their bases turned out to be a ridiculously stupid lie. Never mind the fact that Israel has admitted to killing its own people because "they kinda looked like Palestinian civilians ig lol" and they're just too trigger-happy. Does that sound like a "country" that gives a horse's ass about peace to you?

And just like that, he goes back to promoting his book and talking about his trip in the same blog post, like talking about Palestine/Israel is a chore he checks off his list to make sure we all know what a good guy he is.

So yeah, I am sad that I won't be able to enjoy a show I was so looking forward to (and it does look really good), but I am a Muslim Palestinian before I am a fan, and we're all human at the end of the day. You have to be a special kind of ignorant (or racist, or straight-up heartless) to see what we've already seen and still preach about "peace (and a two-state solution teehee)<33" being the only acceptable solution.

Maybe it's because I don't have as many PJO mutuals as I did back in late 2010s, but I haven't really seen many people speak out about this on tumblr which is why I think it's still worth talking about even when this isn't the type of post I'd normally write. Please boycott the show (or like do me a favor and block me/don't put that shit on my dash if we're mutuals). I've always admired Riordan as a kid so the least he could do is pull his head out of the ground and take a proper good look at what's actually happening in the world.